tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54723797458747189222024-02-06T19:47:20.202-08:00KAVYODYOGAKAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5472379745874718922.post-75748028376586124072011-04-26T02:45:00.000-07:002011-04-26T02:45:17.975-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPFNOuCSmMQPy_stqmw7iTh8v8RBo0Xrq0ntwvfYOYfCSHwMdGJmKpcM6dpOm8qRe6MJAiGmaXXnSQOPdUwciGodtS5ND9lIloZUBYkBBMZSJhMpGvYXzcXsa0Zsu-tQ-o-bo5ogZp7hM/s1600/scan0137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPFNOuCSmMQPy_stqmw7iTh8v8RBo0Xrq0ntwvfYOYfCSHwMdGJmKpcM6dpOm8qRe6MJAiGmaXXnSQOPdUwciGodtS5ND9lIloZUBYkBBMZSJhMpGvYXzcXsa0Zsu-tQ-o-bo5ogZp7hM/s320/scan0137.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkf0kfgyWrq60WfR93wmvFFLkU6SHK0h-nl9l62irSn7VqP_qUYx0MvRIa6PWtoeik7lKgaTbYyjn-D7tj26Pz5D-QmWcdzX2xseAJtZLsv6eiKGWt9ldVHqhM-jjbgwBa00XjAxiE1Ke-/s1600/scan0184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkf0kfgyWrq60WfR93wmvFFLkU6SHK0h-nl9l62irSn7VqP_qUYx0MvRIa6PWtoeik7lKgaTbYyjn-D7tj26Pz5D-QmWcdzX2xseAJtZLsv6eiKGWt9ldVHqhM-jjbgwBa00XjAxiE1Ke-/s320/scan0184.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim8M_1o1fKbX364n8iiTTWJDNXkPCxOoemnpcts3WToyDcMxR2G7d2fLB9cgWsaTF0u__ZmSHdrZcQhcxwcr6HI94babXIpvD9qs8jguxeQ23l72szCZ26m_aDU6MAqqcZcNk-ynk2ZPZ0/s1600/scan0189.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim8M_1o1fKbX364n8iiTTWJDNXkPCxOoemnpcts3WToyDcMxR2G7d2fLB9cgWsaTF0u__ZmSHdrZcQhcxwcr6HI94babXIpvD9qs8jguxeQ23l72szCZ26m_aDU6MAqqcZcNk-ynk2ZPZ0/s320/scan0189.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><br />
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</div>KAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5472379745874718922.post-50319595601592859052011-03-11T02:14:00.000-08:002011-03-11T02:16:33.003-08:00Akka Mahadevi`s Poems<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Akka Mahadevi is a 12th century Kannada Virasaivite saint poet. More of her poems are available in A. K. Ramanujan`s <i>Speaking of Siva </i>and H. S. Shivaprakash`s <i>I Keep Vigil of Rudra. </i>The following are translations of one poem by these two translators. The first one is the original. <br />
<br />
1. ನೀರಕ್ಷೀರದಂತೆ ನೀನಿಪ್ಪೆಯಾಗಿ<br />
ಆವುದು ಮುಂದು ಆವುದು ಹಿಂದು ಎಂದರಿಯೆ.<br />
ಆವುದು ಕರ್ತೃ ಆವುದು ಭೃತ್ಯನೆಂದರಿಯೆ<br />
ಆವುದು ಘನ ಆವುದು ಕಿರಿದೆಂದರಿಯೆ<br />
ಚೆನ್ನಮಲ್ಲಿಕಾರ್ಜುನಯ್ಯಾ<br />
ನೀನೊಲಿದು ಕೊಂಡಾಡಿದಡೆ ಇರುಹೆ ರುದ್ರನಾಗದೆ ಹೇಳಯ್ಯಾ.<br />
<br />
2. You are like milk<br />
in water: I cannot tell<br />
what came before what after;<br />
which is the master,<br />
which the slave;<br />
what`s big,<br />
what`s small.<br />
<br />
O lord white as jasmine<br />
if an ant should love you<br />
and praise you,<br />
will he not grow<br />
to demon powers?<br />
(A. K. Ramanujan)<br />
<br />
3. As you are like water in milk<br />
I do not know<br />
what`s first, what`s next<br />
what`s master, what is slave,<br />
O Chennamallikarjuna<br />
By singing your praises with love<br />
Will not an ant become Rudra?<br />
(H. S. Shivaprakash)<br />
<br />
*********<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKv7h28tgzAtVKt6p0T6bz5yg9fEQujvnviCNKPgKVVpoAde_uVM9Dh_Tcitk8p5AhhC1LbcAGVkJGZnPtzgZzOR2j2F8TgriiI9nosSC_BxdgdzGEx-EzwtLmBtC_moZH6n0POmFpCxLA/s1600/scan0190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKv7h28tgzAtVKt6p0T6bz5yg9fEQujvnviCNKPgKVVpoAde_uVM9Dh_Tcitk8p5AhhC1LbcAGVkJGZnPtzgZzOR2j2F8TgriiI9nosSC_BxdgdzGEx-EzwtLmBtC_moZH6n0POmFpCxLA/s320/scan0190.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsmXYz5IayYZ5DHXV5KHUL9Gv0hF3oiiWdXrMYB7XALtE-56To1x8zp3MRCaMrwcFZ1NMrxyICXz7w17KXOhfb27OQU6vRFKozb4tr6CHIBP9_SdTHkKTqSP8hnr2qeM8SCFryvQ07Ui-/s1600/scan0191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsmXYz5IayYZ5DHXV5KHUL9Gv0hF3oiiWdXrMYB7XALtE-56To1x8zp3MRCaMrwcFZ1NMrxyICXz7w17KXOhfb27OQU6vRFKozb4tr6CHIBP9_SdTHkKTqSP8hnr2qeM8SCFryvQ07Ui-/s320/scan0191.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>Bodhi Trust holds Da. Ra. Bendre Poetry Festival at Indian Institute of World Culture Auditorium, Basavanagudi, Bangalore 4 on March 20th at 10.00 am. H. S. Venkateshamurthy, Kannada poet, will preside over the function. C. R. Simha, Shrinivasa Prabhu, N. Mangala, Raghunandana, and Kalpana Naganath, eminent theatre personalities, will recite/sing Bendre`s poems for nearly two hours. All are welcome.<br />
<br />
</div>KAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5472379745874718922.post-47485623671999259742011-01-01T21:44:00.000-08:002011-01-01T21:46:47.393-08:00H.S.VENKATESHA MURTHY`S POEMSH.S.Venkatesha Murthy (b.1945) is a Kannada poet, playwright, and critic. He was Professor of Kannada in a college in Bangalore.<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>1. ELECTRIC LIGHTS COMES TO PUTTALLI</b><br />
<br />
<br />
Children wake up run a rope round the pulley<br />
Of the jasmine well and water laughs<br />
Birds preen their wings, something flashes<br />
In the field and urchins play chinni dandu<br />
Near the river<br />
<br />
Carts silently descend in the distance<br />
Cart behind cart behind cart behind cart<br />
<br />
As the sun climbs the sky shadows lean<br />
Water warms in the river the rays pour<br />
All over bald heads and down down down<br />
Come people in carts magical people<br />
wearing blue<br />
<br />
Bringing poles the whole length of the carts<br />
Stretching before and behind<br />
Weird calculations at the edge of the brain<br />
Scratching at wonder a few of deep things<br />
At the fingertips<br />
<br />
Climbing them with eyes-speaking silent meanings<br />
The people wearing blue bring down the poles<br />
Balance them from street to street multiplying<br />
Numbers and leaving boot prints without toe<br />
Snake-hood patterns in the dirt<br />
