I am not your data, nor am I your vote bank,

I am not your data, nor am I your vote bank,

I am not your project or any exotic museum object,
I am not the soul waiting to be harvested,
nor am I the lab where your theories are tested,
I am not your cannon fodder or the invisible worker,
or your entertainment at India Habitat Centre,
I am not your field, your crowd, your history,
your help, your guilt, medallions of your victory,
I refuse, reject, resist your labels,
your judgments, documents, definitions,
your models, leaders and patrons,
because they deny me my existence, my vision, my space, your words, maps, figures, indicators,
they all create illusions and put you on a pedestal,
from where you look down upon me.
So I draw my own picture, and invent my own grammar,
I make my own tools to fight my own battle,
For me, my people, my world and my Adivasi self!

--- Abhay Flavian Xaxa*

I have a country

I have a country
it's invisible
it has no flags
or moonlight
or river
or mountain
or clouds
to understand heaven
or flames
to take desire apart
but in the sadness of its map
there's the answer we need.

--- Nathalie Handal, "Everyday"

The morning after / my death

I know flowers shine strongerthan the sun
their eclipse means the end of times
but I love flowers for their treachery
their fragile bodies
grace my imagination’s avenues
without their presence
my mind would be an unmarked
grave.

—Etel Adnan

On Killing A Tree

It takes much time to kill a tree,
Not a simple jab of the knife

Will do it. It has grown
Slowly consuming the earth,
Rising out of it, feeding
Upon its crust, absorbing
Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leperous hide
Sprouting leaves.

So hack and chop
But this alone wont do it.
Not so much pain will do it.
The bleeding bark will heal
And from close to the ground
Will rise curled green twigs,
Miniature boughs
Which if unchecked will expand again
To former size.

No,
The root is to be pulled out -
Out of the anchoring earth;
It is to be roped, tied,
And pulled out - snapped out
Or pulled out entirely,
Out from the earth-cave,
And the strength of the tree exposed,
The source, white and wet,
The most sensitive, hidden
For years inside the earth.

Then the matter
Of scorching and choking
In sun and air,
Browning, hardening,
Twisting, withering,
And then it is done.

-- Gieve Patel
(From POEMS, published by Nissim Ezekiel, Bombay 1966)

We Have Not Long to Love

We have not long to love.
Light does not stay.

The tender things are those
we fold away.

Coarse fabrics are the ones
for common wear.

In silence I have watched you
comb your hair.

Intimate the silence,
dim and warm.

I could but did not, reach
to touch your arm.

I could, but do not, break
that which is still.

(Almost the faintest whisper
would be shrill.)

So moments pass as though
they wished to stay.

We have not long to love.
A night. A day....

--- Tennessee Williams

Leaving Childhood Behind

When I left, I left my childhood in the drawer
and on the kitchen table. I left my toy horse
in its plastic bag.

I left without looking at the clock

I forget whether it was noon or evening.

Our horse spent the night alone,

no water, no grains for dinner. 

It must have thought we'd left to cook a meal

for late guests or to 

for late guests or make a cake
for my sister's tenth birthday.

I walked with my sister towards our road with no end point.
We sang a birthday song.
The hovering warplanes echoed across the heaven.

My tired parents strolled behind,
my father clutching to his chest
the keys to our house and to the stable.

We arrived at a rescue station.
News of ceaseless strikes roared on the radio.
I hated death, but I hated life, too,
when we had to walk to our prolonged death,
reciting our never-ending ode.

- Mosab Abu Toha

We deserve a better death.

We deserve a better death.
Our bodies are disfigured and twisted,
embroidered with bullets and shrapnel.
Our names are pronounced incorrectly
on the radio and TV
Our photos, plastered onto the walls of our buildings,
fade and grow pale.
The inscriptions on our gravestones disappear,
covered in the feces of birds and reptiles.
No one waters the trees that give shade
to our graves.
The blazing sun has overwhelmed
our rotting bodies.

---Mosab Abu Toha

Black Maps

Not the attendance of stones, 

nor the applauding wind, 

shall let you know 

you have arrived, 

not the sea that celebrates 

only departures, 

nor the mountains, 

nor the dying cities. 

Nothing will tell you 

where you are. 

Each moment is a place 

you’ve never been. 

You can walk believing 

you cast 

a light around you. 

But how will you know? 

The present is always dark.

Its maps are black, 

rising from nothing, 

describing, 

in their slow ascent 

into themselves, 

their own voyage, 

its emptiness, 

the bleak, 

temperate necessity of its completion. 

As they rise into being 

they are like breath. 

And if they are studied at all it is only to find, 

too late, 

what you thought were 

concerns of yours do not exist. 

Your house is not marked on any of them, 

nor are your friends, 

waiting for you to appear, 

nor are your enemies, listing your faults. 

