అనువాదలహరి

మనసులో మాట … ఛార్ల్స్ బ్యుకోవ్స్కీ

English: Some say I'm lucky ....... ....... bu...
English: Some say I’m lucky ……. ……. but you’re the lucky one – ‘cos I’m a panther really. The cat is peeping over the wall at Netton Old Farmhouse. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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పక్కమీదకి గెంతే

చావు-పిల్లి కోసం

ఎదురుచూస్తూ,

నా భార్యను

తలుచుకుంటుంటే

నాకు బాధ వేస్తోంది

.

రేపు

కొయ్యలా

బిర్రబిగుసుకుపోయి

తెల్లగా పాలిపోయిన

ఈ శరీరాన్ని చూసి

ఒక సారి కదిపి,

“ఏమండీ”

అని ఏడుస్తుంది.

కానీ,

ఈ “ఏమండీ” పలకడు

.

నన్ను బాధించేది

నా చావు కాదు.

అయ్యో,

ఈ పనికిమాలిన శరీరపుకుప్పతో

నా భార్య మిగిలిపోతుందే అని!

నాకు ఆమెతో చెప్పాలని ఉంది

ఆమెపక్కని

ఎన్ని రాత్రుళ్ళు పడుకున్నా

ఆమెతో

ఎన్ని పనికిమాలిన

వాగ్వివాదాలు చేసినా,

మనసురంజించినవీ,

కష్టపెట్టినవీ మాటాడుకున్నా

ఎన్నడూ చెప్పనిమాట

ఇప్పుడు నిర్భయంగా చెప్పొచ్చు:

నేను నిన్ను ప్రేమిస్తున్నాను.

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ఛార్ల్స్ బ్యుకోవ్స్కీ

(ఆగష్టు 16, 1920 – మార్చి 9, 1994)

అమెరికను కవీ, నవలకారుడూ, కథా రచయితా.

Charles Bukowski
Charles Bukowski (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Confession

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waiting for death
like a cat
that will jump on the
bed

I am so very sorry for
my wife

she will see this
stiff
white
body
shake it once, then
maybe
again

“Hank!”

Hank won’t
answer.

it’s not my death that
worries me, it’s my wife
left with this
pile of
nothing.

I want to
let her know
though
that all the nights
sleeping
beside her

even the useless
arguments
were things
ever splendid

and the hard
words
I ever feared to
say
can now be
said:

I love
you.

Charles Bukowski

(August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994)

American poet, novelist and short story writer

Bukowski is the ‘Godfather’ for Dirty realism, a north american literary movement, where the writers write about the untouched side of contemporary life – a deserted husband, an unwed mother, a car thief, a pickpocket or a drug addict. Written in a detached and dispassionate way, ranging between comedy and savageness. These insistently compassionate stories are characterized by an economy of words and a focus on surface description. Authors working within the genre tend to eschew adverbs and prefer context to dictate meaning. The characters in dirty realist stories and novels tend to be ordinary, unremarkable people, often with few resources and little money.
Related articles

Kapardi … Viswanatha Satyanarayana

Kapardi

(A dream turned into a story ) Andhra Patrika Ugadi Special 1949.

***

I knew Kapardi for the last two years. And that acquaintance developed into some kind of friendship. My respect for him was waxing by the day. He might be around thirty. He was a lawyer by profession. Though there was not much of an income from that, he was getting an annual income of about four thousand from his paternal property. Apart from Law, he was a graduate in English and was very good at Sanskrit and Telugu literatures. He had some initiation to music but was more reputed for his knowledge of both theory and practice of Bharatanatyam. So, when Kapardi, a legend in my view, invited me to his house, how could I refuse? Sure, one might say it was out of friendship, but the friendship was only namesake. Deep within my heart, I venerate Kapardi as my guru.

For long, a curiosity  “how his wife would be like” used to bother me. For such a Manmadha-like figure as him, a connoisseur of music and scholarship was she equally matching?… Was she as beautiful? Was she as literate? So when he invited, though for the sake of etiquette I first said, “I promise to come next time,” I deeply longed within to go. He then complained, “you gave me the same reply when I asked you last time.”  I needed no further excuse.