Uncoiling a coil of copper digging pits<br />
<br />
Planting poles pouring salt pouring water<br />
Burying a meaning in a language no one knows there<br />
Leaving not a street alley corner or turning<br />
They spread a net of wire<br />
<br />
Grow long shadow as the day declines<br />
Becoming night with anxiety`s nets of wire below<br />
Crowds gather as at a fair mouths gaping<br />
Standing rooted like the rows<br />
Of electric poles<br />
<br />
Even as they look on the blue ones suddenly<br />
Laugh climb up and up on the poles the blue people<br />
Become specks and melt away in the blue<br />
<br />
(Translated by A. K. Ramanujan)<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>2. THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT</b><br />
<br />
<br />
When you see a lonely fruit on a lonely tree,<br />
Do not pluck it. Eating it is totally<br />
Fobidden. Long ago there was a strange<br />
Ascetic. Kanva was his name. From birth<br />
He lived on just one kind of fruit, a rare<br />
Variety of the Nerile tree that bore a single<br />
Fruit in a whole year. He lay beneath the tree<br />
Hibernating, eating nothing. Once a year he<br />
woke up, ate the single ripe fruit and lost<br />
Himself in unbroken meditation. Unknowingly,<br />
Bhima plucked the fruit from the tree and caused<br />
Untold suffering to his family. Once the chain<br />
Of life was broken, it was the end for every<br />
One, the Ascetic, the Nerile tree, and the Pandavas<br />
Themselves. That is why Krishna said, never pluck<br />
The single fruit on the single tree. Eat it<br />
And you will commit an unforgivable sin like the<br />
Killing of Kanva. So, before you eat a fruit, read<br />
With all the care at your command, the name<br />
Of the rightful owner inscribed on the fruit<br />
In secret and unfamiliar script. <br />
<br />
(English version by G. S. Amur)<br />
<br />
<b>3. ONE PLUS ONE IS</b><br />
<br />
You would surely have heard the name<br />
Of Vaikom, the Muslim writer from Kerala.<br />
A great story-teller like our own Masti.<br />
And you would have read his stories--<br />
<i>Patuma`s Goat, Childhood Friend,</i><br />
<i>Chambers of Memory </i>and others. Devoted<br />
Follower of Gandhiji throughout his life,<br />
Worked for Hindu-Muslim unity. From his<br />
Childhood he loved places where branches<br />
Of river merged. His teacher asks him<br />
Once: "O Basheera, how much will it be<br />
If one is added to one?" "Two", others<br />
Answer. But Vaikom says, "Sir, if one joins<br />
One , the result will be a big one."<br />
<br />
(English version by G. S. Amur)<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>4. IT IS SO EVEN NOW</b><br />
<br />
I cannot believe she has gone away.<br />
Forget M. G. Road, she never went<br />
Even to Gandhi Bazar alone. Picnic<br />
Or clinic we went together along<br />
<br />
With our little quarrels. Films, plays,<br />
Ramanavami concerts in Bangalore, I<br />
had to be by her side. So, how could<br />
She have gone alone to an unknown<br />
<br />
Place, swinging her left arm as usual?<br />
Who could help her if she lost her balance<br />
While walking? She loves to be on<br />
Crowded roads. My preference is for dusky<br />
<br />
Tree-lined streets. Talk of temples,<br />
She would step out of the house with her<br />
Chappals on. I would still be searching<br />
For car-keys inside. I think evn now<br />
<br />
She would be waiting for me at the bend<br />
Of the street, muttering to herself<br />
That once I have a book in my hands<br />
I would forget the rest of the world.<br />
<br />
(Translated by G. S. Amur)<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<b>5. THE CRY OF A NO NAME BIRD</b><br />
<br />
I heard this ghastly cry<br />
when I was wandering alone<br />
in a lush and thick rainforest.<br />
<br />
In the darkness rendered by the green<br />
my aimless wandering is an<br />
exploration of myself.<br />
<br />
I am no different. Believer of the winner takes all.<br />
This forest and everything inside of it<br />
is for me, to enjoy it full.<br />
<br />
This sad pitch, the pain melting cry is<br />
not a match to my delight. Is not a<br />
rhythm to my happiness....<br />
<br />
This cry and its echo is<br />
not a peasant one to hear, is not enjoyable for sure,<br />
but, can touch your heart and make it sour.<br />
<br />
How can I be without tracing it?<br />
I followed the cry to its mystic world<br />
a small black bird in a thorny bush.<br />
<br />
I do not know its name; probably it does not have one.<br />
But, its cry is communicating the pain it had<br />
for centuries with unending memories.<br />
<br />
It is angry.<br />
It is desperate.<br />
It is outside this world.<br />
<br />
The tear drops are still warm;<br />
even after centuries<br />
they glint like diamonds;<br />
shine like stars in the cloudless open sky.<br />
<br />
They look harmless; but<br />
may explode at any time on my face.<br />
<br />
<br />
(Translated by M. R. Dattatri)<br />
<br />
<br />
***********<br />
<br />
Bodhi Trust, Post Kalmadka 574212, Bellare, Karnataka, is a cultural organization. Apart from maintaining this archive, it publishes books. Those who want to make donations to this organization may please send their contributions to Bodhi Trust, SB Account Number 1600101008058, Canara Bank, Yenmur 574328, Sullia Taluk, Karntaka. IFSC: CNRB0001600. email: bodhitrustk@gmail.com<br />
<br />
Those who want to buy its books may please visit<br />
http://devasaahitya.blogspot.com<br />