Only you are there, 

saying hello to what you will be, 

and the black grass is holding 

up the black stars.

--- Mark Strand

Let July be July

Even here, you are growing.
When August is approaching
and you feel a little restless
thinking about how
this month might end
and how
this year might end
and how you are supposed to
start again,
you are growing,
you are growing,
in grace
courage
strength.

And it is okay
if it does not feel like it.
It is okay if there are moments
where you cannot see
the way you have grown,
because far beneath the surface
the seeds have still been sown.
The ground beneath your feet
is still a bed for new beginnings.

So much is changing around you
but you are changing, too.

You are so much more than the brokenness
that you were certain would define you.

It has not been easy for you.
You have worked so hard
to be the positive one.
You have given your best
in areas of your life
where the effort was not returned.
And this has made it so hard
for you to keep going,
and there have been days
where you were not sure
if it was even possible.
But after everything,
here you are,
just a little stronger,
holding on a little longer,
and you still found room for hope.

So take heart
breathe deep
you are still becoming
who you were meant to be.

Let July be July.
Let August be August.
And let yourself

just be
even in
the uncertainty.
You don’t have to fix
everything.
You don’t have solve
everything.
And you can still
find peace
and grow
in the wild
of changing things.

--- Morgan Harper Nichols

Of Human Knowledge

If aught can teach us aught, Affliction’s looks,
Making us look into ourselves so near,
Teach us to know ourselves beyond all books,
Or all the learned schools that ever were.

This mistress lately plucked me by the ear,
And many a golden lesson hath me taught;
Hath made my senses quick, and reason clear,
Reformed my will and rectified my thought.

So do the winds and thunders cleanse the air;
So working lees settle and purge the wine;
So lopped and pruned trees do flourish fair;
So doth the fire the drossy gold refine.

Neither Minerva nor the learned Muse
Nor rules of art, nor precepts of the wise,
Could in my brain those beams of skill infuse,
As but the glance of this dame’s angry eyes.

She within lists my ranging mind hath brought,
That now beyond myself I list not go;
Myself am centre of my circling thought,
Only myself I study, learn, and know.

I know my body’s of so frail a kind
As force without, fevers within, can kill;
I know the heavenly nature of my mind,
But ’tis corrupted both in wit and will;

I know my soul hath power to know all things,
Yet is she blind and ignorant in all;
I know I am one of nature’s little kings,
Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall.

I know my life’s a pain and but a span,
I know my sense is mocked with everything;
And to conclude, I know myself a man,
Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing.

---  Sir John Davies (1569-1626)

Notes: Minerva - Roman Goddess of Wisdom ( The learned Muse - probably Clio, the Muse of History and founder of historical and heroic poetry.)

War Poetry

write me

a poem

in which

all birds

are prisoners

of love

and the only bloody war

is between

my fingers

and the thorns

of the rose

i’m offering

to my beloved

---Nooshin Azadi

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

--- Elizabeth Bishop

If I Had Three Lives

If I had three lives, 

I'd marry you in two.

And the other? 

That life over there at Starbucks, 

sitting alone, writing -- a memoir,
maybe a novel or this poem. 

No kids, probably,
a small apartment with a view of the river,
and books -- lots of books and time to read.
Friends to laugh with; 

a man sometimes,
for a weekend, 

to remember what skin feels like when it's alive. 

 I'm thinner in that life, vegan, practice yoga. 

 I go to art films, farmers markets,
drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.
I vacation on the Maine coast 

and wear a flannel shirt
weekend guy left behind, 

loving the smell of sweat
and aftershave more than I do him. 

I walk the beach at sunrise, 

find perfect shell spirals

and study pockmarks water makes in sand. 

And I wonder sometimes if I'll ever find you.

---Sarah Russell

स्वर्ग की सराय

लाखों मारे गए, जबकि हर कोई निर्दोष था।
मैं अपने कमरे तक महदूद था। 

राष्ट्राध्यक्ष ने युद्ध का ऐसा बखान किया

जैसे हो कोई जादुई प्रेम-रस।
मेरी आँखें आश्चर्य से खुली की खुली रह गई थीं।

आईने में मेरा चेहरा ऐसा लगा मुझे
गोया मैं कोई डाक टिकट हूँ
जिसे डाकख़ाने ने दो बार रद्द कर दिया हो।
मैं ठीक से रहा, लेकिन ज़िंदगी भयानक थी।
उस दिन कितने सारे सैनिक थे
और शरणार्थियों की अपार भीड़ थी सड़क पर।

ज़ाहिर है, वे सब मिटा दिए गए
उँगली की एक हरकत से।
इतिहास ने अपने मुँह के ख़ून लगे कोरों को धीरे से चाट लिया।

बिके हुए चैनल पर, एक आदमी और एक औरत
कामातुर चुम्बनों में लीन थे
और एक दूसरे के कपडे फाड़े जा रहे थे
जबकि मैं चुपचाप देखता जा रहा था
आवाज़ बंद कर—कमरे के अँधेरे में
बस स्क्रीन रह-रह चमक उठती थी
जहाँ बहुत ज़्यादा था सुर्ख़ लाल रंग
या ज़रूरत से ज़्यादा रंग गुलाबी।

- चार्ल्स सिमिक
अँग्रेज़ी से अनुवाद : सत्यार्थ अनिरुद्ध पंकज

How to Do Absolutely Nothing

Rent a house near the beach, or a cabin

but: Do not take your walking shoes.

