Poem of the week: Week Forty Eight.

And the last poem of December 2014 from Hemant Divate’s poetry book चौतिशीपर्यंतच्या कविता.

कुमारीपण 
– हेमंत दिवटे

मी
पाहतोय मला टांगलेलं
दोरीवर उलटं
आणि त्याही अवस्थेत
झेपावतय माझं शरीर
तुझ्या नग्न शरीराकडे
एक सरपटणं
शरीरातल्या मऊ काळोखतून काळोखाकडे
तू थांबवू पहातेयस
तुझ्यावर कोसळणारं कुमारीपण
आणि तडातडा तुटतेय
तुझ्या-माझ्यातल्या काळोखाची त्वचा.
***
Advertisements

Poem of the week: Week Forty Seven.

And here’s the second last poem of December 2014 from Hemant Divate’s poetry book चौतिशीपर्यंतच्या कविता.
बेंबी नसलेला माणूस 
 – हेमंत दिवटे
उंचसखल नाकारांचे पडघम
वाजत आहेत
आणि
आठवणींचा गर्भ वाढतोय चिरंतर
किती वाट पहावी तुझी
हातातली फुले डोळ्यांत उतरलीत
आता नसलेपणाची दुखरी खिडकी उघडून
डोकावून पाहतो तर
हडकुळ्या शब्दांचं
पॅरलाईज्ड शरीर दिसतं
आता कुठल्या इस्पितळात जाऊ?
 
साली दुनियाच बेंबी हरवून बसलेली
मला आता
कुणाविषयीच वाटत नाही प्रेम
तिरस्कारही नाही
आणि म्हणूनच
मी झिडकारतो तिची स्पर्शलिपी
स्तनांवरून बेंबईवरून अतोनात सळसळणारी कविता
 
आता थोडं चाललं की 
तिचं नसलेलं गाव लागेल
मग मे मनाला झालेला एड्स बरा करून घेईन
विचारांना भोकं पाडून
त्यात स्क्रू पिळून घेईन
पण आता
कुणाची आठवण नाही काढायची
आता चंद्राची पुडी बांधून
निंबोणीच्या झाडाखाली पुरून ठेवायची.
***

Poem of the week: Week Forty Four.

And here’s the last poem from Hoshang Merchant’s poetry book Love’s Permission.

‘Sunday’ Afternoon
– Hoshang Merchant

Actually, it is Tuesday
But I’ve taken off from work
He, from school

We listen to Ifti Nasim’s ghazals
Read gay poetry from Boston
Discuss Ashok Row’s magazine piece

We have installed ourselves
in a world made by ourselves
with a little help from our friends.

I think of Hockney’s paintings
of his sleeping lovers
They sleep, he paints

My lover sleeps, I write
I shop for bread and cheese
My lover dreams

I cannot enter his dreams
Living together for him began
with a dream of friendship

In his dream a boy became a man
There is no man or woman only love

The poem is complete
The challenge of this once empty page met.

***

Poem of the week: Week Forty Three.

Here’s the second last poem from Hoshang Merchant’s poetry book Love’s Permission.

Reading Rumi
– Hoshang Merchant

This morning has come whoring
Where are incense and prayer?
The sun is in bed
Outside it is raining
Rumi’s plaint reaches our ears
It frees rivers of ink and tears
Something must sit at centre for this to be
The Master absconds
The pupil sits searching
The sky for an eye
He waters the earth                                 Verses wet
By giving up each one’s brought up bone dry and shining
Each letter a burning jewel
Each jewel a burning wound
Received on the way to Mecca
Dealt by the Beloved’s own son
This morning the darlings are turning
at Konya as they do each mourning
They celebrate the son of the Sun
They call to the Lover to come
So the Beloved can become the bridegroom
Each day is death
Each day is marriage
in this world but not of it
Why then do I
turn to you in bed with wet eye?

***

Poem of the week: Week Forty Two.

Here’s the second poem from Hoshang Merchant’s poetry collection Love’s Permission.

Evening Song: 17 October 1995.
– Hoshang Merchant

This long evening
When old monuments hide in mist
belongs to me

It longs for all its history
The history of other long evenings
It longs for me

It tells me I’m nothing
That men will come and go
There will always be evenings

Then out steps a shade from the mist
It is not rain; it is memory
Calling to me

It says come back to your history
You were not nothing
You were sent to sing the night

And all the rain of Nohant
Descends on my heard with Chopin
What could he do but sing?

We sing always to shades
To mists and memory and evenings
There are no men everlasting

Only Love, evanescent
That passes hurting us into heart
Making everlasting nights of evenings.

***

 

Poem of the week: Week Forty One.

The poet for the month of November is Hoshang Merchant.
And poems  are from his fifth poetry collection Love’s Permission.

Song of the Courtesan
– Hoshang Merchant

I keep house
like a courtesan

I sit writing poems
in bed

I listen to old songs
of the courtesans

Boys who visit
Find here a strange peace

Even if my mood be
bad or sad

Life would go on
without us

But there would be no pleasure
we live as if there was no death

Though daily we die
in bed

Teaching the boys this
I cease to being the old courtesan that
I long to be
and become purely her song.

***

Poem of the week: Week Forty.

The last post of the month of October is a slightly longish poem from Amrita Pritam’s poetry collection प्रतिनिधि कविताएँ.  
And as promised, the theme is Cities.