His was not a house … but a new palatial building. One would find all modern architectural nuances there. I stretched myself in the easy chair in the verandah. It was my long desire to hear him sing or perform a small abhinaya for my pleasure whenever he could. Hesitating for about half an hour, I was tempted to put forward my request. “Do you want that only I should perform?” he asked with a smile. I was start.”What? Will he ask his wife to perform? Does he feel so friendly for me at heart as to ask his wife to perform before me?” I wondered. He then replied, “Not me, but I ask my boy to perform” he said. I was reassured. I did not speak a word more. Kapardi called out his boy.  I was in doubt if he had really called out his son.  Because what he called out was neither a Telugu nor a Sanskrit name. It was a European name… Ronald.

He was a four-year child. He came to us. He had very white complexion, reddish hair and catty eyes. He looked a typical european. But his looks, his childish mien, and the sweetness of his smile reflected his Telugu bearing. I was unable to reconcile at the contradictions. Kapardi was watching the look of surprise in me.

“Child! Just enact a Muvva Gopala Padam” Kapardi said. The boy felt shy at first looking at me. That bashfulness revealed a typical Telugu upbringing.  Kapardi cuddled the boy, coaxing and reassuring him saying ‘Don’t be shy. He is our friend,’  and himself initiated by rendering the first few words of the burden of the song. The child slowly got over his initial diffidence, paced two steps, swung around stretching his hands babbling the rest of the burden of the song in his sweet little childy way, and seized with bashfulness suddenly, ran and jumped into Kapardi’s arms. Kapardi embraced him bursting with laughter, patted him on his back, kissed him and took him inside the house and left him there.  How I was all the while? I was still … like a statue. Bereft of any awareness without, my stream of thoughts was flowing like a boundless river within.

“Did he marry a european girl? But nobody had ever told me that he went abroad. If his wife were a european lady, why would she hide inside this long? She might have already been here on the verandah to discharge her hostly responsibilities. Then, how would he speak to her,  in Telugu? Perhaps, he would converse only in English…. There was no end to this train.

“You seem lost in thoughts. What are you thinking about,” Kapardi asked. I came out of my trance instantly, hearing him and spoke incoherently, “nothing… the boy…it’s good.” Did he laugh at me?  Was he overwhelmed with grief? Did he recollect his past?  Did he look at me pleasantly? Or, was he all at the same time?

He did not speak to me for ten minutes. It was ten at night.  I thought I might have blabbed something foolish. I felt very embarrassed and wanted to leave, but could not say that. Noting my disposition to leave the place, he said,”You are going to take your dinner here tonight”. His word was a statute. He was my lord and I was his subject.

By the time we finished our dinner it was eleven. We were sitting in the open and conversing. Kapardi got up and asked me to follow. We went inside the house. He took me to an adjacent room where Ronald was sleeping on a smooth high bed. Kapardi watched the boy closely for a while standing by the bed. I had also watched him. Then, Kapardi silently walked out and I followed him. We sat in our chairs in the open.  Kapardi began his story….

1

I was twenty-two then. I lost my parents in my childhood.  My maternal uncle who restored me all my property died when I was twenty. I was looking after my affairs myself for the past two years.  I was getting an annual income above five thousand. You might be aware… my uncle tried to get me married while he was alive. I said I would not marry till I passed my B.A. And, knowing my adamance, he turned down all proposals.  And after his death, people had to approach me directly for any proposal. Nobody dared to approach me directly, and the few that dared, I sent them off with some brusque replies.

However, it was not that I was not interested in marriage.  There was a story behind. listen.

Once I visited a village to attend the marriage of my friend. As was the custom those days, they arranged a dance programme of nauch-girls. As my friends were aware I had some knowledge of Bharatanatyam, they pushed me to the fore when they were dancing. There I saw a fourteen year old girl in that band.  Her complexion, her fine sharp nose and the setting of her eyes on the face, the confluence of lips, the lustre of the ends of her eyes spilling over her cheeks, and the peeping youth through her body like the glistening of the flowering banana, the innocence of her eyes, and her sly capering looks at me, whether advised or on her own, and the consequent bashfulness … was a singular experience.