for the list/price of books and other details.KAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5472379745874718922.post-78710430769874109392010-12-25T02:02:00.000-08:002010-12-25T02:02:13.921-08:00BODHI TRUST: 10TH YEAR CELEBRATIONS (EDITORIAL)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamqzHhA-bXG7top7TbgvdX6xTDBquhKpJb-DkpW-3eHxzJ1-APJXu37cGWf0zf9RRheZoOS2BRxFJ9ofZt-fcQDTXk9KdUgSw_r6q_jXOmFvPJaSDp8MPQnb85y65Drai4s0YRkfbSqyA/s1600/scan0099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamqzHhA-bXG7top7TbgvdX6xTDBquhKpJb-DkpW-3eHxzJ1-APJXu37cGWf0zf9RRheZoOS2BRxFJ9ofZt-fcQDTXk9KdUgSw_r6q_jXOmFvPJaSDp8MPQnb85y65Drai4s0YRkfbSqyA/s320/scan0099.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Bodhi Trust was founded in 2000, and was inaugurated through a lecture on poetry, drama and other related subjects on August 6, 2000, by B. V. Karanth, very creative theatre director, in Kalmadka, Karnataka. Starting this KAVYODYOGA, an archive for Indian poetry in the Indian languages and in English translations is part of this 10th year celebrations. We also plan to hold poetry festivals to celebrate the 10th year. The first function will be held on March 20th at Indian Institute of World Culture, Basavangudi, Bangalore 4. Poems of Da. Ra. Bendre, one of the great Kannada poets of the 20th century, will be recited by different people on that day. All are welcome. And, spread the word.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi8e2kbErfeCsrP68VM6dZ59LEQ0SC4dC0fN5Rj5DVpJbLtJGT3DYNJw7W1JKOnMbosIUd0gMi4bpqFs1_K_flifZtYHFu-_I83DIsyOVf6quSHSifhBHWbxS9av03rWSolaNuJVx4UBlT/s1600/scan0102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi8e2kbErfeCsrP68VM6dZ59LEQ0SC4dC0fN5Rj5DVpJbLtJGT3DYNJw7W1JKOnMbosIUd0gMi4bpqFs1_K_flifZtYHFu-_I83DIsyOVf6quSHSifhBHWbxS9av03rWSolaNuJVx4UBlT/s320/scan0102.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAAgwVlNTI9-Jh6ZY0s3qvBCdIpqBGWZPkn1RWBnme6VrIK41SRDW0zXSIZTtxPMO0JLcMDj8CAjN8c5RlCq-R4-svwMSdDyHKMc5zBNmlIxQbpec8M-LM8VO79IwNrNZeHIerMBuakov/s1600/scan0100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAAgwVlNTI9-Jh6ZY0s3qvBCdIpqBGWZPkn1RWBnme6VrIK41SRDW0zXSIZTtxPMO0JLcMDj8CAjN8c5RlCq-R4-svwMSdDyHKMc5zBNmlIxQbpec8M-LM8VO79IwNrNZeHIerMBuakov/s320/scan0100.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>These photos are of the Inauguration Day in Kalmadka, Karnataka. These show B. V. Karanth delivering the inaugural lecture, Dr. Ramachandra Deva welcoming him, and a view of the audience. All these people sitting in this auditorium are from this village.KAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5472379745874718922.post-29484667817874022782010-12-23T06:20:00.000-08:002010-12-23T06:20:36.325-08:00POEMS BY K. SATCHIDANANDANK. Satchidanandan is a Malyalam poet. Formerly he was editor of <i>Indian Literature,</i> bimonthly journal of Sahitya Akademi, New Delhi, and Chief Executive, Sahitya Akademi. The following translations are done by him from the original Malayalam.<br />
<br />
<b>1. A MAN WITH A DOOR</b><br />
<br />
A man walks with a door<br />
along the city street;<br />
he is looking for its house.<br />
<br />
He has dreamt<br />
of his woman, children and friends<br />
coming in through the door.<br />
Now he sees a whole world<br />
passing through this door<br />
of his never-built house:<br />
men, vehicles, trees,<br />
beasts, birds, everything.<br />
<br />
And the door, its dream<br />
rising above the earth,<br />
longs to be the golden door of heaven;<br />
imagines clouds, rainbows,<br />
demons, fairies and saints<br />
passing through it. <br />
<br />
But it is the owner of hell<br />
who awaits the door.<br />
Now it just yearns<br />
to be its tree, full of foliage<br />
swaying in the breeze,<br />
just to provide some shade<br />
to its homeless hauler.<br />
<br />
A man walks with a door<br />
along the city street<br />
a star walks with him.<br />
<br />
(2006)<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>2. CHAITANYA AND THE BITCH*</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
It was at Puri.<br />
A bitch, leprous and dying,<br />
limped towards Chaitanya<br />
and asked him:<br />
"Lord, some hold<br />
only man has soul;<br />
what am I then?"<br />
<br />
The sage replied:<br />
"Mother, have you seen<br />
only those who don`t know<br />
how fire burns and snow cools?<br />
There is an unsung melody<br />
in the wind-swept tree,<br />
in the still water,<br />
even in your intense agony.<br />
Each birth is a word<br />
uttered in a language where<br />
the said and the unsaid co-exist.<br />
Ask this breeze fanning your sores<br />
where we spring from.<br />
Listen to the world<br />
quietly, like this rock.<br />
Gold runs about within him;<br />
yet he retains his calm<br />
until the river delves into him.<br />
Those who look for proof<br />
are those who do not know<br />
they are the proof.<br />
What the tree feels as flowering<br />
and the fruit as ripening,<br />
What you feel as movement<br />
and man as freedom<br />
are all the same.<br />
<br />
Your pups too open their eyes<br />
into the same light<br />
that cannot be confined<br />
in shrines.<br />
You did not create differences<br />
and then the weapons to undo them. <br />
You did not run after thrones<br />
nor build rotting cities.<br />
You turned your life into a hymn<br />
with this modest tail.<br />
You listened to none<br />
but your dispossessed blood.<br />
You became the statue of equality.<br />
Your will was nature`s;<br />
So was your action.<br />
You recognised the moist earth<br />
and chose her for refuge<br />
like the neem tree in the graveyard<br />
stirred by the dreams of the dead.<br />
The Eternal beyond thoughts and words<br />
is here, in front of you,<br />
like an unread page."<br />
<br />
Now Chaitanya caressed<br />
her bruised little frame<br />
with his water-like fingers.<br />
