REFLECTIONS

AS A METAPHOR -Sebastian

noreply@blogger.com (ജ്യോതീബായ് പരിയാടത്ത്/JYOTHIBAI PARIYADATH) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 09:17:00 -0800

Transilation of Sebastians poem 'രൂപകമെന്ന നിലയില്‍ ' (ഒട്ടിച്ച നോട്ട്‌ )'
(Read this poem in malayalam)

People are there
go out sometimes
leaving behind
some organs at home
to job,to travel
pass time or visits
without brooding over
handicap unexposed

There at home
eyes,ears,limbs and fingers
and heart even
though alone
smile never
at each other .

People are there
after return
somehow or other
wear them not proper
forced to forget
yet organ another
leave their home
next time again .

Some people thus
fully organ less
uncaring and forgetting
again and again
brooding not
they still go out
always unrevealed
leaving behind
the organs remaining.

Transilation-Jyothibai pariyadath

DELINEATION TRANSPARENT - Sebastian

noreply@blogger.com (ജ്യോതീബായ് പരിയാടത്ത്/JYOTHIBAI PARIYADATH) — Mon, 1 Dec 2008 04:15:00 -0800

Transilation of Sebastians poem 'സുതാര്യമായ വര്‍ണ്ണന' (ഒട്ടിച്ച നോട്ട്‌ )'
(Read this poem in malayalam)

What gripped hopefully
was neither fruit nor berry
not matter ,a beast or body
odourless it was
no warmth,coolness or numbness,
still not lifeless

An urge
to grow in a cage
without giving away,
may identify someday.

The next day
lay in the cage
in an army of flies huge
decomposed, decayed,
The Pride

Transilation-Jyothibai pariyadath

Post Script to an accident

noreply@blogger.com (Junaith Rahman | ജുനൈദ്) — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 05:01:00 -0700

A narrow pencil
On your colorful walls
Sketching lines
Not so correct, direct or sharp

You lived and
Died like a butterfly
Pinned to a white board

My eyes burned
Seeing your daughter
Drawing on the wall
You must have restricted

A pencil intruding your
Perimeters
Even before you are some
Smoke or ash

Last midnight
A hump on the road
Corrected many restraints
*

Herald of Absences

noreply@blogger.com (Junaith Rahman | ജുനൈദ്) — Sat, 11 Oct 2008 07:11:00 -0700

For Dom Moraes

I saw him sitting on a whale
Herald of absences

Wearing the mask of an old man
The boy
Typed his life with one finger

I met him last on a sea shore
Surrounded by crabs
Writing
The length of his evening

algebra|വഴിക്കണക്ക്

noreply@blogger.com (simy nazareth) — Sun, 3 Feb 2008 05:50:00 -0800

വല്യമ്മായിയുടെ വഴിക്കണക്ക്എന്ന കവിത

The last arithmetical problem in examination

I've added,
substracted,
divided,
and multiplied
again and again...

I kept the numbers outside
and took them back
I borrowed them from outside,
and gave them back

I jumped hurdles
one after the other
and when the final bell rang
in the midst of last division
only one question remained

balance?

Unending.. (തീരുന്നേയില്ല.... )

noreply@blogger.com (ജ്യോതീബായ് പരിയാടത്ത്/JYOTHIBAI PARIYADATH) — Mon, 7 Jan 2008 08:57:00 -0800

പി.ജ്യോതിയുടെ തീരുന്നേയില്ല എന്ന കവിത

Among the shadows
A soul
searches
a body.

Elongated
in the sun rays
the edges
of the shadows seemed
battered
and
the signs
erased.

Fearing
the redeath,
the body
still hid
beneath
the shadow's shadow.

The soul
searches
the body

FROCK-SARI-AMMA | ഫ്രോക്ക്‌ - സാരി - അമ്മ

noreply@blogger.com (simy nazareth) — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 02:30:00 -0800

Translated from FROCK-SARI-AMMAഫ്രോക്ക് സാരി അമ്മ

when her daughter attained twelve
and all the beauties on the earth
started to dwell on her body
mother' s heart burned

Fearing even to bash an eyelid
thinking of the tragedies
in between the lips and cup
she stood for the guardian angel.

