Anon (An tSeapáin)

tá trua acu dhom mar go bhfuilim im' dhaor agat 'tá a anam díolta aige!'         agatsa atá an scéal ar fad         tusa an croí ionam is m'anam

they pity me and say I am Your slave 'he has sold his soul!'         You alone know the truth         for You are my heart and soul

Elin Danielson-Gambogi

cad is ádh ann . . . . cinniúint 'bhfuil sé ar fad sna cártaí cén seans a bhí ann         go gcloisfinn t'ainmse         i lár an rachlais is an dorchadais

what is luck . . .destiny is it all in the cards what were the chances         I would hear Your name         amid all the turmoil and darkness

Fedir Krychevsky

am ag an mbáisteach stopadh ag gaotha dul a luí ag an am féin fiafraí de féin         cá dtéann sé, a shearc         nuair nach bhfuil ann ach buille do chroí

time for rains to cease time for winds to sleep time for time itself to wonder         where it goes when nothing         beloved, exists but Your heartbeat

Fyodor Bronnikov

iad siúd a adhrann an ghrian is tusa a adhrann siad, a shearc lucht adhartha na maidine!         níl cuntas ar na hoícheanta síoraí         na hoícheanta fuara úd i d'éagmais

they who worship the sun worship You, beloved worshippers of the morning!         I cannot count the endless nights         cold endless nights without You

Silver Birches

Maximilien Luce

loinnir na maidine gach lá mar an gcéanna tóraíocht ar fhoinse an tsolais         a shearc, is í do ghilese an loinnir sin         a fheictear roimh an gcamhaoir

glow of morning . . . each day the same a quest for the source of light         beloved, Your radiance it is that streams         and is seen before dawn

Bokudō Sojun

Su Shi ar mhuin asail

cé nach mbeadh ina ridire dhuit, a stór cé nach raghadh amach         is fogha a thabhairt faoi mhuilte gaoithe         fiú sa ré dhearóil seo

who would not be a Don Quijote for You who would not venture out         and tilt at windmills         even in this age of ours, beloved

Jules Breton

ní bheannaítear an chruithneacht níos mó is beag ní a bheannaítear, a shearc tá an saol ag athrú         athróidh choíche is go deo         beannófar an domhan athuair

no longer is the wheat blessed blessings are few, beloved the world has changed         and will go on changing         and be blessed again one day

Hieronymus Bosch

shíleadar dá mbainfidis í - cloch na gealtachta - go mbeadh gach ní i gceart         go ndeardúdfainn thú, a ansacht         iadsan atá as a meabhair

they thought if they removed it - the stone of madness - all would be well         I would forget You         it is they, beloved, that are mad

Mo Shaol Mar Scannán / My Life as a Film

Smaoineamh an Lae

Ní gá go n-eascródh an t-ainrialachas as féiniúlacht ar bith. Is minic go n-eascraíonn sé as seasamh atá lasmuigh den fhéiniúlacht - is é sin, an tuairim atá ag Stirner go bhfuil a fhéiniúlacht féin ag gach duine. Deir Gelderloos, agus an argóint aige bunaithe ar a thaithí féin, nach n-oireann féiniúlacht ar bith dó as na féiniúlachtaí go léir a bhrúigh an tsochaí air, sochaí a thug oidhreacht dó a raibh na nithe ba luachmhaire leis in easnamh uirthi.

Lupus Dragonowl 

síocháin / peace

 

Joe Brainard (1942-1994)

áit éigin

deacair teacht uirthi . . .

síocháin

somewhere

not easy to find . . .

peace

Nuair a thagann tú

 Aon uair go dtagann tú

bím fréamhaithe, gan chorraí,

crann ina sheasamh

dealbh bhalbh.

Chomh geal leis an lá

atá uair seo ár gcaidrimh

chomh glas leis an bhféar.

An scarúint, ámh,

chomh cinnte leis an mbás.

Anupama Basumatry

Cailín Gújár/ Gujar girl

 

Photo: Rafiq Kathwari

 

cáilín Gújár

a leath-mheangadh  . . .

cén t-aingeal coimhdeachta atá aici?