Her body oozed milk.<br />
Only a white flower remained<br />
where she had been.<br />
<br />
(1999)<br />
<br />
* Sri Krishna Chaitanya (1486-1532), a Vaishnavite saint, philosopher and poet of Bengal and Orissa.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>3. GANDHI AND POETRY</b><br />
<br />
One day a lean poem<br />
reached Gandhi`s <i>ashram</i><br />
to have a glimpse of the man.<br />
Gandhi spinning away<br />
his thread towards Ram<br />
took no notice of the poem<br />
waiting at his door<br />
ashamed as he was no <i>bhajan.</i><br />
<br />
The poem cleared his throat<br />
and Gandhi looked at him sideways<br />
through those glasses<br />
that had seen Hell.<br />
"Have you ever spun thread?", he asked,<br />
"Ever pulled a scavenger`s cart?<br />
Ever stood the smoke<br />
of an early morning kitchen?<br />
Have you ever starved?"<br />
<br />
The poem said: "I was born<br />
in the woods, in a hunter`s mouth.<br />
A fisherman brought me up in his hamlet.<br />
Yet, I know no work, I only sing.<br />
First I sang in the courts:<br />
then I was plump and handsome;<br />
but am on the streets now,<br />
half-starved."<br />
<br />
"That`s better", Gandhi said<br />
with a sly smile, "but you must<br />
give up this habit<br />
of speaking in Sanskrit at times.<br />
Go to the fields, listen to<br />
the peasants` speech."<br />
<br />
The poem turned into a grain<br />
and lay waiting in the fields<br />
for the tiller to come<br />
and upturn the virgin soil<br />
moist with the new rain.<br />
<br />
(1993)<br />
<br />
<b>4. GRANNY</b><br />
<br />
My granny was insane.<br />
As her madness ripened into death,<br />
my uncle, a miser,<br />
kept her in our store room<br />
wrapped in straw.<br />
<br />
My granny dried up, burst;<br />
her seeds flew out of the window.<br />
The sun came, and the rain,<br />
one seedling grew up into a tree,<br />
whose lusts bore me.<br />
<br />
Can I help writing poems<br />
About monkeys with teeth of gold?<br />
<br />
(1973)<br />
<br />
<b>5. LAL DED SPEAKS AGAINST BORDERS*</b><br />
<br />
<br />
Last night I saw a <i>chinar </i>tree<br />
scream and run.<br />
Its leaves and boughs were trembling;<br />
its roots oozed blood.<br />
It was afraid to look back.<br />
The sky had drowned in the Dal lake(1);<br />
it was now a river of fire.<br />
<br />
A terrible beast with an allegator`s body<br />
and a thousand dragon-faces<br />
emerged from the sparkling lake.<br />
Its eyes sent forth lightning.<br />
Dead infants dangled from its<br />
ten thousand claws.<br />
Whenever the venom<br />
from its forked tongue fell,<br />
brothers began to fight one another<br />
and the saffron and sandalwood trees<br />
withered in the wink of an eye.<br />
The dust-storm its breath roused<br />
put out the sun and led women astray.<br />
The little boats once filled with lotuses<br />
Now carried the unclaimed dead.<br />
It rained bones.<br />
<br />
Siva danced in the lifeless snow<br />
piled up on the ruins.<br />
His drum woke me up.<br />
<br />
<b>2</b><br />
<br />
I sit alone, desolate, my throat<br />
blue with the poison I drank.<br />
Where are those deodar trees<br />
that blossomed all over<br />
the moment I asked them about Siva?<br />
<br />
Saints of the valley, when did<br />
our words ooze away from hearts<br />
like water from unbaked pitchers?<br />
<br />
Springs and stars will not talk<br />
to those who believe in borders.<br />
I don`t believe in borders:<br />
Do the grains of sand know<br />
the name of the land where they lie?<br />
The roots of the apple trees<br />
reach for one another<br />
under the walls built by man.<br />
Wind, water and roots<br />
work against walls.<br />
Birds snap borderlines<br />
with their sharp wings.<br />
The lines on the map<br />
do not stop even a dry leaf.<br />
<br />
Let us be rivers.<br />
<br />
<b>3</b><br />
<br />
I journeyed from earth <b> </b><br />
to heaven and hell;<br />
I sought no word`s permission.<br />
The flesh remained here;<br />
the soul rode the rainbow.<br />
At times it saw an eagle<br />
torn into halves;<br />
clouds growing horns at times.<br />
Saw Pandavas` mother gather<br />
firewood in the forest,<br />
Krishna reaching Kalindi<br />
on the back of a mule,<br />
his clothes soiled.<br />
Saw Siva`s bull plough the field,<br />
Parvati roaming the hills<br />
Shepherding the lands,<br />
Sita singing from a tribal`s hovel;<br />
heard Lava`s laughter<br />
from a tiger`s cave.<br />
<br />
<b>4</b> <br />
<br />
I see the darkness at noon.<br />
We sit on volcanoes sipping wine,<br />
we dance on the edge of graves.<br />
Perching under the moon<br />
Glistening like Nandi`s eyes (2)<br />
the nightingale told me<br />
blood knows no borders.<br />
It is one`s own blood that<br />
continues to run in another.<br />
When the two touch each other in love<br />
their blood becomes one;<br />
touched with hate<br />
blood flows out screaming.<br />
Even clothes are borders.<br />
So I strip myself to attain my Siva<br />
naked like the breeze over the lake.<br />
My lips are wicks that burn,<br />
my breasts, flowers<br />
and my hips incense:<br />
I am an offering.<br />
<br />
Ask the peepal and the <i>palash,</i><br />
the soul has no religion;<br />
nature suckles everything.<br />
<br />
The blue sky is<br />
The throat of the Neelkant. (3)<br />
<br />
<b>5</b> <br />
<br />
I asked the skylark to reveal to me<br />
the meaning of her song before she died.<br />
She just said, the embers will die<br />
if they cease to gleam.<br />
I saw her song being<br />
baked for the hungry.<br />
It climbed the loom for those<br />
Shivering in the cold <br />