एक शहर
– अमृता प्रीतम


वह फ़सल जो सितारो ने बोयी थी
किसने इसे चोर गोदाम में डाल लिया
बादल की बोरी को झाड़कर देखा,
रात की मण्डी में गर्द उड़ रही है

चाँद एक भूखे बछड़े की तरह
सूखे थनों को चिचोड़ रहा है
धरती-मा अपने थान पर बँधी
आकाश की चिरनी को चाट रही है…


अस्पताल के दरवाज़े पर
हक़, सच, ईमान और क़द्र
जाने कितने ही लफ्ज़ बीमार पड़े हैं,
एक भीड़-सी इकटठी हो गयी है

जाने कोई नुस्ख़ा लिखेगा
जाने वह नुस्ख़ा लग जायेगा
लेकिन अभी तो ऐसा लगता है
इनके दिन पूरे हो गये हैं…


इस शहर में एक घर है
घर की जहाँ बेघर रेहते हैं
जिस दिन कोई मज़दूरी नहीं मिलती
उस दिन वे पशेमान होते हैं

बुढ़ापे की पहली रात
उनके कानों में धीरे से कह गयी
कि इस शहर में उनकी
भरी जवानी चोरी हो गयी…


कल रात बला कि सर्दी थी,
आज सुबह सेवा-समिति को
एक लाश सड़क पर पड़ी मिली है,
नाम व पता कुछ भी मालूम नहीं

शमशान में आग जल रही ह
इस लाश पर रोने वाला कोई नहीं
या तो कोई भिखारी मरा होगा
या शायद कोई फ़लसफ़ा मर गया है…


किसी मर्द के आग़ोश में –
कोई लड़की चीख़ उठी
जैसे उसके बदन से कुछ टूट गिरा हो

थाने में एक क़हकहा बुलन्द हुआ
कहवाघर में एक हॅसी बिखर गयी

सड़कों पर कुछ हॉकर फिर रहे हैं
एक-एक पैसे में ख़बर बेच रहे हैं,
बचा-खुचा जिस्म फिर से नोच रहे हैं


गुलमोहर के पेड़ो तले,
लोग एक-दूसरे से मिलते हैं
ज़ोर से हॅसते हैं, गाते हैं,
एक-दूसरे से अपनी-अपनी –
मौत कि ख़बर छुपाना चाहते हैं,
संगमरमर क़ब्र का तावीज़ है,
हाथों पर उठाये-उठाये फिरते हैं,
और अपनी लाश कि हिफ़ाज़त कर रहे हैं…


मशीनें खड़-खड़ कर रही हैं,
शहर जैसे एक छापाखाना है
इस शहर में एक-एक इन्सान
एक-एक अक्षर कि तरह अकेला है

हर पैग़म्बर एक कॉमपॉज़िटर
अक्षर जोड़-जोड़कर देखता है
अक्षरों में अक्षर बुनता है,
कभी कोई फ़िक़रा नहीं बन पाता…


दिल्ली इस शहर का नाम है
कोई भी नाम हो सकता है
(नाम मे क्या रखा है)
भविष्य का सपना रोज रात को
वर्तमान कि मैली चादर
आधी उपर ओढ़ता है,
आधी नीचे बिछाता है,
कितनी देर कुछ सोचता है, जागता है,
फिर नींद की गोली खा लेता है

***

Poem of the week: Week Thirty Two.

The last and my favourite poem from Mustansir Dalvi’s Brouhahas of Cocks.

a saint prays for rain
– Mustansir Dalvi

You are gone these many seasons,
anamnesis shed like miniatures
lost in the dunes west of Sam,
and I am left white, anaemic.

I paint my breasts saffron
with pastes of sandalwood
for to anoint You, my Lord,
but they dry and cake.
I scratch myself, scrape
Your names on my skin,
bring blood simmering
to the surface to keep
Your tongue interested.

This world is anathema,
conjoint of meat and material,
a malediction of the mind
keeping You from me
and my heart, a four-chambered
reef knot, another piece of flesh.

Answer my prayers, Lord,
but get Your aim right.
The archers of Your approbation
are way off mark. The leaden barbs
from your forge should pitch
their sights to a lower eye
for my faith is my clitoris
between the teeth of my Lord.
You bite down with felicity
midsummer showers
redden the earth, and the musk
of my fertile mud is released.

*** 

Poem of the week: Week Thirty One.

The third poem from Mustansir Dalvi’s poetry collection Brouhahas of Cocks. Also, the second last poem for this month.

choosing trains
 Mustansir Dalvi

It’s those bloody slumwallahs again
my father curses, wet from the rain;
they’re back, throwing rocks at trains
so,so heartless, so totally insane.

I peek out from behind exhaust shaft
at the mob that destroys, burns and laughs;
duck just in time as a spinning half-
bat crashes through our grimy pane. 

The old man rushes to take us in
two sons, one wife, no next of kin
into the backroom store, on its roof of tin
skeletons dance to staccato strains.

I turn the back handle, quick, scurry out
onto rain swept rails, heart thudding, father shouts.
I turn left, then right, and finally, head south
to pick my rocks, to choose my trains.

***

Poem of the week: Week Thirty.

Here’s the second poem of August from Mustansir Dalvi’s poetry book Brouhahas of Cocks. I find this one very relatable!

hardback awakening
– Mustansir Dalvi

The air is thick, and has revived
my books, anticipating the first spell
of a Bombay monsoon.

Ambient moisture has slaked pages
that shuffle and twist, arise
to a wakefulness, unleaving.

Feeling the discomfort of nearness, they push
like Harbour Line commuters in rush hour,
to complain I have neglected them too long.

At night, I am shaken by a poltergeist
Thud! snapping me out of a dream state.
I pull on my glasses, feel my way to the bookshelves.

The hardbacks wait for me, annoyed.
They fall on their sides, open wide
and like Gabriel, call upon me: ‘Read!’
they cry, ‘Read!’

***