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ORIYA POETRY
SARAT CHANDRA PRADHAN
THROUGH A WINDOW
While the trees and branches and the fish
were talking:
would a deluge come to this earth,
through a window
I saw at once
the sun rising.In the re-creation
would the flowers become the stars of the sky
and on cloud-boats
we sail across the blue expanse?How would it be
if a stone turns to a man,
if the dusty body of a mountain
gets life?Close to us
if we live like worms
while the trees and branches and the fish see
how would it be
if a mountain becomes a man?Like a chunk of earth
sliding from a mountain
we too would jump from the sky
how would it be
if we all become tigers
munching our dreams and loves?If this earth feigns weeping, let it
but this cruel look should go
and how good would be your words
that you too smile
through the window!
Translation:
Haraprasad Paricha Patnaik
SAROJ RANJAN MOHANTY
THE SORROW OF THE PAPER BOAT
Who would believe the sravana rains,
and why? It would arrive suddenly
like an untimely guest,
in your garden someday,at your courtyard,
using your blind moments.
And yet again,pushing open your windows,
it would enter your room,
wetting your books,your bed,
manuscripts of verse and memory,
and of course,you.It would bring back
the fading memories of the world;
it would make you remember things
that you might have forgotten,
plundering away your sense of peace
and then you,lonely and poor,
would be thinking once more
about the lost splendours of the yesterdays.Sravana would give you once more
the agony of injured manhood,
of loss and defeat.
It would gather together
at the end of your pen the griefs
you may have already forgotten;
the last shreds of a story of grief
that is still incomplete.It would remind you
of your dear one's vain efforts
to hold in her pallava
the music of the sravana rains;
and when you attempt to draw
the picture of phalguna around her,
your brush would find only the thorny cactus.The rains of the early ashadha--
the season of Ramagiri-loneliness.
Sravana is the time of murdered love,
of wounds and loss,
the season that leaves you
empty and blood-besmeared.And the voice of sravana--
a choric sigh of accumulated grief
that plays among the Ramagiris.Sravana would arrive
and with the pride of a conqueror,disappear,
like a cruel,heartless lover
offering you only the gift of grief.
And after its exit,
you would be floating
on the restless surface of its tormenting sea
like a paper boat,miserable.
Translation:
Bibhu Padhi
SRINIVAS UDGATA
UNKNOWN FROM THAT DAY
Your alluring body and its beautiful fields,
the waves of the sea drenched in the moonlight,
the silent sky--have you seen, how
all are aroused in the enchanting silence
in the deep embrace of its natural passion?You have only heard the beatings of my heart,
its soaring ascendancy, the thirsty stir within
as if pearls reflected on the waves of the sea
as if limitless scattered images of the moon.That day also revealed the first notorious morning
and its sky, impregnated with coloured dreams
adorned with spontaneous pictures of countless flowers.Unknown from that day : how silently
does Spring come sharpening the arrow
and raining the fire of shephali,
because
all seasons have gathered in your body
to set the Spring aflame,
alone.
Translation:
Sanat Das Patnaik
UMASHANKAR PANDA
THE WHITE FLOWERS
In this blossom
I must carry a basket of
flowers for you
as the flower
is
a kind of fire
that burns the unconcerned bee
and helpless butterflies.Shameless
is
the wicked wind
that makes you naked
any moment.If I meet Grief
this time
I shall ask,
what is its intention
to come so suddenly
like the lonely girl carrying
white flowers in her hand
alone
as if a magic wand.
Translation:
Sanat Das Patnaik
A Varnamala Visualization