ORIYA POETRY

 
AJAY KUMAR PRADHAN
 

ENTIRELY ABSENTMINDED
 

An entire life absentminded,
no listing, no counting:
an act of blooming
is no different from flooding,
the music for marriage
is no different from storm,
listening to music
is as good as kissing a thorn;
no stocktaking, everything careless.

Although sometimes
the naughty children
trespass into the garden to play,
the butterflies have adulterous
relationship withs the seasons,
minor like girls,
the pregnancies of the snails
get destroyed,
the heavy steps of the wind
trample pregnant youth,
stones weighing tons
are falling from templetops
and snakes digest what charm them.

Everywhere there is life,
everywhere it is not.
To be entirely
absentiminded is life itself.
There is no record of
what goes on, what is lost
and what can be held in a list.
Tasting the edge of the axe
I, the woodcutter, have
split myself into two:
one the fire, the other the blood.
 

Translation:
Rabindra K Swain

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AKHIL NAYAK
 
 

LET THIS CROW BE KILLED
 
 

The crow has started cawing;
it's almost dawn.
Please wake up.
We'll put the bed in order.

Now the eagle-eyed sun will be up.
Come,
let us go to the river.

We will wash
the footprints of sin.
Come,
let us go to the river.

We went to the river.
From the womb of the river
we were born again.

We put
the tassles and flower before the mirror,
we tucked shyness on our faces
and quickly put on
Pressed sari and pyjamas.

Now,
the morning can come,
if it wishes.
What harm the bloody sun
can do to us.

Ah, no sight of morning, or sun!
As usual,
the night is asleep.

Then, does this crow caw
when the night is not yet over?

Let this crow be murdered.
 
 

Translation:
Rabindra K Swain

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ARUPANANDA PANIGRAHI
 
 

TRAVELLER
 

I think
I'd have a word or two with Father

But what words could conspire
between a son and father?

My father
sees me every day
I see him too
Yet why doesn't a single word
come to my lips,
some word that would
be just right for a father?

Suddenly confronted by him
my mouth turns sticky and dry,
my tongue rolls like a rope of straw,
the breeze grips the tip of my navel.

Father understands my problem
He watches me, hidden somewhere
He watches me while I am asleep

I think
I'll have a word with Father
My father approaches from a distance
I had never met him
halfway in the street
Father and I
are travellers

I think
I'll have a word or two with Father:
about this undiminished distance between us
which we have kept up, unchanged
through those many roads we have travelled long,
the ache on the soles of our feet
has long since blossomed
into dust-smeared flowers,
the road waiting expectantly for us
day after day!
 

Translation:
Jayanta Mahapatra

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MainDoor
 
 

A Varnamala Visualization