In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

---John McCrae

In Praise of Coldness

"If you wish to move your reader,"
Chekhov said, "you must write more coldly."

Herakleitos recommended, "A dry soul is best."

And so at the center of many great works
is found a preserving dispassion,
like the vanishing point of quattrocentro perspective,
or tiny packets of desiccant enclosed
in a box of new shoes or seeds.

But still the vanishing point
is not the painting,
the silica is not the blossoming plant.

Chekhov, dying, read the timetables of trains.
To what more earthly thing could he have been faithful?—
Scent of rocking distances,
smoke of blue trees out the window,
hampers of bread, pickled cabbage, boiled meat.

Scent of a knowable journey.

Neither a person entirely broken
nor one entirely whole can speak.

In sorrow, pretend to be fearless. In happiness, tremble.

--- Jane Hirschfield

No Road Back Home

In this forgotten place I have no lover’s touch
Each night brings darker dreams, I have no amulet
My life is all I ask, I have no other thirst
These silent thoughts torment, I have no way to hope

Who I once was, what I’ve become, I cannot know
Who could I tell my heart’s desires, I cannot say
My love, the temper of the fates I cannot guess
I long to go to you, I have no strength to move

Through cracks and crevices I’ve watched the seasons change
For news of you I’ve looked in vain to buds and flowers
To the marrow of my bones I’ve ached to be with you
What road led here, why do I have no road back home

---Abduqadir Jalalidin (a detained Uighur poet, bears witness to the suffering of Uighurs detained in Chinese so-called “reeducation” camps) 

Onion

The smoothness of onions infuriates him
so like the skin of women or their expensive clothes
and the striptease of onions, which is also a disappearing act.
He says he is searching for the ultimate nakedness
but when he finds that thin green seed
that negligible sprout of a heart
we could have told him he'd be disappointed.
Meanwhile the onion has been hacked to bits
and he's weeping in the kitchen most unromantic tears.

--- Katha Pollitt

आठ मिनट छियालीस सेकंड

दो मिनट नहीं
आठ मिनट छियालीस सेकंड का
मौन रखा गया अमेरिका में
जॉर्ज फ़्लॉयड की स्मृति-सभा में

गोरा पुलिस अफ़सर
आठ मिनट छियालीस सेकंड
अपने घुटने से
जॉर्ज फ़्लॉयड के
गले को दबाता रहा
जब तक कि उनकी जान
नहीं चली गयी
और वह कहते रहे :
"मैं साँस नहीं ले पा रहा हूँ"

किसी मज़लूम की याद में
महज़ दो मिनट का
मौन मत रखो
इस रस्म को बदलो

कोई तो रिश्ता हो
तुम्हारे सुलूक का
मृतक के अपमान
और यातना से

---पंकज चतुर्वेदी

Let them not say

Let them not say: we did not see it.
We saw.

Let them not say: we did not hear it.
We heard.

Let them not say: they did not taste it.
We ate, we trembled.

Let them not say: it was not spoken, not written.

We spoke,
we witnessed with voices and hands.
Let them not say: they did nothing.
We did not-enough.

Let them say, as they must say something:

A kerosene beauty.
It burned.

Let them say we warmed ourselves by it,
read by its light, praised,
and it burned.

---Jane Hirshfield

अगर रोज कर्फ्यू के दिन हों

अगर रोज कर्फ्यू के दिन हों
तो कोई अपनी मौत नहीं मरेगा
कोई किसी को मार देगा
पर मैं स्वाभाविक मौत मरने तक
जिन्दा रहना चाहता हूँ
दूसरों के मारने तक नहीं
और रोज की तरह
अपना शहर रोज घूमना चाहता हूँ।

शहर घूमना मेरी आदत है ऐसी
आदत कि कर्फ्यू के दिन भी
किसी तरह दरवाजे खटखटा कर
सबके हालचाल पूछूँ

हो सकता है हत्यारे का दरवाजा भी खटखटाऊँ
अगर वह हिन्दू हुआ तो
अपनी जान हिन्दू कह कर न बचाऊँ
मुसलमान कहूँ
अगर मुसलमान हुआ तो
अपनी जान मुसलमान कह कर न बचाऊँ
हिन्दू कहूँ

हो सकता है इसके बाद
भी मेरी जान बच जाये
तो मैं दूसरों के मारने तक नहीं
अपने मरने तक जिन्दा रहूँ।

-- विनोद कुमार शुक्ल