We present this work in honor of the 110th anniversary of the poet’s death.
They rejuvenated Aristotle’s dead tomes
Plato from oblivion was brought back to life
Turned each spot to ‘Greece’, refined all the homes
Taste of wisdom’s manna, they offered to all
From universal eye they removed the dense veil
From slumber woke up Time, set it ready to sail.
We present this work in honor of the 20th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Who has the tigers and who the sheep
never seems to make any difference.
The result is always the same:
She wins,
I lose.
But sometimes when her tigers
are on the rampage,
and I’ve lost half my herd of sheep,
help comes from unexpected quarters:
Above.
The Rusty Shield Bearer,
neutral till then,
para-drops a winning flower —
yellow
and irrelevant —
on the checkerboard
drawn on the pavement in charcoal,
cutting off the retreat
of one tiger,
and giving a check to the other;
and quickly follows it up
with another flower —
just as yellow
and just as irrelevant — except
that it comes down even more slowly;
a flower without a search warrant
that brushes past her earlobe,
grazes her cheek,
and disappears down the front
of her low-cut blouse —
where she usually keeps
her stash of hash —
to confuse her even further, with its mildly
narcotic
but very distracting fragrance.
In honor of Ganesh Chaturthi, we present this work by one of India’s most vivid poets.
O King! The city, which is called Madhurapuri for its honeyed loveliness, has now become the city of cruel beasts; it now lives up to its earlier name of Vyaghrapuri, the city of tigers because humans don’t dwell there anymore.
Those temples of Gods, which used to reverberate with the sacred melody of the mridangam, now echo the dreadful howls of jackals.
In the Brahmin Quarters Agraharams of our city, huge columns of smoke emanating from the scared Yagnas used to rise up and reach the skies amid the sacred Vedic chants but alas! today those selfsame Quarters send up wretched stenches of meat roasted by the Turushkas; the Vedic chants are today replaced by the beastly cacophonies of drunken hoodlums.
During the days of Pandyas, our women used to bathe in river Taamraparni, whose waters turned white from the sandal-paste applied to their breasts. My lord! Now she’s coloured only in red from the currents of blood flowing into her from all the cows slaughtered by its wicked occupiers all over the country.
O King! I cannot bear to look at the countenance of those Dravida ladies who were bounteously endowed with beauty. Ravished horribly by the scourging Turushkas, these delicate women now sport lifeless lips and exhale hot breaths, and their abundant tresses that have come undone are painful to the eyes. I don’t have the words to describe the suffering and dishonour painted on their faces, which know neither redemption nor protection.
Tears of sorrow and of suffering flowed from Queen Kausalya’s eye,
As she saw departing Sita for her blessings drawing nigh,
And she clasped the gentle Sits, and she kissed her moistened head,
And her tears like summer tempest choked the loving words she said:
‘Part we, dear devoted daughter, to thy husband ever true,
With a woman’s whole affection render love to husband’s due!
False are women loved and cherished, gentle in their speech and word,
When misfortune’s shadows gather, who are faithless to their lord,
Who through years of sunny splendour smile and pass the livelong day,
When misfortune’s darkness thickens, from their husband turn away,
Who with changeful fortune changing oft ignore the plighted word,
And forget a woman’s duty, woman’s faith to wedded lord,
Who to holy love inconstant from their wedded consort part,
Manly deed nor manly virtue wins the changeful woman’s heart!
But the true and righteous woman, loving, spouse and changeless wife,
Faithful to her lord and consort holds him dearer than her life,
Ever true and righteous Sita, follow still my godlike son,
Like a God to thee is Rama in the woods or on the throne!’
‘I shall do my duty, mother,’ said the wife with wifely pride,
‘Like a God to me is Rama, Sita shall not leave his side,
From the Moon will part his lustre ere I part from wedded lord,
Ere from faithful wife’s devotion falter in my deed or word,
For the stringless lute is silent, idle is the wheel-less car,
And no wife the loveless consort, inauspicious is her star!
Small the measure of affection which the sire and brother prove,
Measureless to wedded woman is her lord and husband’s love,
True to Law and true to Scriptures, true to woman’s plighted word,
Can I ever be, my mother, faithless, loveless to my lord?’
Tears of joy and mingled sorrow filled the Queen Kausalya’s eye,
As she marked the faithful Sita true in heart, in virtue high,
And she wept the tears of sadness when with sweet obeisance due,
Spake with hands in meekness folded Rama ever good and true:
‘Sorrow not, my loving mother, trust in virtue’s changeless beam,
Swift will fly the years of exile like a brief and transient dream,
Girt by faithful friends and forces, blest by righteous Gods above,
Thou shalt see thy son returning to thy bosom and thy love!
Unto all the royal ladies Rama his obeisance paid,
For his failings unremembered, blessings and forgiveness prayed,
And his words were soft and gentle, and they wept to see him go,
Like the piercing cry of curlew rose the piercing voice of woe,
And in halls where drum and tabor rose in joy and regal pride,
Voice of grief and lamentation sounded far and sounded wide!