Entrusted the god to take care
from the stripping eyes
in between the school bus and the gate

Ensured in the bed
by searching through the blanket
that her daughter has not been stolen

Pulled an emergency on her way
to the neighbor's house
screaming "oh buddy"
as a seven year old boy is growing there!

In one midnight
her scream woke up the neighborhood
worried of her missing daughter
she fainted in the midnight

The neighborhoods solved the problem
by dropping her daughter on her shoulder
who slept off at the classroom
after a tireful French test.

The thoughts of the future
that her daughter will grow
from a frock to sari
in to a world of seminal climax
on every bus and lamp post
on the sight of every feminine shadow
And her shrunken womb that
was not enough to fit her daughter
further reddened the fire in her heart

Author : ദേവസേന

Being and Nothingness | ഉള്ളതും ഇല്ലാത്തതും

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 05:46:00 -0800

(Translated from Shri Vishnuprasad's poem ULLATHUM ILLATTHATHUM ഉള്ളതും ഇല്ലാത്തതും)

I saw children,
pretending to be ghosts,
trying to scare away a cat.

May be they think
that the dead are
more powerful than the living.
If not ,
how could they
march against an enemy
they are afraid of?

They should be right;
Things that are not
are more powerful than
those that are.

Dreams that are not,
grandeur that is not,
so on,
those abode on non entity
are more alive
than the living

The flight
of a bird that is not
the stature
of a tree that is not
the stare
of a man who is not
the clamour
of voices that are not

No,
Things that are
will never stand against
things that are not;
things that are
are afraid of
things that are not.

Trans. പരി. : Manu മനു

GOD OF BOREDOM | ബോറടിയുടെ ദൈവം

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 16 Nov 2007 21:33:00 -0800

ടി.പി.വിനോദിന്റെ GOD OF BOREDOM ബോറടിയുടെ ദൈവം എന്ന കവിത
If identified
in the language of time,
life is an epic of boredom

If conceived
in the renowned tunes of stillness,
ideas are chantings of Boredom

If not of the
universal miracles of boredom,
whose meanings are constructed by
statues and flags?

Even though
it is ubiquitous in
time, space and motion
why don't we have a god for boredom?

at least to partisan by blessing that
those among you feeling me, have a dream !

Author : T.P.Vinod

Translator : Sanathanan

പതിവ്|Routine

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 21:40:00 -0800

ടി.പി.വിനോദിന്റെ പതിവ്Routine എന്ന കവിത

From the piece of the rock,
on the wayside I walk,
its elaborate inertia
creeps into thoughts
and it moves with my feet,
throughout the distance I reach.

Perhaps,
with all of its mass
resting in firm,
it represses my mind,
from flying in the wind.

The mosses of memories
does not obey my commands ;
not to tickle the feelings
touching and nibbling
it inside my heart.

On my way back to home
When I reach the same place,
it gets out of me,
And waits all the night
with its inertia,
grown one more day old.

On the piece of the rock,
on the wayside I walk.

Author : T.P.Vinod
Translator : Sanathanan

താഴോട്ടു നോക്കി നടക്കണം | Look down while you walk

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 03:21:00 -0800

വിഷ്ണുപ്രസാദിന്റെ താഴോട്ടുനോക്കി നടക്കണം എന്ന കവിത
One should walk,
looking down to the street
Then only he could see
half burned matches,
crushed cigarette buds,
ashen sweet wrappers
And the lottery tickets
of the unlucky ,
under his feet.

One should walk
looking down to the street
Then only he could hear
the remindings of the street
that this earth
is the churchyard
of the dumped

Author : Vishnuprasad
Translated by : sanathanan

ഈ ദൈവത്തിന്റെ ഒരു കാര്യം | Fed up with the God

noreply@blogger.com (simy nazareth) — Wed, 7 Nov 2007 06:37:00 -0800

കുഴൂര്‍ വിത്സണ്‍ എഴുതിയ ഈ ദൈവത്തിന്റെ ഒരു കാര്യം എന്ന കവിത
-------------------------------

in our next lives, we met
in a dusty street in Cabul.

And a t-shirt strolled,
with the words imprinted
that the lovers in this birth
were two warring clans, from birth before.

And I realized
that your longing gaze
was that same burning bullet
of hatred and vengeance
which was still left loaded
after you shot through me six times.

While you realized
that my words were, nothing but
the cozy comfort of slicing
and dicing on a body which
lost its life, long ago.