We returned from marriage. I developed a distaste for food. I thought my thinking was going perverse because  there were no elders to censure. But, however rationally I reasoned, I did not find anything wrong with my thinking. I decided to marry her, if I were to marry.  But what was she to me?  I was not a social reformer.  Neither  had I ever had any sympathies for the reformist ideas earlier. Of course, I was not against them as well. My entertaining the idea of marrying her was not out of any spirit for reformation, but out of my belief that God had created her for me; And, me for her.

“Oh! How was I so infatuated of her?  She was a child of a harlot family. Would she remain chaste for me? Shall I remain her paramour?”

Tut! However hard I tried, I could not reconcile myself.

So I hurried up. I enquired my recently married friend and others where she hailed from. They laughed at me. I went to that village, located her house, and visited her house stealthily after fall of night.

Why should I bother you with all other details. They thought I came there to deflower her. I thought of informing the purpose of my coming to them gradually.  Her name was Mrinalini.

Mrinalini and I lived together for a year. Meanwhile, rumours started circulating among friends. I raised the issue before her mother any number of times, but every time she used to pacify me saying,”what is there? You can marry her later. Why do you hurry it up?”

However, Mrinalini and I lived like a married couple. I taught her Bharatanatyam. Her voice was a veritable treat to the ears.

In the bliss of her company I enjoyed, I never seriously entertained the idea of marrying her or to emancipate her from the vile environment she was locked up. As the year came to an end, I understood that her mother and sisters were in no mood to send her with me. Had I asked Mrinalini seriously to follow me, perhaps she might have.  She was only fifteen then.  They warned that they would file a suit against me if I made any attempts to take her away with me as she was still a minor then. I was perplexed. Mrinalini and I wept embracing each other. I had a feeling that Mrinalini was not mature enough to understand the nobility of our relationship. I gave them any amount for the past one year . From the day they refused to marry her to me, the flow of money ceased. And things took a strange turn all of a sudden. One day when I returned to their house Mrinalini was not at home and they said she went out to visit her relatives.  A week passed. But there was no trace of her. And my mind changed.

I was a bachelor of Arts by that time.  In my anger, and grief, one evening I left for Madras and joined the College of Law.  It was a two-year study. Every night I thought of her. During the day I could forget her. But, whenever I was lost in thoughts debating about my action late into the night, the conclusion was always remained the same. She’s my wife. I wont marry another.  I  feared that her mother and sisters might drag her into prostitution. Even if they did, I had decided to marry her. If she were to refuse me, I resolved to remain loyal to her and lead the rest of my life that way.

2

I passed my Law examinations.  I went directly from Madras to their place. My friends there invited me to their home. But I refused.

“Hey! It seems you did not lose hopes of her. let it be so.  But you must see her performing. These two years she became so famous.  They say there is no equal to her in Bharatanatyam these parts. She will  accept no invitation. And shall not perform in marriages. We are so eager to see her performance. And if you come along, it is very likely she might relent and we would be lucky,” they pleaded. They also told strange stories about her….that she had a son …  a european had kept her…that she had joined Congress as was a volunteer for last one year… that she always wore Khaddar…and, that it was suspected she was suffering from TB for the last six months. Not one… but in thousands. My head reeled. As much my hopes were dashed and dejection seized me, as much my interest in her doubled and the yearning to visit her instantly grew. My feet dragged me behind them to her house.

I sat in the verandah.  As I was sitting there, Mrinalini came there. She was wearing a white saree. She did not seem wizened. I looked at her in bewilderment. But there was no surprise in her look. Neither was she overjoyed. She showed no reservations either. She behaved just as she did two years ago when we lived  blissfully together. “Was it, what all these people had said, true Or false?

Then my friends said, “we came here to see your performance, Mrinalini.” She immediately came near me, and leaning and resting her bosom on my left shoulder as she would have done two years ago whenever I had asked her to perform,  she asked, “what do you want me to perform?” The moment I felt the touch of her body, I noticed she was running high temperature. But she did not seem to feel it.  I found it strange. How could I discuss it among so many people around. I asked her to perform one Keertana I taught her. It was about “a mother kissing her child.” Mrinalini acted that keertana. I never saw such divine performance before. I did not teach her. My God!  Those shades of affection in her eyes… and the curves the chin and the cheeks assumed as she bent her face to look at the child! It’s imprints were still green in my memory. I could not resist the mental tension. I was afraid that she might collapse under the burden of her performance. Unable to contain my emotional upsurge, I left the place without speaking a word to anybody .

