POEMS

THE BEST TEACHER

K. Venu Gopala Rao

Awards galore,

Showers of compliments,

Felicitations aplenty,

Choruses of praise,

Thunders of applause,

Flocks of people around,

Best teachers,

Best teachers,

The leaders announced,

The crowds chorused

In great jubilation;

Elsewhere

Unnoticed

In a remote book

With no pomp

For no reward

Amidst stark poverty

In his soul’s happiness,

But in solitude

And deep silence

Slogs untiringly

To dispel the darkness

Of ignorance

The best teacher

The modest

And the humblest.

AN ACTOR TO HIS DIRECTOR

PHANI BABU

Sir, I need a few day’s leave to recuperate.

Under your expert and excellent direction

For too many days I have been acting

The Royal Hero’s part, infatuated with

The monotonous yet flirtatious light of this

Theatre Hall, echoing the words of another man

I’m sick and tired of this routine performance.

That’s why I solicit you to grant me leave

Soon after the celebration of the Hundredth

Gala Night of the current play. Believe me,

I’m really ill and ailing.

You know, Sir, the exact measure of

My breast. It’s 32 inches, and not 38.

Spite of my nightly victories on the stage

I shrank from reacting the other day

When a conductor of a bus rudely behaved.

That speaks for the poor state of my health.

Hence is the request for a few days’ respite

From impersonating a lover feigned.

Wearing time and again the armour and

Costumes too big for my size

The joints of my body are aching.

Appearing Repeatedly in the self-same battle-scene

And emerging Victorious, as pre-planned.

And professing my love without an lot of passion

To the Heroine who Is another man’s wife

My soul is almost purified, I tell you.

And they who crowd the auditorium there

With minds cast in the same mould

Though wearing the mien of different personalities –

Who keep me warm with their conventional claps –

Please convey to them my thanks and love.

Their fathers (and mine too) in their times

You know, used to applaud the actors of

A stale drama in the same way

Scratching the false hair of imported fashion

Crying Encore! Encore! drowsily drooping.

All this is perfectly known to you. Please therefore oblige me by granting a short leave Washing the make up, the paints and powder I have not seen the natural colour of my skin in the mirror for a pretty long time. Wearing the weighty armour and embarrassed by The Royal robes much bigger than my size, The pain in my joints is growing sharper daily. On the expiry of my leave I assure you, Sir, I shall take the role of a hero of my mould; The plot and the characters, the dialogues and the soliloquys Will all be designed by myself, and the dress Cut to suit all and each cast admirably. (Translated from Bengali by Umanath Bhattacharya)

PATRIOTISM

(GURAZADA APPA RAO - 1862-1915)

(A rendering into English from the original Telugu

by Y. Purnachandra Rao)

Love your own native land,

Help goodness grow;

Stop empty bragging;

And choose some good turn!

Tread the path of hard labour,

Make your land fertile;

Where food is, there strength is,

Man is a man, only when strong.

How does your land prosper,

If indolence prevails?

Be active, learn all arts;

Labour, wealth produce!

Venture about all countries

And trade native goods;

Those who can’t earn thus

Miss riches and fame!

Why look back? What benefit?

Past has but little good;

Idle not, step forward;

Left behind, You’re left for ever!

Rival only in learning skills,

Contend only in trades;

Have done with foolish feuds,

Put an end to violence!

Boast not you’re a patriot;

Vaunt not of tradition;

Do some good of your choice

And prove you love your people!

The green-eyed fiend envy

Has sapped your land’s vigour,

Happy with others good be,

Nourish peace and unity!

How can the jealous sinner

Make his life happy?

He who finds his good in others’

Is smart, so he thrives!

Giving up some self-interest,

Go to help your neighbour;

Native land means not earth,

Native land means men;

Hand in hand people should

Strive for their good;

Races and Religious should

like brothers live and let live!

What if faiths are diverse?

If man’s minds are accordant,

Birth and rank frow to heights

With splendour they flourish!

Like a tree should your native land

put forth the buds of love;

Its roots wet with labour’s sweat

Should yield your food and wealth!

Like a cukoo amidst the leaves

A poet should sing of people;

Inspired, Pride should awake

your love for your native land.

The Finale

S. Samal

I have come to the

end of my journey

in fact travelling

a tiresome route.

here ends at last

life’s long

ceremonious odyssey

after this the twilight

the pitch-dark old night

blurring all

sight and symphony.

