Tuesday, December 9, 2008

poems - sree devi nair

poems - by Sree Devi Nair
Translated by k santhosh kumar

Computer Bird

A bird did come
Drenched in the rain.
While shaking its
Drawn-out wings,
It did look at
The computer in the room.
Nothing seemed clear first.
It came slowly near the room
And sat watching the computer image.
There was a picture then,
In the computer of a bird.
Did that bird understand that picture?
No. How could it?
The picture was taken
When it came yesterday
To peck the rice grains.
While flying away
That bird laughed aloud.
But I never understood
The meaning of that laughter.

The actress who left the drama

The actor who came down from the screen
Had a limp.
How clear it is
That all was fake when he laughed or cried.
Still tried to find fun in that.
He never assumed
Himself an actor
Or a character.
But, since knowing his story,
Everything was clear.
Yet he wanted to act.
He showed every act of ugliness
To prove he was not the one who lived so long.
I, who knew all his history,
Left the theatre when got bored.
I could also become
An actress who left the drama.


How dear are the daylights.
Is there some holy note
Sent by someone hidden in daylights?

Unexplainable music,
Crystal-like mental simplicity,
Do these daylights give?

Is this daylight
The smile of a secret of life
That is beyond the earth?
Is it the transparency
Reminds of many habitats?
This brightness makes
Yesterday’s sorrows meaningless.
Nature’s emotive profile.

The Leaves

Leaves spreading veins,
Became an art by itself.
No one seeks the hidden historical truths
In these spread out veins that can be traced.
In PhotoShop of the computer
Did some leaves appear
As if the memories of death
That left words or tools.
The banyan-tree leaves
Spread as screen saver
But said nothing about
Krishna or Gita.

Soul of the soil

I am searching my ancestors in this soil.
I remember some
Who came to bore a well
Near our house.
When I heard the noise
They made while boring the earth,
I got afraid.
Memories of some
Dead bodies
Did shake me.

Someone’s picking up the bones.
Some laughed aloud
Hearing the tunes of the last rites.
Some others did
Retaliate something
In a language
That seemed gibberish.
Is it water
In such pits
Or is it the water
Of some departed soul?

Pumpkin Delivers

The pumpkin
Delivered a hundred kids.
It didn’t call any name to anyone.
Neither did it advice them.
Instead, it went to a Kitchen
That prepared a feast to a marriage,
Got itself ended its life
By breaking into quarters.

The scattered offspring,
Like the discarded placenta,
Grew up seizing the chance.
Most of them
Disappeared somewhere.
Some ran on and on
Through the wild paths
As if someone would come
To save them.

The Fan

The fan turned on and on.
It didn’t care for the bastards
Who came under to enjoy the wind.
There’s nothing suicidal like
Caring those came to relax beneath it.

Unable to stop the rotation in between,
Body and head competed each other,
Might become a strange fate of the circling.
How funny it would be,
To turn on and on
Without longing for life,
Or seeking assets or addresses.
Yet the fan
Didn’t think of that.
The fan knew it well ahead
It would be thoughtless
To waste the time thinking things.
Fan is a strong
Icon of abandon ness.
It makes the whole truth
Of men and objects
Easily forgotten.


Clouds, tell me
What are your scriptures?
Where do you go
With a fire in your head
Without standing in one place?

What are you trying to tell
As you run on a mission?

Cloud, are you a mirage?
Who taught you
To shower down the dreams?

What you do pull down
Are innards or the blood of bleeding hearts?
Are you alive or dead?


I sang some songs.
But none heard it.
They were not meant to be heard either.
What I called songs
Were all turning into moan.

All the music did I play
Became wailings.
Yet many did call me
A singer.


The crowd is swelling
To see the nude sculpture of a woman
That stood before
A Devadaru tree.

Is nude attractive?
Sculptor loves nakedness.
All the organs
Are made to perfection.

Sculpture doesn’t need sex.
Only the onlookers need it.
Though the sculpture longed for sex
The sculptor forbids it.

The sculptor said:
You’re only a sculpture.
Your face and boobs
And body are all for the viewers.
You need just to stand there.
Those who throng to see you
Will decide what to do.
You’re not permitted
To have coitus.

You need not open your eyes.
To kindle wild erotica
You can lean a bit, if need be.
Even if you lie flat on the ground
It doesn’t matter much.

Sculpture said:
How long does it take
To know what coitus is?

Sculptor said:
Don’t wait.
Waiting for long for it
You’ll go insane.
You don’t have any right
Over your sex-needs.
You are only a showcase-object.

To see the fire catching up on your body
The Minister and the Academy President
Are all coming.
You make them hot.

Hearing this the sculpture trembled.
Out of that shivering
A fire broke out somehow.
In that fire
The sculpture got charred.