Poetry at our time
Sanjeev Buxy
(Hindi poet and story teller)
Where Could the Buddha Be?
It feels like I have a task on hand
Like I have set forth on a search
Where could the Buddha be?
Were I to find him meditating beneath some tree,
I might identify him
He would be identified by his attire
A stranger without blemish, wandering silently
in the forest
Battling hardships, but happy
A saint, a mahatma, gentle, handsome
I look for all these traits in a single person
Is that possible? How may I find the Buddha?
I ponder releasing an earnest Notice:
Should someone find the Buddha, please contact …
It is an age of masks, hard to spot
How can I affirm: Yes, this is the Buddha!
The truth is that should he confront me
I may not be able to tell him
And yet I have set forth to find the Buddha
Everything is available in the market, what’s not here?
But the matter relates to the Buddha
Maybe I must look elsewhere
The Buddha must be in some quiet place,
here it is so noisy
The age is so sullied
You cannot hastily call anyone a Buddha
At first sight everyone seems like the Buddha
But the mind does not endorse
And the matter nips at that
A politician could be a Buddha
An officer, an engineer, a doctor
A senior clerk
A village accountant
A watch mender
I must meet the farmers
A forest-dweller may as well be a Buddha
A crowd stands around me now
They are quiet, but seem to be reckoning
I too am quiet
This one is a Buddha, this one isn’t
I discuss myself
An artist is immersed in doing a picture
Far from the worldly bustle, a pigment waits
on his paint-brush, ready to become a picture
A poet’s vision is ready to become a poem
A musician is honing his tune
A sportsman, his play
They are heedless why I gaze at them
Far beyond my ken a teacher in a classroom
is tranquilly teaching
His pupils take him to be the Buddha
I am binding myself in my own net
I peep into myself
Maybe the Buddha is within
Maybe he is quietly seated here while I
search for him hither-thither
But here is a dugout battle
The noise is most here
Here is no place for sitting in silence
How can the Buddha be here?
Despite all this, why do I not believe
I am the Buddha?
Just because someone says so, or because I think so
Can I become the Buddha?
Many others like me
Presume they are the Buddha
Just then
A darkly shepherd boy catches my eye
In the make of his face
I see a beam
That darkly lad seems to remind me of something
Neither a claim, nor a contest
I recall
The Buddha seated in Sirpur
Beaming a chaste smile
A quiet smile,
I feel I now see the same smile on this darkly lad
I feel ecstatic, as though I have found the Buddha!
Dark of the Forests
The trees and shrubs are slumbering
The forests are asleep
Are all in deep sleep
Each has its own dawn
The dark of the night
The dark of the forests
They drape it around
And spread it
And all retire to sleep
The quiet here
Is a lullaby
All soak up the lullaby
The path along which sleep tiptoes
They take that path
Fields over fields all around
Fields of dreams
Beyond that
Go the adivasis
And sow a different dream
The dark of the forest
Guards them
The adivasis forget their dreams
Silence holds them
Cuddled close
In this darkness
In this silence
The adivasis feel secure
Their dreams are secure.
They that seek to dispel
Their darkness
They that seek to explode
Their silence
With booming blasts
I join my hands in appeal
Return native sleep to the forests
Let the forests
The trees and shrubs
The birds and beasts
Sleep
There is a glimmer in their dark
There’s music in their silence
This timeless glimmer
This timeless music
Do not destroy.
Sugarcane Ekadashi
Today is Jethauni Ekadashi
Minor Diwali
’Tis morning hour, six o’clock or thereabout
The start of winter
Morning walkers have stepped out in warm wear
Civil Lines is close by, maybe half a kilometre away
In the Chowk, the farmers
Are selling sugarcane off their bullock-carts
Tonight, is marked for sugarcane puja
Sugarcane connotes sweetness
What the people are buying at the Chowk
Is sweetness they bargain for
The price isn’t high, nevertheless
One, rupees twenty a pair; another, fifteen
All walkers have sugarcane in their hands today
Shortly, the sun shall rise full
From every home shall emerge
Women, men, children, servants,
Maruti, Indica, Marshal shall roll out
Atop all shall be seen Lord Sugarcane
A stout man is striding with two canes on his shoulders
He is gently swaying
A child is racing with sugarcane in hand
A woman with sugarcane
Is astride a bicycle, head exposed
Another day, this would be…god forbid!
Sethji is a seth, yet buying sugarcane
Walking bearing it. Whither throne, whither clerk
And there’s a prig officer, come from Civil Lines
He is buying the pair of twenty
Two sugarcanes, ding-dong
How to bear this home is an issue
There’s no known help in view
To walk bearing these on shoulder, hurts his ego:
What will people say?