I must leave now

my dreams and ambition

my love and children

all abandoned

and perforce suspended

as if a curtain draws

heavily on the scene.

no regret

no fear

no anxiety to run away

from the supreme hour

so good-bye, my friends!

i must leave now

alone for the unknown

but know not

how i would

enter the tunnel

yawning with its

dark staggering void

like the jaws

of a dinosaur.

the hour draws close

everything thaws in me

i feel like falling from

a mountain top

to the icy lap

of a profound

sleep and silence.

Polluters

Dr. Kulwant Singh Gill

Polluters of pious places

Perpetrators of inglorious deeds

Sowing seeds of strife

To reap the thorny hate,

Rousing the innocent fury

Like a monsoon rivulet in spate,

Your deadened conscience

Given to guiles and wiles

Shall not remain for ever

Hidden in closed files.

Your orphaned vision fails to descry

Beyond the bright blue sky

Spaces immense, infinite and great

Where sits in all glory

The Dispenser of justice ultimate.

He will ask Chitragupta

To expose your glory deeds and state

How with the firmness of rose wood

You defiled humanity, you defied the good.

Then -

You will suffer and lament

In that dark, dreary hell

To see how each day

Your ranks would swell.

THE END OF MY PILGRIMAGE

Experts from Mr. B. THEODORE’S

translation of Mr. Belluri Sreenivasa Murty’s “THE HERMITAGE”

My pilgrimage concludes: my part is over;

The shadows of even eclipse my hopes;

This bud unblushed has fallen to the ground;

The cuckoo has lamented in the mango groves.

My pilgrimage concludes; my part is over;

My Lord had sent me to proclaim his message,

Sacred, sweet and full of gladness;

I came down to earth obeying his command.

My pilgrimage concludes; my part is over;

I visited places saturated with tears;

I went to palaces where happiness reigned:

I showered my ambrosial message on earth.

My pilgrimage concludes; my part is over:

To my host of guests in a pleasant manner,

I sang my song enraptured with joy

And quenched their burning desire for Him.

My pilgrimage concludes; my part is over;

My heart that once was weary by pilgrimage,

Has begun to be cheerful as I near the grave;

I make my travel with utmost delight.

My pilgrimage concludes; my part is over;

The cuckoo has lamented in the mango grove;

My soul is filled with steadfast joy;

My commission concludes; my soul departs.

Repair of Mind

Dr. Sankara Sreerama Rao

Mind is a delicate instrument

Given by god to mirror thoughts and emotions.

Very often it is damaged by stress and strain of life

It must be repaired by spiritual technics

And lubricated by Divine oil

It has a derible role for good or bad

Taking to celestial heights of bliss

Or throughing into the gather of vice

It must be humored into useful

And Constructive activity -

MY EPITAPH

P.K. JOY

‘My father who owned a half of this world

is resting here’,

so you wrote on my tombstone.

Erase it my son,

for it glorifies me not;

and write: ‘He longed for an undivided world”.

IN THE GARDEN OF TIME

Yogesh G. Nair

As we sit,

In the garden of time,

And see a flower fall,

From the tree of life,

We think of fate,

And pen down a sad verse,

To let our sorrow

And grief, flow with it.

But unknown to us,

A naughty wind passes by,

Which let some flowers fall,

And as we sit,

We see many flowers fall,

For time is busy,

In giving birth to buds,

That open, smile and fall,

To pave the way for others buds.

THE WAYS OF THE CORRUPT TIMES

UMANATH BHATTACHARYA

Bent with years and misfortunes

Ailing, and duped by fate

At my 85th year I still retain

The greenness of mind and youthfulness.

With a teenager’s zeal, like a lover fervent

I sit by the window thrice a day

For the arrival of my mail: Poetry mags

And letters from the editors of

The International Anthologies, I contribute to.

’Tis the only bliss I enjoy; but now

This, too, alas! is being denied to me.

My wife forbids me gravely no more to sit

Beside the window peeping at the road.

Well, heard she hath of ‘th’ slanderous tongues of

The neighbouring women-folk. O the corrupt.

Times! O’the vulgar ways! They say

I sit at the window to oggle the fair pedestrians.

God! what depraved days have dawned on earth!

GLORIOUS PAST AND GLOOMY PRESENT

P. Indira Devi

Inspired by great personalities,

Came forth the youth with spontaneity,

Sprang up in their hearts a beautiful dream,

Woke up from a deep slumber,

Into independent India.

In the hearts of the founding fathers so many longings,

In their aims many many yearnings.

Amiable society, sociable living,

Awakening into knowlegde -

The ideals of free India.

Days those were when students aspired to learn,

Days those were when teachers strove to streamline the education

and the character of the students.

The affection for one another was immeasurable.

The tear in one’s eye burdened the other’s heart,

The rapture in one’s eye kindled the other’s interest.