arched itself to form a roof<br />
for the shadeless.<br />
Then I understood<br />
the meaning of prayer.<br />
Each stone became Sambhu. (4)<br />
The cuckoo layed eggs in every vein,<br />
Every nerve became<br />
the string of a santoor. (5)<br />
<br />
I danced in the leopard`s carve.<br />
The word lost its boundaries.<br />
<br />
<b>6</b><br />
<br />
<br />
I am a lake<br />
of measureless blue.<br />
Siva, my shore<br />
of endless green.<br />
No iron curtains, not even hedgerows.<br />
Let rains and deer graze on either side.<br />
Hey, those trying to milk the wooden cow,<br />
arms are meant to hug.<br />
She who has conquered greed<br />
needs no sword; <br />
She who has conquered lust, no veil.<br />
<br />
Follow the stone`s way:<br />
it is both pestle and Natraj, (6)<br />
stain it not.<br />
Look here, my throat is<br />
Brahma`s chalice.<br />
A dove and a lion on my shoulders.<br />
I am the childhood of the future,<br />
The <i>badam</i> tree that has seven lives.<br />
<br />
I am the alphabet.<br />
<br />
<b>7</b><br />
<br />
I do not believe in borders.<br />
No fortress can stop those<br />
who move from birth to birth.<br />
We <i>were </i>in the past;<br />
We <i>will be</i> in the future.<br />
Infinity is ever fresh,<br />
fresh as well, the moon.<br />
<br />
O mind that is ever restless in the body<br />
like a baby on its mother`s lap,<br />
grow from small attachments<br />
to bigger ones,<br />
go to the place<br />
that has no directions.<br />
Consciousness has no borders<br />
outside the senses.<br />
Endless is the sunlight of the <i>jeevanmukta.</i> (7)<br />
<br />
Farewell to the vain mornings<br />
where blood-stench blooms<br />
Farewell to the rains of history<br />
that taste of gunpowder.<br />
<br />
Come back, vineyards,<br />
come back, my lambs,<br />
sparrows, lotus-ponds:<br />
the Infinite calls<br />
from within the sand grain.<br />
<br />
(1996)<br />
<br />
*Lal Ded (Lalleswari or Lalla Anfa), the Kashmiri woman saint-poet who left the unhappy Brahmin home of her in-laws to learn philosophy from the siddhas and Sufis, walked naked, rejecting caste, religious rituals and customs and singing her verses, <i>vakhs</i>. Here she comments on borders looking at today`s besieged Kashmir.<br />
<br />
1. The big lake in the Kashmir valley. 2. Nandi is Siva`s sacred bull. 3. Siva is called Neelkant, the blue-throated as he drank the poison that emerged with the nectar while the gods and demons together churned the milky ocean. 4. Sambhu, another synonym for Siva. 5. Santoor: a Kashmiri stringed instrument, originally<i> satatantri</i>, having 100 strings. 6. Natraj: The dancing Shiva. 7. The one who is detached and ready for deliverance.<br />
<br />
<b>6. SELF</b><br />
<br />
My mother didn`t believe<br />
when, in 1945 I appeared to her<br />
in a dream and told her<br />
I would be born to her the following year.<br />
<br />
My father recognized me<br />
As soon as he saw<br />
the mole below my left thumb.<br />
But mother believed to the very end<br />
that someone else had been born to her<br />
masquerading as me.<br />
<br />
Father and I pleaded with her;<br />
but dreams are not reliable witnesses.<br />
She went on waiting for that<br />
promised son till she died<br />
<br />
Only when she was reborn as my daughter<br />
did she admit it had really been me.<br />
<br />
But by then I had begun to doubt<br />
it was someone else`s heart<br />
that was beating within my body.<br />
<br />
One day I will retrieve my heart;<br />
my language too.<br />
<br />
(July 2010)<br />
<br />
<b>7. OLD WOMEN </b><br />
<br />
Old women do not fly on magic wands<br />
or make obscure prophecies<br />
from ominous forests.<br />
They just sit on vacant park benches<br />
in the quiet evenings<br />
calling doves by their names<br />
charming them with grains of maize.<br />
<br />
Or, trembling like waves<br />
they stand in endless queues in<br />
government hospitals<br />
or settle like sterile clouds<br />
in post offices awaiting mail<br />
from their sons abroad,<br />
long ago dead.<br />
<br />
They whisper like drizzle<br />
as they roam the streets<br />
with a lost gaze as though<br />
something they had thrown up<br />
had never returned to earth.<br />
<br />
They shiver like December nights<br />
in their dreamless sleep<br />
on shop verandahs.<br />
<br />
There are swings still<br />
in their half-blind eyes,<br />
lilies and Christmases<br />
in their failing memory.<br />
There is one folktale<br />
for each wrinkle on their skin.<br />
Their drooping breasts<br />
yet have milk enough to feed<br />
three generations<br />
who would never care for it.<br />
<br />
All dawns pass<br />
leaving them in the dark.<br />
They do not fear death,<br />
they died long ago.<br />
<br />
Old women once<br />
were continents.<br />
They had deep woods in them,<br />
lakes, mountains, volcanoes even,<br />
even raging gulfs.<br />
When the earth was in heat<br />
they melted, shrank,<br />
leaving only their maps.<br />
You can fold them <br />
and keep them handy:<br />
who knows, they might help you find<br />
your way home.<br />
<br />
(2007)<br />
<br />
<b>8. STAMMER</b><br />
<br />
Stammer is no handisap.<br />
It is a mode of speech.<br />
<br />
Stammer is the silence that falls<br />
between the word and its meaning,<br />
just as lameness is the<br />
silence taht falls between<br />
the word and the deed.<br />
<br />
Did stammer precede language<br />
or succeed it?<br />
Is it only a dialect or<br />
a language itself?<br />
These questions make<br />
the linguists stammer.<br />
<br />
Each time we stammer<br />
we are offering a sacrifice<br />
to the God of meanings.<br />
<br />