Gujar girl

her half smile  . . .

what angel looks after her?

Ciúbanna Oighir, Cáca agus Arán (Roti)

Tar éis leathghloine, Camus, Kafka, Sartre agus Foucault

an dara leathghloine, Date, Neruda, Ginsberg is Picasso

an tríú ceann, Freud, Marx, Mayakovsky, is Daniken -

            á meascadh le ciúbanna oighir,

            á mblaiseadh go sóch,

            gan buille an mheán oíche

            a thabhairt faoi deara

Tá tugtha faoi deara againne, ámh

go bhfuil dhá ghadhar sa bhaile aige

beirt shearbhóntaí agus gealach lán,

agus itheann na gadhair cáca

agus na searbhóntaí arán dóite (roti)

Souvik Bandyopadhyay

Parking lot/ Carrchlós

 

Photo: Rafiq Kathwari

croí loiscneach

na Caismíre  . . .

piobair dhearga i gcarrchlós

the burning heart

of Kashmir  . . .

red peppers in a parking lot

Scaoiltear Saor na Beacha Cailgeacha

Is ard iad na cnoic agus is ard iad na crainn mahua

A phobal Bhirsa

Ó na mahuanna éiríonn glór an phríomh-dhól

Dúisígi na nagadaí atá faoi shuan.

A phobal Bhirsa

Cruinnígí Bhils na gcnoc

Cuir i ranganna iad Bhils na gcnoc

A phobal Bhirsa

Déan comhaireamh ar na Bhils

A phobal Bhirsa

Dhá crór déag is dhá lakh is triocha

Déan comhaireamh ar na blianta

A phobal Bhirsa

As na potaí cré

Scaoiltear saor na beacha cailgeacha.

Kanji Patel

An Tráthnóna

Crainn

is iad chomh dubh le braoithe

an leannáin is mascára orthu

sleamhnaíonn

an cnoc go ciúin

ina mhachnamh féin

gáireann an spéir

luisne ina snó

an tráthnóna sin

i mo sheomra

báite i mo chuid oibre

agus uaigneas orm

mar is gnáth

i mo chime

na héin amháin

is iad ag eitilt timpeall a bhraitheann sona

Garikapati Pavan Kumar

The Evening

Ambapali

Garrán dlúth duilleogach seo na mangónna

Cumhracht na mbláthanna úra

Ní hann dó - ní mhairfidh, a Ambapali,

De réir an Tathagat.

Na duilleoga seo, chomh glas le cleití pearaicíte

Titfidh,

Feofaidh géaga loma;

Ní mheallfar an éanlaith anseo níos mó -

An Tathagat a dúirt.

Féachann Ambapali sa scáthán

Agus fiafraíonn dá súile gleoite, chomh geal le seoda,

Fiafraíonn dá dlaoithe, chomh dubh le saithe beach,

Fiafraíonn dá braoithe cuartha,

Fiafraíonn dá colainn chumhra mhaisithe

Fiafraíonn dá mianta ar crith ar a beola

Arsa Ambapali

An bhféadfadh aon chuma eile

a bheith ar bhriathra seo an Tathagat mhacánta?

V P Tiwari

Duilleog ar Ghéag

Suite ar ghéag a bhí sí;

uiscí an locha thíos fúithi,

agus scáil na spéire iontu,

bhí eagla uirthi go mbáfaí í

ach . . .

níor shnámh sí, níor bádh í, ná níor eitil léi,

shuigh sí ar an ngéag, sin an méid, is d'fheoigh sa deireadh.

Duilleoigín aonair ar ghéag!

Gulzar

Geimhreadh

Cnocán dearg i gcéin

faoi bhrat ceo

cromann crann

thar abhainn

Canúnna ar foluain thar mhearchaisí

osnaí an chlapsholais á n-adhlacadh ag an oíche

Sa tigh sceirdiúil

folamh anois ag an ngaoth dheireanach fhómhair

seanveidhlín clúdaithe le fada

ag deannach

Aréir

tar éis na báistí chonac

scáil ina luí taobh lem' chloigeannsa

ar an urlár

Ar liomsa í

Bijoy Sankar Barman

Nithe Áille

Nílimse in ann

nithe áille a dhéanamh ar nós

iceabána

nó oragámaí

nó bróidnéireacht.