He has a car, but that’s in the garage
The peon is on leave
Today he feels handicapped
Two sugarcanes
Half a kilometre to go
Pride, prestige, ego
The ways of the British days
Pride stops bearing this on shoulder
What shame when it is these sugarcanes
His wife will offer puja to at night
She will smear vermilion, wave an aarti to these
Beseech these to bless all
The sugarcanes are laid on the road
“Lift it Sir Officer
Lift it upon your shoulder
Carry these, see-sawing like the stout man,
Carry them home thus,
Your wife will be thrilled
You will feel the joy of puja
Shed and trash the thought of ‘what if someone sees’
Lift the sugarcane upon your shoulder
Today if you bear it upon your shoulder, know
That like the Stout Brother you too shall
Tomorrow carry your grandson
Upon your shoulder and sway
Lift the sugarcane
May I help you?”
A familiar face,
Oh! This is the old man
A Sahitya Academy awardee
Two sugarcanes upon his shoulders
A face beaming with good humour
No trace of pride
Sweetness like that of the cane
And here are some musicians, renowned artistes
Bearing sugarcane, Vinod Kumar Shukla
Is repeating, Lift it!
Shall I lift it for you?
Oh! this exceeds all limits
Not his limits
He is limitless
Limits relate to the English hangover
And official pride whose shoulder has no space
Not only did he offer but in fact bent down
Just then it was as though the hand of a judge
Suddenly froze even as he was writing the judgement
As though it was a story and the writer’s pen stuck
In this frozen picture the officer picked the sugarcane
Said Sorry, and started towards home
There is a slight deviation
Between this frozen picture and fact
The picture frozen in fact, was a frozen picture
With which a plea was scripted
The sweetness you seek in life
Must first find space on your shoulder
Lift sugarcane once upon your shoulder
Walk with others on the road, just half a kilometre,
And then witness
Will the same stuff be written as decision
On something different
On the Government file.
Sanjeev Buxy had written 7 books of poetry, 2Novels one book of Stories , 3 Mamore , 3Sansmaran Bhulan Kanda Hindi Novel is translated into English Kannada Punjabi and Chhattisgarhi language. Feature film *Bhulan The Maze* film has received a National Award, which is based on the novel *Bhulan Kanda*.
Gopal Lahiri ( bilingual poet)
Converse
Only one question mark hinges
the text into two halves.
A rotary mower without its blades
can’t level the strong words.
Commas are everywhere drawing
vulpine sketches between paint and brush.
The crescent moon beheads judgement
And put on a dense cloud mask.
The evening grass is wet with dew,
cannot converse in the language of shadows.
The lyrics are drawn by prayers, when it
rains, each pore of the rock is illumined.
One day the history will measure the likeness,
the warm embrace of leaving.
©gopallahiri
………………………………………
Like a Lover
For something lovely, warm and luminous
somewhere there is a deep need of insolence,
Holding on to the small spaces isn’t the way,
you trill your melody the whole afternoon long.
The tiny bird sings without fear or insecurity,
looking to the sky, willing to love in the face of it.
Made softer by struggles, losses and face-offs
the strong wind blowing in your hidden presence.
Our conversation will be blown away by the
fallen leaves drenching in blood and sweat.
When a calmness settles over you, we will
search the last light that finds us beside the river.
Staring into the sky, I think of you, then
step into the cobble stone, I will answer you.
@ gopallahiri
………………………………………
Unpaused Breath
It’s what speaks to us, that corner, that edge of life
from which emerges
a vitellus of pigment and tinges, like bloody
filigree of bones,
spreading the autumn sky.
the daylight is winding down from the
shouldered hill.
Oleander tree sheds its yellow flowers all over.
A sand mound unravels in the unpaused breaths,
the sigh of women with screens of grieving
in their voices,
turns into unflexible realities.
There is a dark womb and fatigued body
following those footprints of warriors,
she draws strength from stones,
intent as hound,
A raw grimace of light swallows’ guilt, moving
away from the front,
for no reason, the boat at a distance float through
drowning stars and dead planets.
@gopallahiri
………………………………………
Aromatic Voice
Just one person in the kitchen doing everything,
My Ma wants to tell all her stories at the stove,
focussed, completely absorbed, and adroitly poised,
I used to stop by the kitchen door to sneak a look.
Much of the food prepared by Ma is rich with simple
recipes, they look every item much cheerier,
Kolkata rain brings rice and hilsa curry on the lunch
plate but the dinner used to be mostly spicier biryani.
It involves, rice, chicken and a few boiled potatoes and eggs
in a pot, it is soupier and thicker than the common
stuffs, and steamy with cinnamon and sweet warmth.
roasted cashews and cooked onions are applied liberally.
Salads come sprinkled with slices of tomatoes, cucumbers,
and onions, rain heavy Gangetic Planes are bullish in monsoon times,
I love the approach of the stormy clouds in the sky,
her delightful dishes deserve a wider audience besides me.
There is something magical and intense about this cooking,
as if she puts a knitted blanket across my knees and
tell me that everything will be just fine soon,
a handful of curry leaves always rekindle her aromatic voice.
*Ma denotes Mother in Bengali Language.
