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ORIYA POETRY
GIRIBALA MOHANTY
A POEM ON ANTI-SELF
Like a night of lost consciousness
your intimate presence
wordless silent pain,
time and again
tumbling on the rough time
this procession of existence
towards nonexistence
is your intimate presence.
Let me paint one evening.And then,seasons were disciplined
but rivers were uncontrolled
like menstruating women.
Bathing in the moonlight
the mountains seemed aslumber:
like blue-lily breasts
of women facing upward.In such an evening
tortured
and being nothing,
I am searching my way
sometimes moving fast--
and then, encircling my own self
as a blind deer
sniffs at her own body
feels aroused and blind
in the soft darkness.
For me the world is an illusion
I am a gipsy woman,
the inheritor of
life, death and life-after-death.Yet,I am counterfeit
I have defeated the knight chivalrous
strange, sober,handsome,
but imprisoned for ever
in a horseman,
and he being lost
in me for eternity.In such an evening
when I try to feel myself
I am nowhere
and you,
hurdling over your existence
merge into the nonexistence.I never think that I am a river
of freedom
and to get my freedom
this is my own march
towards my own death,
pierced by my own arrow
I am the cause of my own death.
I am my own dhrupadi.
Translation:
Sanat Das Patnaik
GOPAL KRUSHNA RATH
THE VOICE OF A LONG SHADOW
The corpse is in slumber
and all the choicest flowers of his eyes
have withered.They slept
for the last time in his eyes;
nevertheless two drops of tears
have rolled down
from his affectionate eyes:
all will burn: those eyes,
those flowers and tears.The corpse is burning:
with it get burnt
a few dialogues--Time's,
a few mournful voices--his unquenched thirst's.
Flowers get burnt,tears too.
So lonely the eyes when they began to burn!
I am also burning: in my breath,
my dearest flowers are also
burning in my eyes
and my eyes
are also burning: as if
I am a corpse;
bewildered,unconcerned
but innocent.On the eve of the New Year
in the letters
I have received
everyone has written--
they are also burning
like me
like the corpse.
Translation:
Sanat Das Patnaik
JAYAKRUSHNA BARICK
UNNECESSARY
The golden lines of Devisutra or Geeta
begin the day's first move.And then the hot steam of excited cups of tea,
ignoring all rules of hygiene.
While sipping tea,gather the kith and kin.
There comes the seven-year-old daughter, Pupun,
holding a Picture-Book: Ramayana.
The wife begins her day's chores,
with "Songs-on-Request"
blasting from her Radio.Brightening the cause of the hour of trial,
with immense eagerness I narrate to Pupun
the stories of Seeta and Ravana.
But unmindfully,
like a red, red ripe apple
the sun comes
and stands in front of me.While shaving, I get wish-waves,tempting.
Breaking down all walls
come in to cling onto my body.
Like an intoxicated boat
float towards the indefinite time.
The bell resounds inside the body.
On heaps of falsehood
the scattered sunshine of impatience.
And, while searching the stairs of freedom,
quietly
with all interests
arrives:
the birthtime of another morning...The world seems old
and, under the vast sky,
one feels himself dispensable,
unnecessary.
Translation:
Sanat Das Patnaik
A Varnamala Visualization