But still I dont know
why you offered me boiled corns
when you saw them selling on cabul streets.
and why you dallied when I heaved a sigh.

I dont know.

And then you asked
on how we parted.
First it was 'cos the fire blazed high
when I lit up the candle.
Then it was for the phone rang
while we kissed.
And then, for that lipstick in my shirt
when I came in your dream.
.........
.........
And then, for asking
and for not asking
for a phone call, for not calling
for a sigh,
a smile, a whimper
for a tear, for eating and for not eating
for posting a letter, for wishing not to post
and for going to the urinal -
without your permission.

For praying for the mother and kids -

we may have died together

If I died first - I was worried
of not who would look after you
but who all would look after you

We may have been killed
If not, god's would have interfered anyway
In whichever rock you build, god will
topple it, even with an earth quake

These crazy ways of god, so strange.

And we, those who sliced each other with love
in these streets of cabul

When you said how beautiful this city is,
how wonderful - I smoked a cigarette.

And here, another T-shirt passes
with the words - that I'm not even born

And I remember
those two lines you uttered
to me on that thursday evening (5.41pm)
four days before chirstmas
in our previous birth

I smiled, without uttering them

and you kissed me

Translated by : simy

അടിയന്തിരാവസ്ഥ നഷ്ടപ്പെടുത്തിയ എന്റെ ആറു വര്‍ഷങ്ങള്‍ | My six years eaten by emergency

noreply@blogger.com (simy nazareth) — Tue, 6 Nov 2007 06:55:00 -0800

കെ.എം.പ്രമോദ് എഴുതിയ അടിയന്തിരാവസ്ഥ നഷ്ടപ്പെടുത്തിയ എന്റെ ആറു വര്‍ഷങ്ങള്‍ എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ
My six years eaten by emergency.
-------------------------------

A dream, named revolution
A magazine, named comrade
An agent, named Pappan,
and his marriage with Sarada

Sister Indira is in her mood
Karunakaran is blowing hot
Jayaram Padikkal (is on the steps)
And Pappan
He left home for the woods
only to come back in lonely nights
and to be betrayed by Gandhi Kunhiraman

And lo, a load full of police
just to catch pappan
A vomit screams through misty night
soaked with Pappan's blood
Pappan's ball becomes
a toy for the police

To home, from Jail.
Sarada's next six years
are for flowers and worship
Pappan's money is
only for the treatment
And I catch the last bus
to come to light!, from Sarada's womb.

And thus,
Pappan became my father
President of temple commitee
he worships, covers gods with flowers

And In my eyes shine -
a dream called revolution
And in my hands, a pen.
And all I see, is a poem.

And then, my father looks at me,
like a poem, came to sudden life*.

---------------

*Son, you would think more than this when you are young,
only to calm down, once you grow as old as me.
(Balachandran Chullikkaad, Laugh of a labourer).

Kunjaakkamma* | കുഞ്ഞാക്കമ്മ*

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 6 Nov 2007 05:46:00 -0800

(Transl. from the original by the author - K M Pramod)

Unlike Kunjaakkamma,
The thatched huts of Kandakkai
Shivered in the Wind and
Cried in the Rain.

When sought to fill the Holes in their Roofs
with Grass of the Land, before Monsoon
they were called "Bastards" by the Landlord.

Thus the Men and Women
Entered in the useless Grassland of that Bastard
for the Grass.
Police Reaped the pubic hair of Males,
Pots in the kitchen were Shattered by their Canes.

And the Shattered pots United,
Kunjaakkamma Led.

Chirukandan Cried "Oh mother! Fish Curry"
Smelling the Red stain in the Pieces of Broken pots.

First Strike of their Fist was on their Chest,
Then towards the Sky.

Kunjaakkamma returned from Jail,Like a Broken pot.

But,
A whole village wove a Dream net of Fish Curry
by smelling Red.

************

Author's Note :
* Dedicated to the Evrgreen Memory of 'Kunjaakkamma' who led historical strikes during 1950's like 'Picking grass Strike', 'Reaping Strike' and 'Carrying Shattered pots Strikes' in Kandakkai, a Small village in Kannur,Kerala.

(കെ എം പ്രമോദിന്റെ കുഞ്ഞാക്കമ്മ; പ്രമോദ് തന്നെ ഭാഷാന്തരം ചെയ്തത്.)