Such were the days of the past!

As time galloped fast, the country grew up.

Big in size, gigantic buildings,

Many many factories,

Outward expansion but inward contraction.

Drastic change in the hearts of people!

Obsession with selfishness, negligence towards fellow-beings,

That kindred feeling of the past is no more to be found,

That benevolence is nowhere to be seen.

Students and parents collect on the campus for a seat in the college.

Neither the student nor the parent

Feels the responsibility.

Indifference of students towards education

Negligence for learning,

Helplessness of the authorities

Depress the teachers in the class.

Fresh air the pupils breathe under the greenwood tree,

Hate to feel suffocated under the ceiling.

They love to sleep in nature’s lap,

Despise to toil at the desks.

Desperate, desolate, forlorn.

No pedogogic zeal to do the job,

No incentive to do justice to the job.

Cooperation from students’ side is a mirage tantalizing the soul.

A thirst for imparting knowledge,

A desire to mould their character,

A yearning to capture their affection – Everything is in disarray.

Who to blame? Who will shoulder the burden?

Parents blame the teachers,

Teachers blame the environment,

Authorities blame the social conditions.

East to find fault and flee.

Like kites the students fly

Like a hell their hearts burn

Like ignoramuses they grope in darkness.

Unguided, they guide themselves.

Awarenesss among the parents

Love for their own children

May resurrect and enliven the past hope.

Winter has come but Spring is not far behind.

THE POOR HAWKER

EUGENE D’VAZ

You may have to shout yourself hoarse,

I can’t give you a coin

to purchase your simple ware

to ease your growing pain

with dignity.

I have known cunning

Walk in different disguises.

Therefore, if your pain is true

pardon me.

I am not trained to see

the tunnels and flyways of your soul.

They taught me how to make a quick buck

and hold on to it

or make it multiply with cunning.

The heights are so removed from the plains

it may take more than a whole day’s crying

for the summits to catch

echoes of your painful supplications

ascending, ascending .......

PAIN OF THE CHAIR

P.K. Joy

Now when I leave this railhead station

Carrying myself my heavy luggage

With my wife groaning under another load,

and while bargaining with the cartman on the fare,

I remember those days here

when officers vied with each other

to carry my luggage through the crowd

When a convoy of best cars

waited at the exit”.

‘The Chair’ gave us pleasure for its ‘term’

and then pain for the rest of long life.

THE TOTAL NUDE

Jean Bouhier

To Edouard Pignon and to Helene

Before the curve where the point of sex

reaches the busting point

of a body coiling, embracing

before the fold of parted flesh

where calm repose

transcribes the quiet of the heart

the painter dreams

Slanting thighs

pillars capped by knees

arms clutched, folded and refolded

hiding the secret of sleep

- breasts raised

to the pink of maturity

All rhythm radiating form the belly

when and accompanying glance

in pulsating loveplay discovers

absence, of the face

Waves crest upon crest

smoothing the shore

polishing it

leaving it sweet

as a pebble

which the surf extracts

But just who nourishes this dream?

painter or model

when a life sketch offers

its nudity to summers’s heat?

The embattled artist

knows not a moment’s truce

But the next port of call, recommences

upon a canvas whose every brushstroke

resumes the joy of thanking

pure image, annihilated

by refracted light.

Thus one discovers the picture

which sets the color ablaze

as one discovers the sunrise

every day

As one discovers the shadow

draped,

on the side of the hill

just before one’s departure

hailed as a “bon voyage.”

- trans. Agnes Sotiracopoulou - Skina and Ann Rivers.

FINANCIAL SEASONS

K. Vijaya Kumar

Financially three seasons

are there in a month to us.

Rainy is the first season

When salary comes pocket full,

To produce rice for the month

and make dishes delicious;

Takcum-tin with fragrant flash,

bathing-soap with fresh hope comes;

Milk-tin for the babe come in apace,

Lipstick rushed for lady’s grace;

Milk-bill, cleared to date fully;

House-rent, mercer’s, grocer’s dese

Paid at last at least half-half.

Winter entered as time passed,

financially cold days came.

Wetness-of the purse has gone

heaviness has come down to null,

Shivering hands are not able

to come out of empty purse;

frozen ink in the pen is

not able to fill accounts;

Half weighing tins are staring,

half-weighed dishes warning us;

State of man is contracted

in the middle of the month.

The financial summer has

come as the third and the last;

Dry-dry, hot-hot, rough and tough

days are these in the month-end.

Rice-tin yawned and milk-tin signed

dishes cried all, of hunger;

Eyes for source are seeking fast,

body is sweating for debt.

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