  3

To the north of that town there was a stream. It was a perennial.  There was no bridge across that. People had to walk through the stream to cross it.  A new township had developed on the other side. Her house was in the old town, on this side of the stream.

The sun was about to set. I reached the stream steeped in my grief. I felt someone was walking beside me.  When I looked aside,  I saw Mrinalini. And this child was under her arm. He was one year old by then. She was wearing a chequered Pondur hand-loom saree with a Jari border. I did not ask her anything. Nor did she speak to me anything. I understood that she was coming with me without informing at home. Darkness fell by the time we reached the stream.  Yet, people could recognise each other in that darkness.  The water was knee-deep. If Mrinalini were to get into the water, her saree would get wet completely. So I crossed the stream holding her in my arms. People looked at me in wonder. In the new township a hotel was run in a big building. it was an Iyyar’s hotel. Where should I take her? I wanted to take a room for her for the night and bring her to my place the following day.  I asked Iyyar for a room but he said there was no room. After repeated requests he vacated a room in the terrace and accommodated her.

“What do people think of me if I take you with me now? You are not fit for me to marry you. You go and stay with your mother. And I remain a bachelor imagining you as my wife,” I said. By the time I returned taking dinner, her mother and sisters were there. They perhaps tried to persuade her to get back home. And seeing them all in her room, I left and did not return for the whole night. Neither  had I had any sleep that night.

I was sure that she might have left the place with her mother. But a ray of hope somewhere lingered that she might not have. A doubt.

When I visited her room the following morning, she and the child were sitting there in that room. “Didn’t you go home with your mother?” I asked her. She did not reply.  I had a strong urge to embrace and tell her, “let’s marry and live happily.” But strangely some vague a hay-thin reservation restrained the flood of emotion from expressing my love.

Perhaps, I might have entertained a thought to wait till evening and take her with me if she was still waiting for me there. I left.

Hardly two hours passed. There was a Satyagraha demonstration on the road. Some body informed me that police opened fire to disperse the Satyagrahis who defied law, and that  Mrinalini died of one bullet shot. I went there and found her dead.

Concerned about the child, I immediately ran to the hotel. The child was crying his eyes out. I thought of taking the child to Mrinalini’s mother. before that, Mrinalini’s mother and other relatives came there but did not speak anything about the care and custody of the boy.

I brought the boy with me. During their conversation I came to know his name was Ronald. The boy was thinking I was his father. In a way, I was.  What I failed to comprehend then was why  Mrinalini behaved the way she did. I came to know later… that her mother and sisters put her to lot of suffering and privation.  Unable to resist and put up with them and with nobody to fall back upon,  she had yielded…

  ***

The deep sigh of Kapardi struck me deep in my heart. I slept there in his house that night. Should I console Kapardi? Express my sympathies? Praise him that he was a great soul? Or, should I censure and blame him for his degeneracy? … I was not sure. But my respect for him had grown more than ever.

I could sleep in the wee hours of the day. Kapardi woke me up. He hurried me for taking coffee.  This Kapardi was not the same man who narrated his story the previous night. This man was bubbling with enthusiasm… was like a pleasant repartee. Before the moonlight of his smile every kind of gloom would melt away. This was the same Kapardi I knew for the last two years and whom I meet occasionally… a connoisseur of art,  a sweet conversationalist and a lifelong  artiste.

Original : Sri Viswanatha Satyanarayana

From: “Chinna Kathalu”…  ISBN: 81–47-1, pp 99-106.

(With apologies to the Viswanatha Family for not taking their permission as I am not aware who to contact in this regard)

తేలికగా నడవండి … ఆస్కార్ వైల్డ్ (తన చెల్లెలి స్మృతిలో)

Oscar Wilde at Oxford
Oscar Wilde at Oxford (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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అడుగులు తేలికగా వేసి నడవండి,
ఆమె ఈ మంచుపొరకిందే ఉంది