Ach is cuma faoi sin

mar

táim go maith

ag rith in aghaidh

na mballaí céanna dofheicthe seo

arís is arís eile;

mar

níl aon rud sa saol seo

chomh hálainn ná baol air

le hanam

is é ag réabadh leis

i dtreo

a mhillte.

Amrita Nair

Stair an Chirt

Tá pléascóga tine á gcur san aer ag roinnt páistí ón gcomharsanacht

Cois bhalla ár gcompúin. Mamó

Ag béicíl orthu. Meangadh gáire ar mham

Tá a fhios aici nach dtabharfar aon aird uirthi. D’fhan daideo tráth

Ina shuí déanach cois fuinneoige ar an gcéad urlár

Ag feitheamh leis an meisceoir a dheineadh a mhún

Gach oíche in aghaidh an bhalla chun go ndoirtfeadh sé buicéad maith lán d’uisce

Anuas ar a cheann agus an oíche gheimhridh ag cur seaca.

Ar shlí na fírinne atá sé le fada, ár ndaideo.

Ach níl dearmad déanta ag mamó ar aghaidh bhasctha

An fhir úd a ceanglaíodh de chuaille lasmuigh den teach

As leircín a dhéanamh dá bhean chéile. Agus aghaidh an duine bhoicht á hionsaí ag doirne dhaideo. Mamó

Cois fuinneoige ag smaoineamh di féin: ar phósas-sa brúid?

Ach thar aon ní eile, aghaidh a chéile óig aimsir

Na réabhlóide nuair a thug sí cuairt air sa charcair,

Crochta bun os cionn, nocht, a bhí sé ar feadh dhá lá,

Láib á sá ina bhéal ag an gCigire Beangálach

Agus é á rá de shíor, Beathaigh é le cré, ar son cré atá siad ag troid.

Rohan Chhetri

 

History of Justice

Some kids from the neighbourhood are bursting firecrackers

by the side of our compound wall. Grandmother is

screaming at them. Mother smiles knowing

they won’t listen. Grandfather once stayed up

late in the night at the window of the first floor

waiting for the drunk who pissed on our wall

every night, so he could slosh a good whole bucket

of cold water over his head in the frosty winter night.

He’s been dead since long, our grandfather.

But grandmother hasn’t forgotten the battered face

of the man who was tied to a post outside the house

for having beaten his wife to a pulp. And grandfather

lunging his fists on the poor man’s face. Grandmother

by the window thinking if she had married a monster.

Most of all, the face of her young husband during the time

of the revolution when she went to see him in the lockup,

where he was hung naked upside down for two days,

with mud shoved in his mouth by the Bengali Inspector who

kept saying, Feed him the land, that’s what they are fighting for

Rohan Chhetri

Faisal Khan

 

Faisal Khan, 
Student protests: A photo essay

éist!

teanga na frithheartaíochta 

ag iompó ina cloch

listen!

the language of resistance

becoming stone

Tost/ Silence

 

Jason Symes

i dtost

a chanann sé  . . .

amhrán glinn an anama

in silence

it sings  . . .

silvery song of the soul

smaointe/ thoughts

 

Jason Symes

smaointe

lig dóibh imeacht  . . .

cén eagla atá ort

thoughts

let them go . . .

what's to fear

Kalli

Lean Kalli mé ar feadh ocht míle

go dtí an margadh, ionad trádála na mbó:

ainmhithe á ndíol mar dhaoir.

Beithígh gabhair bulláin camaill . . .

 

Dubh álainn agus sé bliana d’aois a bhí Kalli

an aois ab fhearr le bheith i do bhuabhall uisce.

Seasc a bhí sí. Chuir sí in aghaidh na dtarbh faoi mar

go raibh beartaithe aici nach mbeadh sí torrach arís.

 

Thar ár n-acmhainn, bheartaigh m’athair

ar í a dhíol. Thuig Kalli an scéal, measaim

ghéill dom agus mé á treorú

le slabhra cruach, ceann an tslabhra im’ ghlac

 

An ceann eile timpeall a muiníl.

