The Language School

I

The charges might as well be read out
in Chinese, Bantu or Dravidian

or not be read at all – they drift, they loop
like light that cannot turn a corner

or soundwaves that bend in and out
of some fidelity to the original. To whom

do they cling? Another dumbstruck boy
who does not speak the English they speak

or even hear it – all nape and haircut, sat
folded up in a Jesuit clasp

with hands in his armpits, perusing
with a sort of thick-lipped composure

the platypus-nose of his left trainer, as if it had
evolved out of kilter with the rest.

II

No is the blank, the zero, the lumpy zilch,
the bijou fuck-all the question solicits

and wishes-for: the litany, the plural of no.
It is the answer the question anticipates

before asking itself, surrounding no.
Do you have anything to say in your own defence?

The hiatus, the answer-in-minus scans
the many milliseconds of a second

that hang like a threat, scaring it
way up into the corner of articulation

where it ceases to exist.
Without fuss, or noise, or anything,

without changing expression or looking up
the only yes there is nods to a no.

--- Tim Liardet

कपास के फूल

वे देवता को पसंद नहीं
लेकिन आश्चर्य इस पर नहीं
आश्चर्य तो ये है कि कविगण भी
लिखते नहीं कविता कपास के फूल पर
प्रेमीजन भेंट में देते नहीं उसे
कभी एक-दूसरे को
जबकि वह है कि नंगा होने से
बचाता है सबको
और सुतर गया मौसम
तो भूख और प्यास से भी
बचाता है वह

ईश्वर को तो ठंड लगती नहीं
वैसे नंगा होना भी
वहां उतना ही सहज है
उतना ही दिव्य
इसलिए इतना यह है कि ठंड के विरुद्ध
आदमी ने ही खोजा होगा
पृथ्वी पर पहला कपास का फूल

पर पहला झिंगोला
कब पहना उसने
पहले तागे से पहली सुई की
कब हुई थी भेंट
यह भूल गई है हमारी भाषा
जैसे अपनी कमीज़ पहनकर
भूल जाते हैं हम
अपने दर्ज़ी का नाम

पर क्या कभी सोचा है आपने
वह जो आपकी कमीज़ है
किसी खेत में खिला
एक कपास का फूल है
जिसे पहन रखा है आपने

जब फ़ुर्सत मिले
तो कृपया एक बार इस पर सोचें ज़रूर
कि इस पूरी कहानी में सूत से सुई तक
सब कुछ है
पर वह कहां गया
जो इसका शीर्षक था

--- केदारनाथ सिंह
कविता संग्रह: सृष्टि पर पहरा
प्रकाशक: राजकमल प्रकाशन

For You Who Are About to Give Up

Think of what you'll miss;
the voices of children;
apples, dark wine on a table;
the smell of the spring before you're ready.
Stay.
It doesn't get better, it gets truer.
Winter. Albums. Madness.
Your grief in you like a cello
in its locked, black case.

The lemon-scent of someone who has gone.
Breathe.
Just breathe and be here.
In my darkest night, in the storm before morning,
I heard a voice
that told me it was listening.
Friend, I would sit with you
and listen.
As long as you have breath
you could be song.
As long as you have breath you could be song.

--- Joseph Fasano