Feathery seed | അപ്പൂപ്പന്‍ താടി

noreply@blogger.com (simy nazareth) — Tue, 6 Nov 2007 01:06:00 -0800

സനാതനന്‍ എഴുതിയ അപ്പൂപ്പന്താടി എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ

Mother should have known my future
While delivering me,

That in this earth,
Where the roots of trees weave mighty nets,
an ounce of land, it's hard for me.
And maybe that's why, she gave
to this miniscule body,
an abundance of wings.

I'm flying away,
across the lands;
past the oceans
through the ages
that hold our memories
and make them rain

Fly around,
through a breeze,
across the tempests
till the skys are there
and till the land
would kiss your feet!
And that was my mother's blessing.

-------------

Heart wood | കാതല്‍

noreply@blogger.com (simy nazareth) — Mon, 5 Nov 2007 13:38:00 -0800

(സനാതനന്‍ എഴുതിയ കാ‍തല്‍ എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ)

The core,
It's been inside for sometime;
A surge from my inside.
A force, a strength
which can bend even nails

And I can't feel anymore
those moist rays from the wet eyes
when they touch me, like before.

And the narrow streams of blood
cant angle to my heart anymore

Now, I dont see those cookoos
when they mate in the branches
and I dont see those kites
when they interwine

Earlier, though I withered
In even the mellowed sunshine
I always knew first
When the spring came

And yes, its been there for sometime.
A heave.
From inside to out.

Like an ocean, turned cast iron.
Like a dream, turned rock.

Earlier, though I stooped,
when someone leaned on me
I used to know,
the warmth of love in my shoulders

Now, all that I know is -
that there is something inside me.

A strength,
A force.

And I heard someone say
let him go on a bit more,
let him grow up a bit more

Translation : Simy

Scientist | ശാസ്ത്രജ്ഞന്‍

noreply@blogger.com (simy nazareth) — Mon, 5 Nov 2007 13:37:00 -0800

(സനാതനന്‍ എഴുതിയ ശാസ്ത്രജ്ഞന്‍ എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ)

Woman,
I first thought you were my mother.

And I thought
you were my nanny
who tricked me from my fathers bedroom
in the pretext of stories
when she knew
what I felt for mother
was not what mother felt for father.

Then I felt
you were my ally from the next alley
when I knew nanny wouldnt play with me in mud,
no matter how much I compelled her.

And I thought
you were that sex condensed in my fingertip
when I knew
marriage mattered more to juliet
than romeo

Then I felt
you were my wife whom, I worshiped
to the freedom of a locked bedroom
when the flags of revolution were
lowered from my thoughts

and then, in my quest for knowing you;
in my heroisms - you gave birth

woman,
my fate became
that of the one who tasted cianide -
just to know it's taste.

Thirty Years | മുപ്പതുവര്‍ഷങ്ങള്‍

noreply@blogger.com (simy nazareth) — Mon, 5 Nov 2007 04:41:00 -0800

(സനാതനന്‍ എഴുതിയ മുപ്പതുവര്‍ഷങ്ങള്‍ എന്ന കവിതയുടെ പരിഭാഷ)

Thirty years.
Is that the name
of a river?
Of whose origin I cant find,
no matter how far I raft.
Of the one that
does not fall into the ocean,
no matter how far it swam.
Of the one that
makes its presence,
though it doesnt exist.
Of the one that doesnt exist,
even if it is there.
Of a wet dream?

Thirty years;
Is that the name
of a boat?
Of the one that floats always,
even in the deepest currents,
For its inside is hollow.
Of the one whose fate is to be afloat,
even in the darkest currents.
Of the one who wants
to turn upside down,
And lament a heart broken cry.
Of a vanity?

Thirty years;
Is that the name
of a tree?
Of the one which doesn't know
the branches, the leaves
and the buds it bears.
Of the one which clenches,
with its tearful roots,
to the sands that drain away.
Of a rheumatism?

Thirty years;anyway,
Would that be the name of a life?
Of a street fight,
which started because it was born;
and continued because it didnt die?

Thirty years - oh god,
What rabits are they!
Of which magicians hat?

Translated by:simy
Original work: മുപ്പതുവര്‍ഷങ്ങള്‍