ష్! నెమ్మదిగా మాటాడండి,
ఆమె విరులు విరియడాన్ని వినగలదు

మేలిమి బంగారంలాంటి ఆమె జుత్తు,
తుప్పుతో కళంకితమైపోయింది

పాపం, చిన్నపిల్ల, ఎంతో అందమైనది,
మట్టిలో కలిసిపోయింది

తెల్లకలువలాంటిది,
హిమమంత తెల్లనిది

తను స్త్రీనన్న విషయంకూడ
తెలియనంత అమాయకంగా పెరిగింది

ఇప్పుడు శవపేటిక, బరువైన రాతిపలకా
ఆమెగుండెమీద కూర్చున్నాయి

నేను ఏకాంతంలో శోకిస్తున్నాను,
తను మాత్రం ప్రశాంతంగా నిద్రిస్తోంది

చాలు. ఆపండి. మీ వీణా నాదాల్నీ,
శోక గీతికలనీ ఆమె వినలేదు.

నా జీవితం ఇక్కడ సమాధి అయిపోయింది.
కాస్త మట్టివేసి కప్పేయండి.

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ఆస్కార్ వైల్డ్.

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Tread Gently

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Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone,

She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life’s buried here,

Heap earth upon it.

నన్ను మరిచిపో వద్దు … అజ్ఞాత కవి

Amar Jawan Jyoti
Amar Jawan Jyoti (Photo credit: Gaurav Trivedi)

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మీరు రోజు గడుపుతూ

ఆలోచనలో ములిగిపోయినా

నన్ను మరిచిపో వద్దు.


నేను యుధ్ధం చేసేను.

చేస్తూ గాయపడ్డాను.

నన్ను మరిచిపోవద్దు.


ఋణం తీర్చుకోలేని

ప్రాణత్యాగాలవల్ల స్వాతంత్ర్యం వచ్చింది.

నన్ను మరిచిపోవద్దు.


మీ పిల్లలకి బోధించినపుడల్లా

గతాన్ని గుర్తుంచుకోమనండి.

నన్ను మరిచిపోవద్దు.


మీరు బాధలో ఉన్నా,

ప్రార్థనలో ఉన్నా

నన్ను మరిచిపోవద్దు.


నేను తూటా పేలడం విన్నాను.

అయినా, వెన్నిచ్చి పారిపోలేదు.

నన్ను మరిచిపోవద్దు.


నేనొక దేశభక్తుడిని

ఈ రోజు మీ సాయం నాకు కావాలి.

నన్ను మరిచిపోవద్దు.

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అజ్ఞాత కవి

(ఇది చూడడానికి అమెరికాకు చెందిన విషయంలా కనిపించవచ్చు గాని, ఇది మనందరకూ చెందుతుంది. ఈరోజు స్వతంత్రవాయువులు పీల్చుకుని బ్రతుకుతున్న ప్రతి భారతీయుడికీ వర్తిస్తుంది. మనం దేమునికి రోజూ ఏదో కావాలని మొక్కుతూనే ఉన్నాం. ఉంటాం. ఎన్నడైనా మన స్వేఛ్ఛకి తమ ప్రాణాలర్పించిన వాళ్లని ఏడాదికొక్కసారైనా తలుచుకున్నామా? స్వాతంత్ర్య దినోత్సవంనాడో, గణతంత్ర దినోత్సవంనాడో వాళ్ళ త్యాగాలు నిష్ఫలం కానీయమనీ, వాళ్ళు అసంపూర్ణంగా వదిలిన కార్యాన్ని పూర్తిచెయ్యడానికి, ఎన్ని ప్రలోభాలెదురయినా నీతిగా నిజాయితీగా బ్రతుకుతూ పునరంకితమవుతామని మనకు మనం వాగ్దానం చేసుకున్నామా? తెల్లవాడి దౌర్జన్యాన్నీ అరాజకాన్నీ వాళ్లెదిరించగలిగితే, నల్లవాడూ అదేపని చేస్తున్నప్పుడు మనం ఎదిరించలేమా? ఒక్క సారి ఆలోచించండి. ఇప్పటి రాజ్య వ్యవస్థ చూస్తే, సమాధులలోని వాళ్ళ పవిత్రాత్మలు ఎంత శోకిస్తాయో!).

Disabled American Veterans
Disabled American Veterans (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

.

