In honor of Ugadi, we present this work by one of the great 19th century Indian poets.
Michael Madhususdan Dutt Indian 1824 – 1873
I am not rich, nay, nor the future heir
To sparkling gold or silver heaped on store;
There is no marble blushing on my floor
With thousand varied dies:—no gilded chair,
No cushions, carpets that by riches are
Brought from the Persian land, or Turkish shore;
There is no menial waiting at my door
Attentive to the knell: and all things rare,
Born in remotest regions, that shine in
And grace the rich-man’s hall, are wanting here.
These are not things that by blind Fate have been
Allotted ever to the poor man’s share:
These are not things, these eyes have ever seen,
Tho’ their proud names have sounded in this ear!
In honor of the Indian holiday, Bihar Diwas, we present this work by one of India’s greatest modern poets.
Balamani Amma Indian 1909 – 2004
When I hasten homewards after the morning bath in the river, my path resounds with the song of them that soar in the sky;
There flutter before me the green flags unfurled by those who people the nether regions;
And around me dance the butterflies, swinging their multicoloured robes.
This world, richly adorned, invites me to a glimpse of its magnificent carnival.
But mine eyes are drunk with the beauty of my home, laburnum-garlanded by the all-beholding sun.
When I hurry to my beloved, having quickly gone through the housework, the sun shines more and more in the unclouded heart of sky;
The hidden emotions of darkest depths emerge as burning sighs;
And gold-mohar shrubs, their faces marked with the auspicious saffron beaming with joy, stand by in silence.
The world transforms into a mirror held before me, but I am charmed into gazing at my own feelings reflected in the eyes of my beloved.
When I rush to my children playing in the courtyard, the sky becomes suffused by their milky smile changed into moonlight.
The ripples in the river echo their pattering footsteps;
And all the neighbouring homes are lit up by their untainted grace.
The world turns into a fairyland, wafted out of their enchanting selves.
And my soul is merged in their flower-like forms.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 90th birthday.
A.K. Ramanujan Indian 1929 – 1993
The Striders
And search
For certain thin-
Stemmed, bubble-eyed water bugs.
See them perch
On dry capillary legs
Weightless
On the ripple skin
Of a stream
Not only prophets
Walk in water.
The bug sits
On a landslide of lights
And drowns eye
Deep Into its tiny strip
Of sky.
When it rains it seems the room itself turns blue, trembles
and falls like rain, as if endless time coming from nowhere
fills the room, as if endless wind blowing in
carries the room to the riverbank;
turning into a boat, I float
I get soaked; swaying, shivering, I keep
moving; in the distance one can see the line where
the river meets the sea, as if
all around waves hiss, as if there’s nobody around
anywhere as if a profound sobbing chokes the throat
as if terrifying harsh sobs strangle
the room – By what strange magic
the ten directions sparkle in a moment,
as if everything will revert
to its real shape, as if all is a dance,
all is rhythm, all is tinted light –
Awakening and seeing the rain, sometimes it’s
like this, then I pray Oh sky
break up the room and give me more rain!
Why an introduction dear, you are within me,
reflections on starry nights, memories of a life,
creations of life in short spells, eyes notice
creations of life in short spells, eyes notice
gentle footsteps!
I don’t much to treasure anymore,
you are the treasure I have in me.
Your dazzling, radiant smile like sunrise
Is the reflection of fragrant sorrow,
it is consciousness, and dreamy slumber,
Let me tire and sleep incessantly, for
Would I understand the creation, big-bang!!
You are drawn, I am just an outline,
you are the sweet melody, I am just a string of notes,
you are limitless, I am but an illusion of limits,
In the secrecy of real image-reflection,
why enact to be lovers!!!
My friend, I went to the market and bought the Dark One.
You claim by night, I claim by day.
Actually I was beating a drum all the time I was buying him.
You say I gave too much; I say too little.
Actually, I put him on a scale before I bought him.
What I paid was my social body, my town body, my family body, and all my inherited jewels.
Mirabai says: The Dark One is my husband now.
Be with me when I lie down; you promised me this in an earlier life.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls Where words come out from the depth of truth Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit Where the mind is led forward by thee Into ever-widening thought and action Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Poets Corner 