A dead boar, a terrible Ram Rajya, a crippled grasshopper—
A toothache-stricken sky—you, I,
The frustrated Jampui and Bhuban Bru.
My twenty-first lover—Bhuban Bru,
He had two hands, a brain, and a dozen or so bidis.
He knew how to cook well, and he could eat too.
One day, he made a broth with a wild boar and my blood—
Eating it, I felt like sacrificing my entire body to the cooking.
I even told him so; he didn't agree and sat down to write a poem,
The poem was titled Soil—
'Soil is nothing but the saliva of a spider
Soil means some deaths, soil is just the spider's own spit...'
Those memories come floating, sinking and rising in the Manu River,
I keep staring...,
Then someone comes and covers both my eyes and says—
'Tell me, who has come! '
When writing love poems to a poet
spray them with your scent;
When writing love poems to a poet
every word should linger;
A whisper that you can’t forget;
When writing love poems to a poet
dig deep inside your soul;
When writing love poems to a poet
know they see every empty space
of every phrase of your feather quill;
When writing love poems to a poet
be mindful of your energy;
When writing love poems to a poet
understand they feel the art of font;
Details are what they notice instantly;
Show that you look under the surface
translating metaphors and riddles;
Explore their depth enjoy drowning;
Turn them on with complex puzzles,
when writing love poems to a poet.
Love is hardly ever spelt
the way it is written between the lips,
or how it shape its form upon a curling tongue as:
LUVE.
U see, you need the ‘you’ within it.
Luv sounds like ‘glove’,
for a hand must fit the glove,
and a glove fit the hand.
The R after the E must remain invisible
until the U becomes it.
‘UV’ is more than enough,
the V will fade away in time.
The 'L' must lick the roof of the mouth perfectly
or it is useless.
If you curse love
it will seep back into your being
riding a high tide:
a clean tide,
or a dirty tide – no matter,
both will make your lungs pound
in a dry craw.
All of this tidal ebb and flow
is luv pulling you back in,
for you cannot survive being
this fish out of water,
gulping for that very thing
you have yet to recognize.
It is quite correct to say ‘luv’
as if you were also saying ‘God’
both ‘luv’ and ‘god’ are not two words
but are, in truth, one meaning;
the words are only short-cuts,
a symbolic quick-hand,
for that One U to utter itself.
poetry translates per se
mystery dressed by words...
Giant poet gem, Tagore’s story-poem: NISKRITI,
Is a piazza perched paved and perfectly paced beauty;
Scale model of a castle of vast poetic kingdom,
That has spread into an empire of Indian wisdom!
Manjulika is a dew-drop in the mighty ocean,
Of the land of Bay of Bengal where feminine gender;
Fulfills wants of men as mother, wife, daughter and labors,
Less fulfilled of subtle cravings, in her heart she harbors!
Nucleus firm; Malabika has solemnly sung it,
Narration, like roots, stems, leafs, flowers, fruits of plants well-knit!
Images complex extract emotions, expose like day light,
Questions of destiny hang, like stars in dense dark sky, bright!
Figures of speech, like hand-picked coffee-seeds, well chosen,
And like gems and pearls in an ornament, fairly woven;
With stones of words and verses flat, oval, blunt, round, pear, square,
The edifice erected here is stern, solemn and somber!
05 December 2021
Inspired By A Translation Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Malabika Ray Choudhury
Let this be my sacrament of lust.
Red dripping flesh I tear with my teeth,
Absorbed by my viscera,
Becoming one with my being,
Merging with my soul.
I am an eater of dead things,
As are we all.
Why should I not indulge my instincts?
I am as I was made,
Not as you would wish.
Simpering vegans,
Pantywaist abstainers,
Steer clear of my path
Lest I eat you alive tonight
And you’ll all be defecate by morning.
Na zdravie.
To the hand that broke
Her, she gave her fragrance too
The plum blossom branch
Immortal Belovéd, if in despair
we grow listless with Love's unmet desire,
and high emotion oft' marks our affair,
we fail to love; and begin to expire.
'Ere long, lest our unexpressed Love's well fed
(often), it'll thus take another lover;
for man loves woman, and woman loves man:
but Love discards them both when it's over.
But, with hope, Love can over-run fore'er
(for us), remain, and survive misfortune;
to quit now would be our only error:
therefore, let us thus make our bond immune?
If Love can o'erflow and be ne'er-ending,
Beloved, then we, too, are worth defending.
I see people. They walk like trees.
As if everyone was in himself and for himself.
A kind of a human forest.
I may be a tree too, although without roots or fruit
but for the others I am nothing and no one.
Each tree`s eyes fall down.
To see clearly and vividly in everyone
how you grow like love within,
flourish like life
give birth to fruit of humanity.
Give me such eyes that could see You in the other world,
where there are not so much
eyes that have vision
and are not only open.
We grow from one land,
go to another
but on Earth we can be
the basis to the Sky.
I want to see a human being
In me and someone else.
I have no roots but I stretch my branches for us to become roots for each other.
my beloved
as throbes from above
My beloved
Because of my love
I don't care for vanity
Take me, my worth
Sie entschlüsseln ,.. meine Liebe
Decrypt ,....Meine Liebe :)
Poetry has washed its hands off me by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan
I don’t say I'm done with everything
I don’t feel deluded in this respect
I would have liked continuing to poetise
but the course of inspiration has run out.
Poetry has continued to behave well
it is I who is guilty of horribly bad behaviour.
What do I gain from saying
that I (too) have behaved well
that poetry has not been of good behaviour
when everybody knows I’m the guilty one.
Serves me right that I made myself out to be an imbecile!
Poetry has continued to behave well
my behaviour has been despicably horrible
Poetry has washed its hands off me.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
Letters to an Unknown Woman by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan
When years go by, when years
go by and the air having excavated a ditch
between your soul and mine, when years hurry past
and I be the only man to entertain feelings of love,
a being who hovered an instant in front of your lips,
a poor fella dejected from walking through gardens,
where will you be? Where
will you, O! child/daughter of my kisses!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
The Imaginary Man by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan
The imaginary man
lived in an imaginary house
in the midst of imaginary trees
on the bank of an imaginary river
From walls which are imaginary
hang ancient imaginary framed paintings
irreparable imaginary fissures
which recall imaginary events
which took place in imaginary worlds
in imaginary places and times
Every imaginary afternoon
he goes up imaginary staircases
and leans over the imaginary balcony
to survey the imaginary landscape
which is made up of an imaginary valley
surrounded by imaginary hills
Imaginary shadows
approach from an imaginary path
singing imaginary songs
to the demise of the imaginary sun
And during imaginary moonlit nights
dreams with an imaginary woman
who offered to him (toasting) her imaginary love
once again he felt this same pain
the very same imaginary pleasure
and once again began to palpitate
the heart of the imaginary man
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016
The early morning, the edge of spring And the flowing water
My Beloved, ask God to grant you me And the flowing water.
She was gazed in her picture, while the picture was gone with water
The girl stands on her place and the water flows
When it comes in your poem, it may has the relevance
The interpretation of scared beauty And the flowing water
The eyes of some are full of tears and lips of some are dry
O God! Combine that desert and flowing water
What an unusual dream, I always dream it
Nesar , you and she together And the flowing water
Love has no border.
A poem of love
for to embellish
a soul accomplished.
They are songs
that exist
between two persons
who love each other.
A world done
with love and tenderness.
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