………………………………………
Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 30 books published,
including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poetry and prose are published across more than
one hundred journals and anthologies globally His poems are translated in 18 languages and published in 16 countries. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021 and received Setu Excellence Award, Pittsburg, in 2020. Recent Credits: One Art Journal, Poetry Breakfast Journal, Verse-Virtual Journal, Setu Journal, Kitaab Journal, Himalayan Diary, Dissident Voice, The Piker Press, Confluence, The Wise Owl Journal and elsewhere.
Akbar-( Malayalam)
War Game
Translated: Arun T Vijayan
——————————-
In the morning,
I dreamed
that all the children in the world
had fallen to their deaths.
All the jasmine in my courtyard
bloomed without fragrance.
I rubbed my weary eyes,
peeked into my children’s room—
but they were not there.
I try to recall the dream I had,
the memory of children playing
amidst wars returns to me.
And the fireballs falling upon them
still weigh heavily on my mind.
My words,
once running with a cry,
are now fading away.
I remember the children
of Ukraine,
Palestine,
Yazidi,
Israel,
and Somalia…
all fell to their deaths before my eyes.
I searched for my children
through rooms and yards,
fear rising within me.
Their smiling faces
suddenly turned
to bloodstained memories.
My phone rang,
I answered, heavy with dread.
Vaappee…
we’re here playing war.
When I asked where,
they said,
in the world of children—
and hung up the phone.
Yes,
in the world of children,
there are no problems, are there?
With a cannon in hand,
I aimed toward the neighbor’s yard
and pulled the trigger…
The jasmine flowers
fell to the ground.
Coffee Time
Poem by Akbar
Translated by Arun T. Vijayan
The moments
that were lost between us
came to my bedside
with the laziness of slumber
in the early morning.
I offered a glass of rain
to start the conversation,
but she wanted warmth.
After having something sweet,
she continued staring at the corner of the room.
Then, right at that very moment!
Like balloons in the hands,
the white clouds walk along the old paths.
When the fingers touched the trees,
colors that had never existed before
bloomed and blossomed,
and the hands glowed!
Suddenly, the wings unfolded.
We flew with the birds,
tossing the warmth,
we had scooped out to each other.
You feel cold even when it’s warm.
The breeze lingers on your fingers,
and now we are kites at the edge of the wind.
Who is at the edge of that kite?
When we reached above the sea,
you stood close,
joined your hand with mine,
without fear of the depths below.
As we glided above
the distant houses, gardens, and farms,
your fingers slowly slipped away.
I have leaped away from myself
with a sense of detachment.
Sleep rose
louder than the sun.
Look! the rain
offers me
a cup of sunlight
Black sun
Translation: Binu Karunakaran
—————————————-
Rising sun takes
long strides running
into daybreak
skipping the rattan
mat spread on courtyard.
Future dawns are terrific
not ones that have passed,
loudly state the people
as they walk past.
All movements now
have been neatly fenced.
No distances, only intimacies
it chants climbing
atop the new day’s shoulder.
Would there be others
beyond the fences?
Would they all have names?
Through the fence
a sapling’s head appears
it has no documents,
bounding lines vanish
as tree limbs reach
out to caress. Here
the night lies down
resting its head.
Darkness begins to knead
the black needed for
the next day’s sun.
Me
Translation: Binu Karunakaran
———————————–
Tried lying supine
Spread like a road
No one walked.
Rose up tree-like
Into the sky
No one nested.
To flow like river
And row a boat
Who has time.
Silence at a crescendo
*******************
Malayalam: Akbar
Translation: Ra Sh
—————————
There are some feminine dreams
Where only silence reigns.
One should rush in And rush off
After planting a kiss.
The lips and cheeks would bloom
Like flowers scented with
Sudden exclamations.
Isn’t it at such a deep silence
That the world shrieks?
There are some feminine bodies
That get wet in silence.
One feels like sponging up
When no one is noticing
The beads of sweat
That laugh uproariously.
The limbs get interchanged and
Go mad in the brilliance of
The tastes and aromas.
One loves so much
The noisy memories
That are silent
At a distance.
Akbar is a Malayalam poet and media personality. He was born and raised in Neriamangalam, near Kothamangalam, Ernakulam District, Kerala. He has published various poems in Malayalam periodicals. Three of his poetry collections-Bamsuri (Published by DC Books-2001), Akbarovsky (by Pappathi Pusthakangal-2019), Kuyil Oru Pakshi Maathramalla (by Logos Books-2023) and Ilakal thottu Kadine Vayikkunnu (Nature Experience- Saikatham Books-2022) have also been published. Poems published in Kendra Sahitya Akademi’s Indian Literature. Poems translated into English,Tamil,Telugu languages. Works in news section of Cable TV channel in Adimali,Idukki district. He was received Samskara Sahiti Award (2007), Sahitya Award of National Organization for Social Empowerment (2014), International Excellence Award by Excellence Books (2024) and Bharat Sevak Samaj National Award for Literature (2024).