 |
|||
ORIYA POETRY
ASOK KUMAR CHANDAN
THE V.I.P.
The VIP will move along
and a lotus will bloom
wherever he will set his foot.
The obedients will bow down
and the VIP will start climbing the stairs,his robe
without creases.
And the pigmies will watch agape.
Never have they wished for the moon.Once the VIP laughs
the courtiers will start to echo
in roaring laughter.
The janitor will open the door.
The messenger will read out
the News-of-the-Kingdom.
And,then,His Highness,the VIP will scribble
the destiny of the pigmies.The VIP will talk with the wallclock.
He will stretch his countless hands
in a sea of emptiness
and hover over the pigmies' heads
like a weird scarecrow.Embracing his own ghost
the VIP will climb down the stairs
and,entering his bed chamber,
will enquire of his wife
her months and days.The VIP will gaze at his own face
in the mirror of darkness
and undress:
he will stand stark naked.
No courtier around,
he will count his own breath.
Seeing him as a headless trunk,
his own child will get startled.
His wife will pat the child,mumbling:
"Nothing else,man,man".
Translation:
Rabindra K Swain[ Note:VIP: Very Important Person.]
ASWINI KUMAR MISHRA
HOUSEMAID
She carries white-hot sand
in her scanty apron
and heaps on the cement floor
in a May noon,
braving the sand-storm
she plucks blood-red chinarose
as offering to the master
She tries to take the household
heavenward through worship
and in turn
seethes in a cauldron of molasses.Who could she be?
When the cheeky dames
return from a movie show
she tucks out the stamps
from used tickets
and sticks on her forehead
like pendants.
Bonny brats mouth toffee
and throw away cellophane wrappers
through which she views
colours of the outer world.When none around
her feet sneak into and withdraw in haste
from silky slippers of her mistress,
as if to heal the blisters.The unseen hand from high heavens
showers sacred ash on the chosen few,
pours dust and dirt over her in torrents.
Dirts converge,confer and conjoin
like the demon Jarasandha,
her little hands perennially struggling
to separate dirt from dirt.Beyond the chained hound
lies her little world,
her treasure land:
a framed Sita,a tin-can
a hairoil phial,a cracked mirror
and a toothless comb.She fails to gather
her name scattered all over.
In her dedicated bondage
she distributes
her hands and feet,liver and skull
all her limbs.Lust engulfs the tender bud
like a swarm of fire-spewing bees,
she wriggles to escape,
they do not let her go.
Dismembered petals fall apart,
at that death-throe
hunger billows
they gather,arouse and seize once again.
Translation:
Abhaya Kumar Padhi
BASANTA KUMAR MUDULI
THE HOUSE
Under the sky
a two-feet land.
On it a small hut
that shudders in cold,
sizzles in hot summer,
collapses in rain.
I feed it with my tears and blood,
make a dough of my flesh
and cover the rafters
of my marble-like ribs
with my skin that has
withstood all these years.In it
my dreams flutter
like butterflies,
memories harden
in the pillow
my head rests
and my future sleeps
inside the languages of silence.The sighs,
the smell of gunpowder,
a trickle in the dead river
and a circle of poetry
around the cold hearth
are my identity.It does not matter
if at all any one knows me or not.
The day's sunshine,
the night's stars
the hunger of heart
and the marine songs
know me,cuddle me.I know,one day
this geography
will end up in smoke.
I know,one day
this life will fly off like a bird.Because I know all these,
I know you all,
relate to you,
love you.
And,
digging and ploughing your arid land,
I sow seeds
and look for the harvest.
Translation:
Rabindra K Swain
A Varnamala Visualization