I know you’re searching for hundreds of reasons
to justify all these killings—whatever.
You know, I’m simply looking for those lives
that are lost forever.
Have you ever let even a small blade
you chanced upon
go unused?
I’m confident of the spoils you collected
during your battles.
But hereafter this story
will be written by the severed thumb
of Ekalavya.[1]
And the justifications
that you weave
may be true for you,
but for me they’re lies
loftier than the Himalayas.
Now I search for the cries
that were buried under the weight of the Vedas.
I need to trace out
the black bodies crushed under your iron feet
so that all the mornings now be brightened
with a black slogan.
Who cares who am I?
When you never hear the thump of my heart
but always notice the color of my skin?
Who cares what my body is?
When it’s meant to stoop down,
to honor you!
Who cares where I live?
When I am always cast away from the village,
destined to nestle in pitch darkness.
All these lush fields now wear greenery,
borrowing my tears
and nothing remains for me.
I have lost all my breath, forever.
Who cares how the sun rises here,
when the sunshine, damp with my sweat,
is meant to bloom a rainbow for you only?
Whoever would be me?
When my body is meant only
to be shattered to pieces
and burnt to ash?
Who cares who am I?
When my body is only to be destroyed
and thrown into the gutters!
You cut my breath as rudely, as simply
as you cut my harvest every year.
Don’t say anymore.
Your eyes are red with my blood.
Don’t pat my back
with a dagger that cuts my throat.
My dear poet!
I know this delicate midnight breeze
keeps you occupied.
How long this slavery to white poems?
Poet,
now I’m terrified of white flowers.
In a world where my every step
touches upon a bloodied corpse,
I fear green fields.
Pure blue skies
unnerve me.
I’m sorry, my lord
My poem is not your slave
it’s a sickle with its head to the sky.
My poem is not a damsel timid in your moonlight
it’s a tiger prowling in a shadowed forest.
To say a final word,
My poem won’t be your grand Constitution
devoted to your happiness
at all costs.
*
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[1] A lower-caste character from the great Indian epic Mahabharata. Ekalavaya wants to be the disciple of the great archer Drona who refuses him as a student because of his low caste. Drona promises Arjuna that he will make him the greatest archer on the earth, but Ekalavya surpasses Arjuna, while using a clay image of Drona as his teacher. Arjuna becomes jealous of Ekalavya. To appease Arjuna, Drona goes to Ekalavya and asks him for a gift--as compensation for his teaching, Drona asks for Ekalavya’s thumb. A sincere disciple, Ekalavya cuts off his thumb and presents it to Drona.
Tr: Jessica Athens
to justify all these killings—whatever.
You know, I’m simply looking for those lives
that are lost forever.
Have you ever let even a small blade
you chanced upon
go unused?
I’m confident of the spoils you collected
during your battles.
But hereafter this story
will be written by the severed thumb
of Ekalavya.[1]
And the justifications
that you weave
may be true for you,
but for me they’re lies
loftier than the Himalayas.
Now I search for the cries
that were buried under the weight of the Vedas.
I need to trace out
the black bodies crushed under your iron feet
so that all the mornings now be brightened
with a black slogan.
Who cares who am I?
When you never hear the thump of my heart
but always notice the color of my skin?
Who cares what my body is?
When it’s meant to stoop down,
to honor you!
Who cares where I live?
When I am always cast away from the village,
destined to nestle in pitch darkness.
All these lush fields now wear greenery,
borrowing my tears
and nothing remains for me.
I have lost all my breath, forever.
Who cares how the sun rises here,
when the sunshine, damp with my sweat,
is meant to bloom a rainbow for you only?
Whoever would be me?
When my body is meant only
to be shattered to pieces
and burnt to ash?
Who cares who am I?
When my body is only to be destroyed
and thrown into the gutters!
You cut my breath as rudely, as simply
as you cut my harvest every year.
Don’t say anymore.
Your eyes are red with my blood.
Don’t pat my back
with a dagger that cuts my throat.
My dear poet!
I know this delicate midnight breeze
keeps you occupied.
How long this slavery to white poems?
Poet,
now I’m terrified of white flowers.
In a world where my every step
touches upon a bloodied corpse,
I fear green fields.
Pure blue skies
unnerve me.
I’m sorry, my lord
My poem is not your slave
it’s a sickle with its head to the sky.
My poem is not a damsel timid in your moonlight
it’s a tiger prowling in a shadowed forest.
To say a final word,
My poem won’t be your grand Constitution
devoted to your happiness
at all costs.
*
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[1] A lower-caste character from the great Indian epic Mahabharata. Ekalavaya wants to be the disciple of the great archer Drona who refuses him as a student because of his low caste. Drona promises Arjuna that he will make him the greatest archer on the earth, but Ekalavya surpasses Arjuna, while using a clay image of Drona as his teacher. Arjuna becomes jealous of Ekalavya. To appease Arjuna, Drona goes to Ekalavya and asks him for a gift--as compensation for his teaching, Drona asks for Ekalavya’s thumb. A sincere disciple, Ekalavya cuts off his thumb and presents it to Drona.
Tr: Jessica Athens
Afsar, these words are wielded like the flaming sword of truth reflected in a thousand weary eyes - cheering its use. It's beautiful.
Thanks a lot, George!
Afsar, I am deeply moved by the strong voice in this poem, which I receive as both bitter and colloquial. It would be difficult not to listen. I am also struck by the repetition of "black" and "white," which creates a ritualistic, parable-like texture for the poem but also serves as a vehicle for shifting meanings.