Forget-me-not
When you’re lost in thought
As you make it through your day

Forget-me-not
I am one who fought
And was scarred along the way

Forget-me-not
For the freedom bought
With the lives one can’t repay

Forget-me-not
When ever your child is taught
To remember yesterday

Forget-me-not
When the day is hot
And you bend your knees to pray

Forget-me-not
Yes, I heard the shot
But I did not run away

Forget-me-not
I’m a patriot
And I need your help today

.

Anonymous

(Courtesy: Ms Usharani of Maruvam.blogspot.in who got this from 2010′s Memorial Day card she received as donor from Disabled American Veterans Association.)

Note: I greatly appreciate if it pleases anybody to inform me the original writer of this poem. I searched the web but could not find it out. Like the sacrifices mentioned here, the poet remained anonymous.

కొడుక్కి అమ్మ ఉత్తరం … లాంగ్స్టన్ హ్యూజ్

Don't turn back
Don’t turn back (Photo credit: xXxRawrKidRawrxXx)

.

ఒరే, నాన్నా! నీకో విషయం చెప్పాలి:
నా జీవితం ఏమీ
బంగారు మెట్లెక్కినంత సాఫీగా గడిచిపోవడంలేదు.
అన్నీ కర్రమెట్లే.
చాలాచోట్ల మేకులు దిగి ఉన్నాయి.
మెట్లకి పెచ్చులూడిపోయాయి.
చెక్కలు అక్కడక్కడ కన్నాలు కూడపడ్డాయి.
దానిమీద తివాచీ చిరిగిపోయి కొన్ని చోట్ల బోసిగా కూడా ఉంది

అయినా, ఆగకుండా ఎక్కుతూనే ఉన్నాను.
మధ్యలో మార్గాయాసం తీర్చుకుంటున్నాను.
అవరోధాలొచ్చినపుడు దిశమార్చుకుంటున్నాను,
ఒక్కోసారి ఎక్కడా వెలుతురుకనరానప్పుడు,
చీకట్లోనే గుడ్డిగా ప్రయాణిస్తున్నాను.
కాబట్టి, నాన్నా,
నువ్వెన్నడూ వెనకడుగెయ్యడానికి ప్రయత్నించకు.
మెట్లమీదే చతికిలబడిపోకు
ముందుకి సాగడం కష్టంగా కనిపిస్తోందని.

నాన్నా! క్రుంగిపోవద్దు.
నేను ఇంకా ఎక్కుతూనే ఉన్నానురా తండ్రీ,
నేనింకా ఎక్కుతూనే ఉన్నాను.
నా జీవితం ఏమీ
బంగారు మెట్లెక్కినంత సాఫీగా గడిచిపోవడంలేదు.

.

Français : Explanation of License: The is a wo...
Français : Explanation of License: The is a work by photographer Gordon Parks for the U.S. Office of War Information of 1943. U.S. Office of War Information Prints & Photographs Division Library of Congress REPRODUCTION NUMBER: LC-USW3-033841-C (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

లాంగ్స్టన్ హ్యూజ్

.

Mother To Son
.
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So, boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps.
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
.
Langston Hughes

(February 1, 1902 – May 22, 1967)

American Poet, Social Activist, Novelist, Playwright, and Columnist.

అమర సైనికుడు … రాబర్ట్ ఫ్రాస్ట్

Robert Frost poses with his birthday cake on h...
Robert Frost poses with his birthday cake on his 85th birthday (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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మంచుకురిసినా, తుప్పు పట్టినా,

నేలలోకి దిగింది దిగినట్టుగా

మట్టిలో దూసుకెళ్ళిన పదునుతోనే ఉండిపోయిన

పైకితియ్యని కత్తిలాంటి వాడు అతను. 

మనం ప్రపంచాన్ని ఎంత పరికించి చూచినా

అతను ప్రాణాలర్పించడానికి తగ్గ ఉదాత్తలక్ష్యం కనిపించదు

కారణం, సామాన్యజనం లాగ, మనమూ హ్రస్వదృష్టులమే

భూమికి పరిమితమైన మన ఆలోచనల్లాగే

మన అస్త్రాలు కూడా ఎంతో ఎత్తుకు ఎగరలేవని మరిచిపోతాం.

అవి రాలిపోయి, పచ్చికను చీల్చుకుని

భూతలాన్ని తాకి, ధ్వంశమైపోతాయి.