Cúig bliana déag a bhíos. Ní raibh sí neirbhíseach

a thuilleadh tar éis dúinn dul isteach sa mhargadh

agus a n-áit féin ag díoltóirí ann

 

Ar nós na bhfógraí pósta

ar leathanach mór seachtanáin.

Shuigh Kalli agus gan aon mhothú le léamh uirthi

mar aiséiteach a bhí gar do nirbheána.

 

Shuíos sheasas shiúlas timpeall mar lao

ar deineadh faillí air. Níor cheannaigh éinne Kalli.

Lean sí mé an bóthar ocht míle abhaile

is ní raibh ceist ar bith ina súile.

 

Ní raibh a fhios agam an brón nó áthas

a bhí ar m’athair Kalli a fheiscint arís. D’fhéach

sé uirthi, sin an méid, mar dhuine den teaghlach

a chaill an traein.

Ajmer Rode

Kalli

Kalli followed me 8 miles

to the market where cattle were traded

or sold like slaves.

Cows goats bullocks camels . . .

Kalli was black beautiful and six

the prime age for a water buffalo.

She was dry. Repelled bulls as if she had

decided not to get pregnant again.

Hard to afford, my father decided

to sell her. Kalli seemed to understand.

She obeyed as I led her

by the steel chain, one end in my hand

the other around her neck.

I was fifteen. Her nervousness was over

soon after we entered the market

where sellers occupied

their given spaces like matrimonials

on a large weekly page.

Kalli sat with no emotion on her face

like an ascetic close to nirvana.

I sat stood walked around like a

neglected calf. No body bought Kalli.

She followed me 8 miles back home

with no questions in her eyes.

I wasn’t sure if my father was sad

or glad to see Kalli back. He just

looked at her like a family member

who had missed the train.

Ajmer Rode

fianna/ deer

 

Jason Symes

fianna . . .

gan de ghlór ann

ach a mbuille croí

deer  . . .

a heartbeat

the only noise

Ní Imíonn an tAm

Ní raibh Baje in ann dul síos go dtí na goirt

Anuraidh, bhí bata aige agus leis sin shroiseadh sé an clós

An uair seo níor bhain sé amach ach an póirse

Tar éis trí lá sa leaba, d'imigh Baje uainn.

D'imigh Boju

Ansin thosnaigh bean an tí ag imeacht

D'imigh sí ar dtús ón gclós go dtí an póirse

ag an bpóirse ba bhabhdán í a chosain an grán

a bhí á thriomú sa chlós

D'imigh an solas as a súile,

as a cosa, d'imigh neart na ngéag

agus nuair a bhí a cuid mianta ag imeacht

d'imigh sí féin ansin.

Lá amháin, thosnaigh cailín óg fiáin do mo mhealladh

ach bhíos-sa im' loch séimh, im' linn lena taobh

Bhí an óige ag imeacht uaim

san fhómhar buí, sna goirt

an rís ina chocaí

bhí an grán imithe agus aoileach ab ea é anois

Tá an domhan féin ag imeacht gach aon lá

Tá an t-atmaisféar ag imeacht isteach sa pholl ózóin

Le himeacht na síolóige, is an phlanda

imeacht na mbláthanna is na nduilleog marbh

imeacht na duilleoige is an phéacáin

imeacht na bachlóige is an bhlátha

leis na himeachtaí sin uile

d'imigh an loiteog bheannaithe de dhroim an domhain

Ach níor imigh an t-am

Níl an t-am ann

D'imeodh an t-am dá mbeadh sé ann.

Rajendra Bhandari

Time does not Pass

Baje has become incapable of going down to the fields

Last year, using a stick, he could reach the yard

This time he only made it to the porch

After a three-day confinement, Baje passed away.

Boju passed away

Then mother began to pass away

At first she passed from the yard to the porch

At the porch she became a scarecrow to the grain

drying in the yard

The light passed from her eyes,

from her legs, the strength to stand

even as her desires were passing,

she passed away herself.

