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Kuzhur Wilson Poem
The first day
God came face to face.
Spring, in front of the tree
That had forgotten roots and leaves.
The slender note of complaint
Made to its friends
By the cloud that got lost.
The goddess’ voice
Unheard by any but water.
The flower garden
In front of which
Grass grew with abandon.
The darkened house,
Floor smeared with cow dung.
A cluster of moments
Of butterflies cavorting in the rain.
The playhouse
Made of the wings of fireflies and moths.
The seaside
Where camels enjoy the breeze.
The forgotten oyster
The fry left
Under the sand.
The praying hands
Of date palms
Which looked upon earth from above.
The wedding night
Inside the elephant shelter
Where ants frolic.
A pinch of beaten rice,
Cooked, using only the twigs the pigeons brought.
The anthology of words
Read and re-read
In a hand-written letter.
The translation of the moment
God couldn’t quite get.
What could it have been?
Covered daughter with kisses.
She wept, alarmed.
I heard the voice of God telling daughter,
”I didn’t grasp anything either!”
Copyright © Kuzhur Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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Kuzhur Wilson Poem
No one knew who wrote them or when,
Like cinema posters that changed at regular intervals,
Misspelt swear words appeared on the wall of the urinal.
Written with moss, coal and laterite
They read sometimes like..
The breeze here is fragrant. Rajiv + Sindhu.
A heart with an arrow through it.
Songs like “Rajan sir and Bhanu teacher are in love guys!”
The walls got covered with writings
In retaliation to the beatings and impositions.
Amidst the stench of shit and urine,
Love blossomed in moss.
The girls’ urinal stood like a temple
Translated to english - Anitha Varma
Copyright © Kuzhur Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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Kuzhur Wilson Poem
All the bigwigs in our village
Took refuge in the mercy
Of Fortune.
It came to such a situation that
If we locked our house and left,
Before we reached the goal,
At least ten fifteen Fortunes
Would come looking for us.
I noticed
How quietly
Does this Fortune make its entry.
Earlier, it was so noisy.
“Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow”
The sing song chant
Was amusing.
Slowly, Tomorrow became Today.
“Today today today”
How many times have I joined the chant!
Now,
How forlornly
How silently
Does Fortune arrive!
It has lost its speech.
It has contempt for itself.
It has shrunk into itself
More than the ex-serviceman
Standing in guard before an ATM.
Where did Fortune’s voice vanish?
Does it mean that Fortune has no voice?
That Fortune itself has ceased to exist?
Kuzhur Wilson / Trans by Ra Sh
Copyright © Kuzhur Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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Kuzhur Wilson Poem
(To Vinayakan, cine actor)
I set out to buy a white shirt.
The man in the shop took out two-three white shirts together and put them down before me.
It’s Rs.1050/- This shirt fits you well.
For this one?
Rs.800/- It’s good, too.
That one?
Rs.450/- All are smashing!
Aren’t there anything costing less? In the range of 150--200?
An odd expression on his face.
Is there?
There is, but…
An odd kind of laughter on his face…
Where is that white shirt?
It’s not here. It’s there. Near that flower shop. In that corner.
There’s some problem with his smile.
What?
Sir, its what the dead wear!
Aha
Because it’s cheaper, those who wear that
Will die before their death?
Will those who were the more expensive white shirts, live even if they are dead?
Will the dead come alive, if they were more and more expensive shirts?
The dead white shirt
And the non-dead white shirt
Hung before me.
Finally, I bought a black shirt.
What’s it’s price?
No. I don’t like to tell you.
Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by: A.J. Thomas.
Copyright © Kuzhur Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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Kuzhur Wilson Poem
He doesn’t know me
Neither do I, him
There is a lake between us
It is full of fish
Those fish are not his.
Neither are they mine.
The connection between us
Is that those fish do not
Belong to us
The fallen sky is still in the pond
I can see the fish diving through
The cloudy hillsides
There is no doubt that it is the fish
That stir the clouds however slightly be it
Are there fish that are undaunted by birds?
If you wish, peer into the sky in the pond
I kept wondering whether he was witnessing all this
Also, whether he comprehends my reflections
I couldn’t envisage what he saw in the pond
Neither did I have the time for it.
O, let him think whatsoever
He has a cigarette in his hand
That I too have a cigarette
Is another bond which we share
I feel that the fumes from my cigarette
And the clouds are friends
Isn’t that the reason I get vexed
About the clouds in the lake, floating, dead
His is not like that
One can see it in his face
He has no cares
He must be smoking to kill boredom
He is darker than I am
That too is a bond
But he doesn’t know
That I am actually fair
And that I am only pretending to be dark
Perhaps he was fair too once
Would he have got dark when his mother left him, forgotten?
I don’t think so; No, he is dark
The pond belonging to the clouds
The sky fell into
My smoke fumes that roam in the company
Of clouds
Me, who is not dark..
Kuzhur Wilson
Translation : Anitha Varma
Copyright © Kuzhur Wilson | Year Posted 2018
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