When a whole people stammer<br />
stammer becomes their mother-tongue:<br />
just as it is with us now.<br />
<br />
God too must have stammered<br />
when He created man.<br />
That is why each of man`s words<br />
carries several meanings.<br />
That is why everything he utters,<br />
from his prayers to his commands,<br />
stammers<br />
like poetry. <br />
<br />
(2002)<br />
<br />
<b>9. THAT`S ALL</b><br />
<br />
Like the dog marking<br />
its passage with piss<br />
I mark my passage<br />
with words that smell life:<br />
that`s all.<br />
<br />
Like the tusker leading its calves,<br />
their trunks hooked to its tail,<br />
to the forest stream, I lead my lines<br />
safe to a moist place:<br />
that`s all.<br />
<br />
Like the bloodstains of the prey<br />
lead to the leopard`s open mouth,<br />
my metaphors lead you<br />
to the sharp teeth of existence:<br />
that`s all.<br />
<br />
Like the lion marking<br />
its territory in the woods<br />
with its roar, I mark<br />
my territory in language:<br />
that`s all.<br />
<br />
Like the mother-cat<br />
carrying in its mouth<br />
its kitten to other homes,<br />
I carry my poems into other tongues:<br />
that is all.<br />
<br />
I am no Yayati.<br />
I gather my mustard from<br />
houses where people die.<br />
<br />
<b>10. THE MAD</b><br />
<br />
The mad have no caste<br />
nor religion. They transcend<br />
gender, live outside<br />
ideologies. We do not deserve<br />
their innocence.<br />
<br />
Their language is not of dreams<br />
but of another reality. Their love<br />
is moonlight. It overflows<br />
on the full moon day.<br />
<br />
Looking up they see<br />
gods we have never heard of. They are<br />
shaking their wings when<br />
we fancy they are<br />
shrugging their shoulders. They hold<br />
even flies have souls<br />
and the green god of grasshoppers<br />
leaps up on thin legs.<br />
<br />
At times they see trees bleed, hear<br />
lions roaring from the streets. At times<br />
they watch Heaven gleaming<br />
in a kitten`s eyes, just as<br />
we do. But they alone can hear<br />
ants sing in a chorus.<br />
<br />
While putting the air<br />
they are taming a cyclone<br />
Over the Mediteranean. With<br />
their heavy tread, they stop<br />
a volcano from erupting.<br />
<br />
They have another measure<br />
of time. Our century is<br />
their second. Twenty seconds,<br />
and they reach Christ; six more,<br />
they are with the Buddha.<br />
<br />
In a single day, they reach<br />
the big bang at the beginning.<br />
<br />
They go on walking restless for,<br />
their earth is boiling still.<br />
<br />
The mad are not<br />
mad like us.<br />
<br />
(1996)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
**********<br />
<br />
<br />
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We welcome poems in English translations from Indian poets to be published in this archive.<br />
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<u> </u>KAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5472379745874718922.post-57152088950887795482010-12-15T03:10:00.000-08:002010-12-24T22:53:50.932-08:00POETRY: THE VERY FOUNDATION OF CIVILIZATION (Editorial)This blog is an archive of Indian poetry in English translations. It is an ambitious project: our aim is to make available English translations of all good Indian language poems in one site.<br />
<br />
These are some of the problems we face:<br />
<br />
1. Most of the Indian language poems are published in journals or books. These are published by the little groups. Most of them stop publishing after some time. Their addresses are also changed as the persons who own these organizations change their residences. Therefore it is very difficult to obtain copies of these translations.<br />
<br />
2. We find it difficult to trace the copyright holders. Even when we do, and write for permission to publish their works in this site, most of the Indian writers, proverbially, do not reply to letters.<br />
<br />
In this situation we require readers and writers to help us in the following way:<br />
<br />
1. Please let us know about the good translations of good Indian poems.<br />
2. If you come across any good poem--unpublished or published in print-form--please send them to us along with the author`s/copyright holder`s address or permission.<br />
3. We request poets to send English translations of their poems to us. Or, if English translations are not available, addresses of the persons who can translate their poems.<br />
4. We make every effort to obtain permission from the copyright holders before publishing the works they own. If we fail in spite of our best efforts, we will act in the best interest of poetry and the poets. For example, we have failed in tracing the copyright holder of Muktibodh`s poetry in English translation. We sincerely feel we will be serving the interests of this great poet and his poetry by publishing them and thus making them available to the poetry-lovers of the world.<br />
<br />
Poetry makes subtle use of language. Bodhi Trust believes that language is the very foundation of civilization. It is not the machines, not our houses, not our cars or the aeroplanes or such things--but our languages which preserve and pass on the memories and experiences--on which the civilizations are built--from one generation to another, from one language to another, from one culture to another. Therefore, poetry, which makes subtle use of language, is very essential for any civilization to grow--to grow intellectually and emotionally.<br />
<br />
This site is also intended to help Indian poets to come together; to help them talk to each other through their poetry; and also help them to have a dialogue with other poets of the world through English translations of their poems.<br />
