Poems Kuzhur Wilson
The past
Arrives with the fragrance of leaves
The previous life
And
The lives before
I’ve maintained personal relationships
With trees
A tree
Had a hollow
And in the hollow
Was a bird
Who had
A boy friend
I remember
Feeding them
Wheat grains
Once
Why say this now
You wonder?
Had wanted to tell this
To you
All along
But, forgot
A bird
Was squawking endlessly
From a nearby tree
When you had called me
For the first time
Remember?
It was the same bird
Which died
Even after
I fed it
Wheat grains
All my previous lives
I had inquired to the leaves
A thousand times
About that lone bird
Will say tomorrow
Will say tomorrow
The birds
Teased me
Everyday
I was distressed
By that bird’s cries
That had interrupted
Your talk.
Had forgotten
To share that then.
Translation : Shyma . P
Dear source of my happiness
When I write to you
I forget words
I forget
I am a poet
Once again
Like a farmer
Who wishes to plough
The whole land
But doesn’t
Even an acre
Who doesn’t finish
Sowing seeds
Even in a cent
Like the many seeds
That don’t sprout
Dear source of my happiness
When I write to you
I fail
More miserably
Than that farmer
Dear source of my happiness
When I write to you
I require
The ink of a thousand seas
But my seeds of blue
Fall astray
Unsow-able
Even in a single page
How many of them will sprout
See
Even my greeting
In this poem
“The source of my happiness”
Is stolen
From
My prayers in childhood
To the Holy mother
Dear source of my happiness
When I write to you
Dear source of my sorrow.
Translation : Shyma . P
Varghese has no home
Varghese has no home.
Stays in his workplace.
Jesus’s very own man.
Big rosary around his neck.
And a matching wooden cross.
He gardens around the yard
On days of no work.
Holds a deep grudge
Against the trees around.
Doomed are they the moment
His eyes settle on them.
Asked him once whether
His rancor was because
Jesus was crucified on wood.
Or, was it the wheezing that
the Acacia trees caused?
Or, was it the itchy worms
from the soft wood trees?
He said time and again
‘Brother, I love the trees
More than you love them.’
Have seen many times
The birds from the trees
Chopped down by Varghese
Looking for their nests.
Clearing the bushes along
The road to the office was
Varghese’s job for the day.
When I went out for a smoke
Glowing was he about
How the place gleamed.
Midnight, after work,
Was driving along the path
Shorn clean by Varghese.
In the blaze of the headlight
A hare dashed frantically
Looking for its bush.
Luna
one morning
Sunilettan came
with a puppy.
i was writing a grand thesis on the orphaned existence of discarded people.
when the tether was removed
i gave her a dry fish.
did not eat it.
gave a fulsome bone.
did not touch it.
gave the milk from the ad.
did not even regard it.
kissed her.
did not show any reaction.
because she came on a monday
i named her luna.
whenever i called her
she wagged her tail.
wagged her ears.
luna luna luna
i whispered thrice
in her ears.
like the golden peaks
of mookaambika,
he sharpened his ears.
me and he did not play
any game.
before we could,
she came under the wheels
of a vehicle.
without autopsy
without a second look at the body
i buried him
under the hibiscus tree
with many blooms
falling to the ground.
two of the flowers
went to a karnataka guy’s
father’s death rites.
some turned into hibiscus juice.
some were visited by butterflies.
frequently,
the earth where luna was buried
forgot her.
me too.
another noon,
a german dog named adi
was found playing a game
of placing fish bones
on luna’s tomb.
no dog will
cease to play
till the question hung in the air
“my little sister, you have forgotten me?”*
Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Ra Sh