Then the true and faithful Lakshman parted from each weeping dame,
And to sorrowing Queen Sumitra with his due obeisance came,
And he bowed to Queen Sumitra and his mother kissed his head,
Stilled her anguish-laden bosom and in trembling accents said:
Dear devoted duteous Lakshman, ever to thy elder true,
When thy elder wends to forest, forest-life to thee is due,
Thou hast served him true and faithful in his glory and his fame,
This is Law for true and righteous,–serve him in his woe and shame,
This is Law for race of Raghu known on earth for holy might,
Bounteous in their sacred duty, brave and warlike in the fight!
Therefore tend him as thy father, as thy mother tend his wife,
And to thee, like fair Ayodhya be thy humble forest life,
Go, my son, the voice of Duty bids my gallant Lakshman go,
Serve thy elder with devotion and with valour meet thy foe
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 125th birthday.
O poets of the future, may you arise
Like the morning sun,
Bright and red like hibiscus blossoms.
In the golden dawn for which we long
May you wake up like countless flocks of birds.
I sing in the hope that you will come
To soar in the blue sky that I create.
I leave behind the memory of my greetings to you:
Play on my veena the song of the new day.
We present this work in honor of the 50th anniversary of the poet’s death.
My king of mountains! My magnificent one!
Radiant embodiment of great glory!
Flame of fierce, accumulated prowess!
Snowy diadem of my motherland!
Effulgent brow of my Bharat!
My king of mountains! My magnificent one!
Unvanquished, unfettered, free through the ages,
Sacred, righteously proud and great through the ages,
What glory have you been radiating
Through the ages in the limitless sky?
How unbroken is your eternal meditation!
Sages of sages! How unending your concentration!
Pouring into infinite space, what intricate problems
Do you seek to solve?
What intractable web of perplexities?
My king of mountains! My magnificent one!
O sage engrossed in silent tapasya!
Open your eyes at least for a moment!
Our country is burning, in flames
Writhing restlessly at your feet!
The blessed Indus, the five rivers, Brahmaputra
Ganga and Yamuna – the nectar-swept streams
That flow to the blessed land
Are abundant with your melting compassion.
At the gates of that land,
You, the guardian of its borders,
Have challenged, ‘You must cut off my head
Before you can trample over this land.
O pious sage, a great misfortune has fallen today
On that same land of piety!
Afflicted, the children are writhing
Bitten by countless snakes from four directions.
My king of mountains! My magnificent one!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 115th birthday.
How felt he when he first was told
A slave he ceased to be;
How proudly beat his heart, when first
He knew that he was free !—-
The noblest feelings of the soul
To glow at once began;
He knelt no more; his thoughts were raised;
He felt himself a man.
He looked above—-the breath of heaven
Around him freshly blew;
He smiled exultingly to see
The wild birds as they flew,
He looked upon the running stream
That ‘neath him rolled away;
Then thought on winds, and birds, and floods,
And cried, ‘I’m free as they!’
Oh Freedom! there is something dear
E’en in thy very name,
That lights the altar of the soul
With everlasting flame.
Success attend the patriot sword,
That is unsheathed for thee!
And glory to the breast that bleeds,
Bleeds nobly to be free!
Blest be the generous hand that breaks
The chain a tyrant gave,
And, feeling for degraded man,
Gives freedom to the slave.
We present this work in honor of Maha Shivrati.
Nights of jasmine & thunder,
torn petals
wind in the tangled kadamba trees.
Nothing has changed-
Spring has come again and we’ve simply grown older.
In the cane groves of the Narmada
he deflowered my
girlhood, long before we were
married.
And I grieve for those far-away nights
when we played at love
By the water.
Alone, alone at the early dawn
In Springtime with its blossoms wan
Thy glory do I gaze upon,
And naught do I see but Thee.
Alone, alone ‘neath the shady trees
Midst Summers warmth I feel thy breeze,
Alas’ I fall upon my knees,
And naught I see but Thee.
Alone, alone, thro’ the fallen leaves
That Autumn scatters and interweaves
I trod the path, sweet memory grieves,
And naught I see but Thee.
Alone, alone in the pure white snow
As the wintry winds around me blow
Firmly I stand, yet seeking to know,
And naught I see but Thee.
We present this work in honor of the 75th anniversary of the poet’s death.
What do you sell O ye merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.
What do you weigh, O ye vendors?
Saffron and lentil and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna, and spice.
What do you call, O ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.
What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons
Frail as a dragon-fly’s wing,
Girdles of gold for dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the king.
What do you cry, O ye fruitmen?
Citron, pomegranate, and plum.
What do you play ,O musicians?
Cithar, sarangi and drum.
what do you chant, O magicians?
Spells for aeons to come.
What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed.
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.
Poets Corner 