Don’t take any clothes you’d wear

anyplace anyone would see you.

Don’t take your rechargeables.

Take Scrabble if you have to,

but not a dictionary and no

pencils for keeping score.

Don’t take a cookbook

or anything to cook.

A fishing pole, ok

but not the line,

hook, sinker,

leave it all.

Find out

what’s

left.

--- Barbara Kingsolver

THE TRUE LOVE

There is a faith in loving fiercely
the one who is rightfully yours,
especially if you have
waited years and especially
if part of you never believed
you could deserve this
loved and beckoning hand
held out to you this way.

I am thinking of faith now
and the testaments of loneliness
and what we feel we are
worthy of in this world.

Years ago in the Hebrides,
I remember an old man
who walked every morning
on the grey stones
to the shore of baying seals,
who would press his hat
to his chest in the blustering
salt wind and say his prayer
to the turbulent Jesus
hidden in the water,

and I think of the story
of the storm and everyone
waking and seeing
the distant
yet familiar figure
far across the water
calling to them

and how we are all
preparing for that
abrupt waking,
and that calling,
and that moment
we have to say yes,
except it will
not come so grandly
so Biblically
but more subtly
and intimately in the face
of the one you know
you have to love

so that when
we finally step out of the boat
toward them, we find
everything holds
us, and everything confirms
our courage, and if you wanted
to drown you could,
but you don’t
because finally
after all this struggle
and all these years
you simply don’t want to
any more
you’ve simply had enough
of drowning
and you want to live and you
want to love and you will
walk across any territory
and any darkness
however fluid and however
dangerous to take the
one hand you know
belongs in yours.

---David Whyte

Democracy Poem #1

Tell them that I stood
in line
and I waited
and I waited
like everybody
else

But I never got
called
And I keep that scrap
of paper
in my pocket

just in case

--- June Jordan

Fascism: I sometimes fear...

I sometimes fear that
people think that fascism arrives in fancy dress
worn by grotesques and monsters
as played out in endless re-runs of the Nazis.

Fascism arrives as your friend.
It will restore your honour,
make you feel proud,
protect your house,
give you a job,
clean up the neighbourhood,
remind you of how great you once were,
clear out the venal and the corrupt,
remove anything you feel is unlike you...


It doesn't walk in saying,
"Our programme means militias, mass imprisonments, transportations, war and persecution.”

- Michael Rosen,

Stationery

The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheets, reams
of silver handmade by you.

The night is your cottage industry now,
the day is your brisk emporium.

The world is full of paper.
Write to me.

--- Agha Shahid Ali
(The Half-Inch Himalayas, 1987)

लाल ज़री - Varieties of Ghazal: Poems of the Middle East

लाल ज़री
अरबी लोगों में कहावत थी कि
जब कोई अजनबी दस्तक दे तुम्हारे दरवाज़े पर,
तो उसे तीन दिनों तक खिलाओ-पिलाओ…
यह पूछने से पहले कि वह कौन है,
कहाँ से आया है,
कहाँ को जाएगा।
इस तरह, उसके पास होगी पर्याप्त ताक़त
जवाब देने के लिए।
या फिर, तब तक तुम बन जाओगे
इतने अच्छे मित्र
कि तुम परवाह नहीं करोगे।

चलो फिर लौट जाएँ वहीं।
चावल? चिलगोज़े?
यहाँ, लो यह लाल ज़री वाला तकिया।
मेरा बच्चा पानी पिला देगा
तुम्हारे घोड़े को।

नहीं, मैं व्यस्त नहीं था जब तुम आए!
मैं व्यस्त होने की तैयारी में भी नहीं था।
यही आडंबर ओढ़ लेते हैं सब
यह दिखाने के लिए उनका कोई उद्देश्य है
इस दुनिया में।

मैं ठुकराता हूँ सभी दावे।
तुम्हारी थाली प्रतीक्षारत है।
चलो हम ताज़ा पुदीना घोलते हैं
तुम्हारी चाय में।

--- नाओमी शिहाब नाइ
‘वैराइटीज़ ऑफ़ ग़ज़ाले : पोएम्ज़ ऑफ़ द मिडिल ईस्ट’ से
अँग्रेज़ी से अनुवाद : पल्लवी व्यास