ஏழு கவிதைகள்

 
கடந்த சில நாட்களில் நான் வாசித்தவற்றில் எனக்குப் பிடித்தமான கவிதைகள். 


 


This is a Photograph of Me


   Margaret Atwood


 


It was taken some time ago.


At first it seems to be


a smeared


print: blurred lines and grey flecks


blended with the paper;


 


then, as you scan


it, you see in the left-hand corner


a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree


(balsam or spruce) emerging


and, to the right, halfway up


what ought to be a gentle


slope, a small frame house.


 


In the background there is a lake,


and beyond that some low hills.


 


(The photograph was taken


the day after I drowned.


I am in the lake, in the center


of the picture, just under the surface.


 


It is difficult to say where


precisely, or to say


how large or small I am:


the effect of the water


on light is a distortion


 


but if you look long enough,


eventually


you will be able to see me.)


 


***


 


Poem For The End of The Century


  Czeslaw Milosz 


 


When everything was fine


And the notion of sin had vanished


And the earth was ready


In universal peace


To consume and rejoice


Without creeds and utopias,


 


I, for unknown reasons,


Surrounded by the books


Of prophets and theologians,


Of philosophers, poets,


Searched for an answer,


Scowling, grimacing,


Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.


 


What oppressed me so much


Was a bit shameful.


Talking of it aloud


Would show neither tact nor prudence.


It might even seem an outrage


Against the health of mankind.


 


Alas, my memory


Does not want to leave me


And in it, live beings


Each with its own pain,


Each with its own dying,


Its own trepidation.


 


Why then innocence


On paradisal beaches,


An impeccable sky


Over the church of hygiene?


Is it because that


Was long ago?


 


To a saintly man


–So goes an Arab tale–


God said somewhat maliciously:


“Had I revealed to people


How great a sinner you are,


They couldn`t praise you.”


 


“And I,” answered the pious one,


“Had I unveiled to them


How merciful you are,


They wouldn`t care for you.”


 


To whom should I turn


With that affair so dark


Of pain and also guilt


In the structure of the world,


If either here below


Or over there on high


No power can abolish


The cause and the effect?


 


Don`t think, don`t remember


The death on the cross,


Though everyday He dies,


The only one, all-loving,


Who without any need


Consented and allowed


To exist all that is,


Including nails of torture.


 


Totally enigmatic.


Impossibly intricate.


Better to stop speech here.


This language is not for people.


Blessed be jubilation.


Vintages and harvests.


Even if not everyone


Is granted serenity.


 


**


 


Fire on the Hills


-Robinson Jeffers


 


The deer were bounding like blown leaves


Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire;


I thought of the smaller lives that were caught.


Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the terror


Of the deer was beautiful; and when I returned


Down the back slopes after the fire had gone by, an eagle


Was perched on the jag of a burnt pine,


Insolent and gorged, cloaked in the folded storms of his shoulders


He had come from far off for the good hunting


With fire for his beater to drive the game; the sky was merciless


Blue, and the hills merciless black,


The sombre-feathered great bird sleepily merciless between them.


I thought, painfully, but the whole mind,


The destruction that brings an eagle from heaven is better than men.


 


**


 


Touch


Octavio Paz


My hands


open the curtains of your being


clothe you in a further nudity


uncover the bodies of your body


My hands


invent another body for your body


**


 


Preface to a Twenty-volume Suicide Note


Amiri Baraka


 


Lately, I`ve become accustomed to the way


The ground opens up and envelopes me


Each time I go out to walk the dog.


Or the broad edged silly music the wind


Makes when I run for a bus…


 


Things have come to that.


 


And now, each night I count the stars.


And each night I get the same number.


And when they will not come to be counted,


I count the holes they leave.


 


Nobody sings anymore.


 


And then last night I tiptoed up


To my daughter`s room and heard her


Talking to someone, and when I opened


The door, there was no one there…


Only she on her knees, peeking into


Her own clasped hands


**


A Cat in an Empty Apartment


-Wislawa Szymborska


 


Dying–you wouldn`t do that to a cat.


For what is a cat to do


in an empty apartment?


Climb up the walls?


Brush up against the furniture?


Nothing here seems changed,


and yet something has changed.


Nothing has been moved,


and yet there`s more room.


And in the evenings the lamp is not on.


 


One hears footsteps on the stairs,


but they`re not the same.


Neither is the hand


that puts a fish on the plate.


 


Something here isn`t starting


at its usual time.


Something here isn`t happening


as it should.


Somebody has been here and has been,


and then has suddenly disappeared


and now is stubbornly absent.


 


All the closets have been scanned


and all the shelves run through.


Slipping under the carpet and checking came to nothing.


The rule has even been broken and all the papers scattered.


What else is there to do?


Sleep and wait.


 


Just let him come back,


let him show up.


Then he`ll find out


that you don`t do that to a cat.


Going toward him


faking reluctance,


slowly,


on very offended paws.


And no jumping, purring at first.


**


I Do My Best Alone at Night


 


by Gunnar Ekelof (trans. by Robert Bly)


 


I do my best alone at night


alone with the secrets my lamp has


set free from the day that asks too much


bent over a labor never finished


the combinations of solitaire. What then


if the solitaire always defeats me


I have the whole night. Somewhere


chance is sleeping in the cards. Somewhere


a truth has been said once already


then why worry? Can it ever


be said again? In my absentmindedness


I will listen to the wind at night


to the flutes of the Corybants


and to the speech of the men who wander forever


 

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