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«ï˜ªè£‡ì 𣘬õJ™ Iî‚Aø¶:
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cóŸø¶ èì™
GôñŸø¶ îI›
«ðóŸø¶ àø¾
AFTER APOCALYPSE [2009]
(áN‚°Š H¡)
WAR-SCAPE
When, during the invasion,
false and malicious tales
rose up into the air, mingled with smoke,
words slipped from their meanings,
icons and images shattered,
life lost its blood.
The doctor who amputates, without anaesthetic,
the arms of a two and a half year old child
wounded by scattering shrapnel
becomes, at this instant, a god;
the mother, screaming dry-eyed,
a devil.
HOMAGE
Those who were buried,
those who were burnt,
those who were lost to the sea –
all their messages, lucid, detailed,
have gone to the underground record offices
of the world’s storehouses.
Above the single grave that holds us all
they hoist the army general’s loin-cloth
and call it the national flag.
Someone inscribes empty words
upon the memorial raised by our tears.
Many weave dreams.
He writes his poem, silence unbroken.
GENERATIONS
A generation ago
they left their country.
Just as the new generation was beginning to forget
its language – at that moment –
an unending anguish bonds us again.
Among the many thousands who rose in anger
and filled the streets –
even in the winter weather with falling snow
and freezing rain –
I saw a woman, drained of voice.
Though the outline of her face
was smudged away by the imprint of tears,
I saw another face become manifest, become manifold.
CORPSE
Lying by the sea-shore,
a corpse, the skull split open.
Those eyes, refusing to close in death
float in a fixed stare: protest, shock,
distress, struggle, rage, despair,
a long and endless dream.
OUR LAND
It was here, in this land that my story began.
of trees swept away that day, by the sea,
is now laid bare.
A land where even in the height of summer
people strolled about with ease
has become, in a few days,
a country
whose language is replaced.
In this, our land, there are neither coconut palms
nor hutments.
A voice tells me
even though the branch-stories are muzzled
the narrative will continue, endless.
[UNTITLED]
The sea has drained away
Tamil is without territory
Kinships have no name.
F¬í ñò‚è‹
(MERGED LANDSCAPES)
1
Þ¼õ¼‚A¬ìJ½‹ å¼ ªð¼‹ ð£¬ô
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3
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6
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7
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8
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MERGED LANDSCAPES [2009]
(F¬í ñò‚è‹)
1
A great desert divides us,
no dove will fly across it
to bring a letter,
she dissolves into silence
you fret,
Cheran.
Isn’t her silence
the result of your teaching?
2
For many nights I slept with a girl
who wandered barefoot in the forest.
Cheran,
she said
My body is taut
my heart is tender
your body is soft
but your heart is hard.
She spoke; she left.
3
Leaving your heart hidden
in a rocky fortress
surrounded by forest and moat
you became a wanderer,
Cheran,
on your return you say
you cannot find it again.
4
Never comprehending
what is obvious
you only lusted after
unrevealed beauties,
Cheran,
what will you gain now
but needless sorrow?
5
I went to a country
where the leader alone shines brightly,
where people are headless,
birds colourless,
and the sea without waves.
Cheran,
the world cares nothing for images.
6
Embittered by sundered love
she chooses to forget
the happiness of former times,
you complain,
Cheran.
But love, hate, happiness, loneliness,
hostility, desire – are they not all
essential to our experience?
7
When the wind blows over the wasteland
it raises dust, not sweet music
you say,
Cheran.
The sound of the kettle drum
when the ancients sang of the desert –
what was that but dust?
8
On a day of respite from the war
we sat on a rock by the lake,
long shadows of trees moving across the water.
Be patient for a while
she said; she left.
Cheran,
tears will not wash away
time poured on the rock, by fire.
9
When a silver fire became a flood
hastening past,
slicing away the landscapes
it could not destroy your foot-prints
you rage,
Cheran.
Fling away the footprints, the voice.
Only sow words.
â¬î  àù‚°ˆ F¼ŠHˆ î¼õ¶?
(WHAT SHALL I RETURN TO YOU?)
â¬î  àù‚°ˆ F¼ŠHˆ î¼õ¶?
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åO‰F¼‚°‹ ºèƒèO¡ H¡ù£™ ï쉶 õóõ£?
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 ÜP«ò£‹
«ð£®, «ð£.
WHAT SHALL I RETURN TO YOU? [2009]
(â¬î  àù‚°ˆ F¼ŠHˆ î¼õ¶?)
What shall I return to you?
The rage that grows out of passion?
A smile cast off, withered and cold?
The lustful photographs we shared by email?
What shall I return to you?
Affection?
Its petition, in the full knowledge
there is no going back?
The repulsion that comes when tears are dry?
Or the pillow-wisdom that tells us
love drains away into bitterness?
The weak embers of a broken relationship?
How shall I return to you?
Shall I follow after the faces
hidden in the lost and wandering clouds?
Shall I accompany the shadow of a refugee
who lost his way
when his boat capsized in a snow-storm
and knock at your door?
Or shall I cut off my hands
which refused to weave together
the ever-growing threads of your love
and send them, in lieu of flowers?
Water does not know
the dreams swirling in the wine-glass;
we don’t know
the colours hidden within water.
Let go, girl.
èó®J¡ è¬î
(ABOUT A BEAR)
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