ORIYA POETRY

 
HARAPRASAD PARICHA PATNAIK
 
 

THE SOLITARY SELF
 

That is perahaps the first meeting.
For calm appearance of the sea
that swallows layers of civilization
her words
only in her trembling top-like breasts.

She thinks
for the kitten waiting on window sill
stretched flat on its belly like the sunlight
the pregnant cow would turn
into a frightened mouse,
the dark clouds would come flying
into the folds of her eye
like my solitary self.

Have you heard
the stories of vague greatmen?
Red,the horizon
red like fresh blood,have you seen?
The echo of wind
from the breaking mast of a ship?

For the sorrow without anxiety
for the lotus of a rotten pond
for the lovely cloth of a familiar old lady
all the ecstasy,
folded desires
like a mirage of the sky
like a white dream
and very close to us.
 

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BESIDE THE RIVER MAHANADI
 

Little above Mahanadi
like a holyman in white
the moon watches
even like a constable.

The clouds of a last spring
her sorrows,maybe
the crumbling ant-hills.

As the lonely bed of a princess
this cold sand
that both of you cannot warm.

Go near the old bony bridge
the train crawls slowly,
and the sensuous moments.

In the still,solitary afternoon
waves of illusion
embrace the hot sand.

Grazing,an old cow asks the age of the sand
against the cheerful green around
The water in her eyes lost in them.
 

Translation:
The poet

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HRUSHIKESH MALLICK
 
 
 

AUTUMN
 
 

Suddenly she appears before you
in a white sari
and with a basket of jasmines
in her hands.
Her reflection ripples
on the mirror of tear, or sweat.

What do these patches
of dead clouds remind us,
excepting the ruins
of all the hopes and dreams?
The wound yet to heal,
the ache yet to go;
the peeping moon, althrough.

The field is rich with paddy,
the papers are full of plans,
the creepers at the hedges,
the river water getting less muddy
and this is the time
one feels lonely, orphan-like,
althrough the day and night.

Kashatandi flowers grow red
yet the stain on the hand
of the assasin does not go away;
the sun is about to set
yet there is no sign of return
of the bird that has flown away

Here, the notebook of my daughter
is fragrant with the fresh shefali flowers;
there, under the ground,
smoulders the intrigue of a bomb-blast.

The dark outline of the village
looks bright with the circus light,
the peasant is engrossed
in cleaning his old clothes,
and glittering the eyes of Mandela
blessing Mother Teresa a long life
comes autumn,
Yes, autumn after autumn.
 
 

Translation:
Rabindra K Swain

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KUMAR HASSAN
 
 

HOUSES IN SKETCHBOOKS
 

Hussainesque they are not--
Children sketch mansions
in their handy Drawing Books

Elegant portals
breezy boudoirs
speckled gardens
cool shade of a tree
looming over the gate
spacious drives
and paved pathways

On a hilltop
as ever the rising sun
and,look,those tiny hands
make lilies bloom

The House of their sketchbook
is never their Home
The riot of colours knows no bound
The Drawing Teacher's initials
spell the doom
 

Translation:
The poet

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MainDoor
 
 
 

A Varnamala Visualization