<br />
Readers and critics can comment on the individual poems and poetry in general. We believe in dialogue; lively discussions; and interaction of ideas.KAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5472379745874718922.post-11654211304780295102010-12-11T03:27:00.000-08:002010-12-11T03:27:14.584-08:00SONG OF THE EARTH: ADIGA`S BHUMIGITATranslated from Kannada by A. K. Ramanujan with M.G.Krishnamurthi.<br />
The original Kannada poem by Gopalakrishna Adiga was first published in 1954.<br />
<br />
<br />
Birth:<br />
On the bottom rung of the mountain slopes<br />
roll, roll only thrice, to reach the oil cauldron of the boiling sea.<br />
She waved coconut fronds and beckoned with her hands<br />
and shook for me the rattle of the areca bunch.<br />
She sat at the turning center of the sugarcane press<br />
and bequeathed the eternal downpour of the heartbeat.<br />
With paddy, wheat, ragi and corn,<br />
out of winnowing fans she fed me a song of the flesh.<br />
She laid me down on a hill-top of fragrances, of jasmine, bell-flowers and <i>jaji.</i><br />
She rinsed me in the sweetness of birdvoices and bee-sounds.<br />
To the apocalypse of the cloud in the sky<br />
she joined below the flames of life.<br />
<br />
Early Youth:<br />
In the coppice, under each tree, thick with fruit, shooting seedlings,<br />
groaning and laughter.<br />
In the nooks and heights touched by the magic wand of rain<br />
the earth is all seedling, sprout, plant, tree, grass.<br />
To the garden flower, all over the body are the narcotic lights of the rainbow;<br />
play and noise.<br />
The bee with clinking ankle bells danced, pressing the flower-cup to his lips.<br />
I, the deep-sea diver, plunged deep deep down from where I sat in the back-yard.<br />
As the gree waves lashed and threw up foam,<br />
a storm pounded<br />
and thunder clapped;<br />
I, blinded by the light of undersea pearls<br />
searched till sunset.<br />
Though the lips were plucked from the toddy pot, imagination<br />
was still looking for the source of the spring.<br />
<br />
On the fence, all round the paddy fields, in the garden, in every inch of the woods,<br />
maternity was everywhere: pangs, laughter, pain;<br />
the beauty of the stump flowering, screams and laughter:<br />
nurses and doctors all over the nursing home,<br />
four men always behind their back;<br />
in the cradle shops bamboo is quite cheap;<br />
this priest of the birth-rites is expert at death-rites too.<br />
<br />
Crowds of young things played in the mud,<br />
slid down and crawled on the slippery bark,<br />
beat their wings in the zero-streets;<br />
clapped and danced in the sewers.<br />
Parasites, leeches feeding even on mushroom corpses<br />
Spawned by the burning midday sun.<br />
<br />
A thirst for light in the morning:<br />
the sheen of the hood-pearl of Kalindi in the depths of the Yamuna.<br />
Every door had eyes, windows had eyes, home was eyes,<br />
the town, the woods were all eyes.<br />
The child-like camera eye was turning, throwing<br />
muslin curtains on dark-room walls rammed with reel after reel.<br />
In the roaring of the serial waves at the estuary of Inner and Outer<br />
are pearls, gold, emerald, opal, reds and yellows.<br />
Whereever you fall the magic that binds the cobra;<br />
Agastya`s restless itch on the lips.<br />
If you open your eyes, the screeching of many colours--<br />
earfuls of green, white, yellow and red.<br />
Like a cat with a smear of ghee on the brow, I,<br />
I went round and round, tail erect in a topspin.<br />
<br />
<br />
She clasped me to her heart;<br />
in love, more than a mother;<br />
she put me in her womb again and again<br />
and pined for me;<br />
she sang a lullaby breaking the neck of a bird,<br />
she beheaded a plant and fed me snacks.<br />
<br />
In the loving embrace of Dhrtarashtra, Bhima crumbled;<br />
but nowhere could I see Krishna`s protection.<br />
My legs are rooted in her heart. I tried in vain<br />
to bluff my way to the kingdom of the stars.<br />
Like a eunuch I searched for the endless last road in the sewer of my mind.<br />
I am smeared with the dark sin of Oedipus;<br />
I rode a tractor; I ploughed and harrowed;<br />
I sowed and raised atom-bomb grains;<br />
garnering a harvest of deadly germs, I rejoiced.<br />
<br />
The birds of the sky call me again and again;<br />
sixty summons to the court of winds.<br />
The ghouls rumour around my ears, and torment me in whispers again and again.<br />
As the drone of the magician`s evil spells grew louder<br />
I got mad at myself;<br />
I dashed against the pillars and the ceiling of the cage;<br />
Screamed and beat my wings, plucked out my feathers and<br />
piled them up on my breakfast china.<br />
<br />
<br />
II<br />
<br />
<br />
The young colt neighed and danced: all around were hay and grain;<br />
a gold bit in the mouth, and reins of diamond;<br />
on the head a gaudy tricolored feather;<br />
behind him, the clatter of a screeching horse-cart.<br />
The harvest dance goes on till the back is broken;<br />
but then--<br />
'The body is heavy, the mind is heavy.'<br />
'Monkey, monkey, show them how a new bride goes to her mother-in-law's.'<br />
'Brother, the only refuge is the Lord at Tirupati.'<br />
'Our mother, the palm tree mother, shows heaven to those who pay.'<br />
Vedas, the manuals, mythologies, hymns, the reciter's legends, and offerings of worship--<br />
the wick-making in front of a broken lamp with the oil running out.<br />
Even then this mother does not leave us:<br />
she grates the heart-shell<br />
over red-pepper smoke.<br />
