Like the nectar

Permeating the

sprouting bud

My poetry

oozes love

for my fellow humans

 

No

Thick-knit poetic

display of heavy phraseology

No fireworks

It is–

Not a glitter of gold

Not a goblet of honey

 

MY poetry

carries

no spite for the world

But emits

A sweet aroma

of the champaka flower

You call experience

 

My poetry

Does not chant

Washed-out phrases..

Like used up manthra

Does not

growl like a dog…

Hoping

the world to

back off

with her tail

between her legs

 

If I plunk

My frustrations

and blame it on others

 

My muse

Gawks at me

like a mother

enraged by my inanity.

 

My muse will never

Separate me

From the world ‘n

Fix on a pedastal.

 

My poetry

Springs not from sorrow,

Tears are not

My inspiration.

 

It compares not to

The fanatic world

To revel in the past

nor will it ignore the present

It is no

Weakling to curse the present

And Wallow in a fit of despair.

 

My muse

Dispels the gloom

And envisions the future

It gleams

like the morning reflection

in a dew drop

My trust abounds my muse.

 

My muse

Will kill the ill-will

And articulates ME!


THE BLAZING CHILD

[Telugu original entitled Agniputri]

 

My heart is

Like a thin dark veil

Like the sky taking shape—

Indolent and crimson

and dabbed with the evening hue

 

Dropping from

Heights unknown

and

gliding off the

Brick walls at the horizon

Flames of frustration

Rising Like metaphors

 

The drowning beams of the sun

Fighting To stay

The engulfing darkness

 

The nondescript creatures

Incomprehensible

Even to

My wildest imagination

 

The flies

Hovering incessantly

Around

The rays

Forming budding sprouts

 

Some

Aweful noise of

some wiggly

Creature stirring inside

My head

 

The sounds of

Little red scorpions

Etching question marks

On my brain

 

The eyes

are not showing

the bright red desires

 

No visible hopes

of rainbows

in the sky.

 

No magic flutter,

No shimmering wings

called hope.

 

These

Blazing blue flames

Are shrouding the

Internally fixated conscience.

In my state

Of Uncertainty

Not knowing

What I want and

What I am searching for

And that’s scaring me out of wits!

***

 

(Telugu original, agniputri, published in Bharati, 1970)

 

I’M THE OCEAN!

 The tiniest wave

Born in the

Viscera of the ocean

 

Wakes up,

Slender and tender

Like a creeper on the fence

Soon to rise

Like a ferocious Lion

Giving in

To the surges of water

And gusts of winds.

 

The desire

in my heart

Is just a speck

at the start.

 

As the

Opportunities appear

Round the corner

Blaming the

Elusive pegs on which

It Could hang on,

Blasts off

In an undue outburst

Escalating to new heights

Unrestrained.

 

The Desire,

Confusing and startling,

Turns into

Stormy seas

Causing turmoil

In my mind.

 

 

The Desire

With its

Incessant attacks

on Me

 

Knowing

I’m defenseless

And vulnerable

Probes deep Into the

Innermost corners

Of my heart

And is

Turning me

Into numb

Sea sands on the shores.

 

The Desire is

Frightening

My wits.

Casting a spell

“You turn to a Stone

You be Ahalya[1]”

Utters ruthlessly.

 

Hence

I bear in mind

Each time

I see the sea

It reminds me

With its

Constant uproar

And commotion

The self I am

The unfathomable bond

Between me and the sea

Continues to baffle me forever.

***

[Published Telugu original entitled nenuu-samudram in Bharati 1970]

Translated by Nidadavolu Malathi and published on thulika.net, December 2002 

————————–

[1] In Hindu mythology, Ahalya was the wife of Sage Gautama. Suspecting her of infidelity, Gautama curses her to turn into a stone, later to be redeemed by Lord Rama.