One day, a wild young thing flirted with me

But like a calm lake, I pooled by her side

Youth was passing from me

In the yellow autumn, in the fields

the paddy was passing into haystacks

the grain had passed and become manure

The world itself is passing every day

The atmosphere is passing into the ozone hole

With the passing of seedling, and of plant

the passing of flower and dead leaves

the passing of leaf and shoot

the passing of bud and flower

with these passages

the venerable lotus passed from the face of the earth

But time has not passed

Time is just not there

Time would pass, if at all it existed.

Rajendra Bhandari

Pé créacht a fhágann fear ar bhean . . .

 Vatsyayana

as an Kámá Sútrá

Pé créacht a fhágann fear ar bhean . . .

Pé créacht a fhágann fear ar bhean  . . .

An fhreagairt do ‘spota’ is ea ‘bláthfhleasc’,

Agus do ‘bhláthfhleasc’ an ‘néal scaipthe’.

Ag ligean uirthi fearg a bheith uirthi,

Is mar seo a chuireann bean tús le hachrann

Beireann sí greim gruaige air

A aghaidh á brú síos aici agus ólann as a bhéal;

Léimeann sí air agus sánn a cuid fiacla ann

Thall is abhus, as a meabhair le dúil.

Scíth á glacadh aici ar ucht a leannáin,

Ardaíonn sí a cheann agus sánn a cuid fiacla ina mhuineál

Le ‘bláthfhleasc na séad’

Nó plaic ar bith eile atá ar eolas aici.

 

Ar fheiceáil an fhir di, fiú i lár an lae,

I lár comhluadair, agus an marc sin

A d’fhág sise air, gáireann sí

Gan fhios do chách.

Ansin, agus grainc uirthi mar dhea,

Ag ligean uirthi bheith ag tabhairt amach dó

Ar nós mar a bheadh éad uirthi, nochtann sí

Na marcanna ar a colainn féin.

Nuair a chaitheann beirt mar sin lena chéile

Go modhúil agus tuiscint acu do mhothúcháin a chéile

Ní éagfaidh a ngrá

Fiú in imeacht céad bliain.

 Vatsyayana from Kamasutra : ‘Whatever wound a man inflicts on a woman’ p. 76

 

Whatever wound a man inflicts on a woman...

the response to a 'dot' is a 'garland',

and to a 'garland', a 'scattered cloud'.

Pretending to be angry,

this is how a woman picks a quarrel

She grabs him by the hair

and bends down his face and drinks from his mouth;

she pounces on him and bites him

here and there, crazed with passion.

Resting on the chest of the man she loves,

she raises his head and bites him on the neck

with the 'garland of jewels'

or any other bite

she knows.

 

When she sees the man, even in the daytime,

in the midst of a group of people, displaying the mark

that she herself made on him, she laughs

unnoticed by others.

Then, pretending to wrinkle her face,

and pretending to rebuke the man,

as if in jealousy, she displays

the marks made on her own body.

 

When two people behave in this way

with modesty and concern for one another's feelings,

their love will never wane,

not even in a hundred years.

 

tr. Wendy Doniger and Sudhir Kakar (from Sanskrit)

Díchumtha

Tá pictiúr agam a thógas i Mumbai

de bhacach ina chodladh ar an gcosán:

liath, bríste gairid air, léine bhréan,

a scáil caite i leataobh mar bhlaincéad.

 

Scoilteanna sa chloch iad a ghéaga ba dhóigh leat,

aistear na seangán, tuirlingt na gcuileog,

cortha ag dianteagasc na gréine,

is féith i gcloch ina luí é, ón gclochaois.

 

Laistiar de tá slua ag baint taitnimh

éigin as draíodóir sráide agus iad beag beann

ar an radharc an-chomónta seo

de sheanfhear ina luí ar chosán.

 

Shíleas gur dea-phíosa cumadóireachta é,

thugas ‘Fear na Sráide’ air go pras

agus thugas suntas d’fhear na sráide san Ind

is cónaí air ar an tsráid.

 

I riocht duine a bheadh ag caoineadh

ina philiúr é a cheann atá ag tabhairt casaoide

anois dom toisc ealaín a bheith á cumadh agam

faoina ocras is faoina uaigneas.

Zulfikar Ghose

Decomposition