When you leave at last on the bamboo palanquin, she doesn't come out--<br />
she is in labour again.<br />
<br />
<br />
III<br />
<br />
<br />
In the enchanted lacquer palace of mother earth<br />
the memory of Hastinapura did not catch fire.<br />
Whether it is the creation of Maya or of Suyodhna,<br />
one need not worry till the match is struck.<br />
<br />
I enjoyed myself there; I slid on the smooth floor<br />
from the outer yard to the darkness of the inner yard.<br />
<br />
''I said, 'Who stands there, Mother?'<br />
'Mother?' 'What illusion.' Pass, you fool.' '<br />
'Chandi, Chamundi, tell me what you want?'<br />
'Are you man enough to sacrifice me?'<br />
<br />
Who flung her womb in the gutter?<br />
Who is this divine flirt with a false pregnancy?<br />
Karna floated over the Ganga and became Radheya.<br />
Kunti will not come except to kill.<br />
This woman's body is th ecemetery of the maternity home;<br />
she is auto-sexual, loves to masturbate.<br />
Tigers, cheetahs, elephants, cows, goats, monkeys, donkeys,<br />
rose-apple and mango, the jack, the wild <i>jali</i> and jasmine--<br />
these are her natural progeny.<br />
But why did she become suddenly hetero-sexual just when I, misshapen demon, arrived?<br />
<br />
They left me blind-folded in the woods.<br />
All around they tightened the barbed wire.<br />
Brine to drink; a piece of fire to eat;<br />
they chained me hand and foot so that I could dance:<br />
<br />
I am the guest; six friends came to host me.<br />
A burning candle: all around a candle-wax hill, a stream:<br />
at last, even the wick is cinders, cinders.<br />
<br />
Mother earth is stp-mother.<br />
Suruchi to Uttanapada: to Dhruva, the pole star,<br />
the path to the skies is only through the woods.<br />
The silent chant of the Forest dwellers is the open raod.<br />
Take all this wardrobe you gave:<br />
this coat, this shirt, these trousers.<br />
Even this broken hut is yours.<br />
Here you can`t find Space unless you strip to the skin.<br />
<br />
Or else I cannot walk erect with my equals on the road.<br />
Unless it is naked, how can the sword carve out and throw away<br />
the invisible armour, the ear-rings and the nectar-pot in the heart?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
IV<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Visvamitra said: "Trisanku, go to heaven."<br />
The leather-bat, hanging like loose bark on a tree.<br />
It`s rough, the scene they make in the sky-cage among golden threads,<br />
no less than pulling out a leg sunk in the mire.<br />
The mire is foul: the placenta<br />
rots at birth and shrouds a child`s games with epilepsy.<br />
<br />
Mud--it would be something if this was only a clay doll--<br />
but even in this doll, the trick of breath.<br />
Beyond this trick, the pure chant of light, a conspiracy.<br />
The air is a road with no footprints.<br />
<br />
Look here, this is hard:<br />
if dust goes to dust<br />
air to air<br />
sound to wind<br />
space to space<br />
why should it bother?<br />
still, something remains:<br />
an electric nerve--<br />
new from beyond the stars and the nebulae;<br />
the horrid shape that rises from within the nether world.<br />
A cleverness which joins one to another and makes them dance.<br />
<br />
Some say--"We don't know where the switch is."<br />
Some say--"We have forgotten the address of the main office."<br />
The rest say--"It is somewhere here."<br />
<br />
In darkness, on the narrow blind alley<br />
one has to crawl fumbling for the wall.<br />
<br />
The blind man rides astraddle on the lame.<br />
We have to wait and see how it goes on the road.<br />
<br />
<br />
*****************<br />
<br />
Note:<br />
One can buy Bodhi Trust publications by remitting money directly to our bank account. For details, please visit: http://devasaahitya.blogspot.com.<br />
<br />
If you want to donate money to Bodhi Trust, you can remit money to: Bodhi Trust, SB Account no. 1600101008058, Canara Bank, Yenmur 574328, Dakshina Kannada District, Karnataka, India.IFSC CNRB0001600. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3oVBkNS_yXKPQY_n-z3rYhyphenhyphen82Ga-cD7pmfV4JJFgoZ0PQp399Ud1JSp8i9YT3S-99tyFQWi8LbDOpTrRBMkvlJKc9N1sfzmXH9q3ntp8_V5yCtFLpi4YcjfoMScAZ61kldyBsoZotQoH/s1600/New+Image+5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg3oVBkNS_yXKPQY_n-z3rYhyphenhyphen82Ga-cD7pmfV4JJFgoZ0PQp399Ud1JSp8i9YT3S-99tyFQWi8LbDOpTrRBMkvlJKc9N1sfzmXH9q3ntp8_V5yCtFLpi4YcjfoMScAZ61kldyBsoZotQoH/s320/New+Image+5.JPG" width="296" /></a></div>Bodhi Trust is an organization that runs on no-loss no-profit basis.KAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5472379745874718922.post-92046417900528376952010-12-10T23:43:00.000-08:002010-12-24T22:53:04.344-08:00The Business of Writing: EditorialThis blog intends to publish Indian writings--chiefly poetry, and other writings which make use of words the way the poets do--in English translations. Those who write in Indian languages--mainly poets--may please send their poems in English translations to bodhitrustk@gmail.com if they intend to publish their poems in this blog. The selection of the poems is left to the discretion of the editor, Ramachandra Deva, Kannada writer.<br />
<br />
This is a small attempt to create an archive of Indian poetry in English translations, and to bring the poets and other writers writing in Indian languages together.<br />
<br />
By Indian writings, we mean any writing written in any Indian language, not necessarily the 23 languages accepted by the Constitution. The only criteria is that it should be good.KAVYODYOGAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07686796645581781267noreply@blogger.com2