మనం శిలాఫలకాలపై శాశ్వతమైన

కీర్తిప్రతిష్ఠలకోసం అల్లాడేట్టు చేస్తాయి.

కానీ, మనం ఒకటి మాత్రం తెలుసుకోవాలి.

అతను తన మానప్రాణాలర్పించిన లక్ష్యం

మనం చూడనిదీ, ఊహకు అందనిదీ.

.

రాబర్ట్ ఫ్రాస్ట్

(ఈ కవితని చాలా జాగ్రత్తగా గమనించాలి. ఒక సైనికుడు పోరాటంలో మరణించేడు. అతను ఒక చిన్న లక్ష్యానికి తన జీవితం ధారపోశాడా లేక అంతకన్న ఉదాత్తమైన లక్ష్యం ఏదైనా ఉన్నదా? మనందరికీ శాశ్వతమైన కీర్తి ప్రతిష్ఠలు కావాలి. కాని మన ఆలోచనలు గాని, మన ప్రయత్నాలుగాని ఉదాత్తమైన దిశలో ఉండవు. కనుకనే అవి ఇలా వెళ్లినవి అలా తిరిగి వస్తాయి. కాని. ఈ సైనికుడి సమాధి ఎప్పుడు చూసినా అతను తన ప్రాణాలర్పించిన లక్ష్యం గుర్తుచేస్తూనే ఉంటుంది కొత్తగా . అంతే కాదు, ఆ ప్రాణత్యాగం యుధ్ధంలోనే  కాకపోవచ్చు. ప్రజలను రక్షించే ప్రయత్నంలో బొంబాయి టెర్రరిస్టు దాడుల్లో, కమాండో సునీల్ యాదవ్ ని రక్షిస్తూ నేలకొరిగిన నేషనల్ గార్డ్స్ కి చెందిన మేజర్ సందీప్ ఉన్ని క్రిష్ణన్ లాగ ఉన్నతమైన మానవత్వమూ, దేశం యొక్క విస్తృతప్రయోజనాలూ, అంతరాంతరాల్లో తర్వాతి తరాలకు తను నిర్వర్తించే బాధ్యతా  కూడ అయి ఉండొచ్చు. ఈ ఆదర్శం మనం లౌకికమైన గెలుపు ఓటముల పరిధిలో చూసినంత కాలమూ మనకు అవగాహనకాదు.
ఈ రోజు దేశభక్తి గురించి ఎందరు మాటాడుతున్నారు? దేశానికి ప్రాణం అర్పించడానికి ఎందరు సంసిధ్ధులై ఉన్నారు? అన్న విషయం మనం ఒక్కసారి మననం చేసుకో గలిగితే, ఈ సత్యం అర్థమవుతుంది.)

.

The Soldier

.

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.

Robert Frost

అక్కసు … ఫ్రాంక్ ఒహారా

.

నాకు చాలా విషయాల గురించి తెలుసు.

ఇంకా తెలుసుకుంటూనే ఉంటాను.

ఎంత ఎక్కువంటే, ఇక నా బుర్రపట్టనంత.

ఇవతలవాళ్ళ గురించి ఎక్కువ తెలుసుకోవడం,

వాళ్ళు ఏమిటి చేస్తుంటున్నారో తెలుసుకోవాలనే బలహీనతే

నన్ను నిలబెడుతోంది.

దాని విలువేమిటో నాకు తెలియదంటే

గొప్ప చికాకు తెప్పిస్తుంది.

వాళ్ళకి దాని విలువేమిటో

నాకు  తెలుసు.

అందుకే నాకు అసహ్యం

ఫ్రాంక్ ఒహారా 

(మార్చి 27, 1926 – జులై 25, 1966 )

అమెరికను రచయితా, కవీ, విమర్శకుడూ అయిన ఒ హారా కి సంగీత సాహిత్యాలే గాక, కళలూ, తత్వశాస్త్రమూ, వేదాంతమూ మొదలైన చాలా విషయాలపై ఆసక్తి ఉండేది. ఆర్థర్ రింబో, మలామే, బోరిస్ పాస్టర్నాక్,  వ్లాడిమిర్ మయకోవ్స్కీ అతని అభిమాన కవులు.  అతని మరణానంతరం ప్రచురించబడ్డ కవితా సంకలనం కవిత్వ విభాగానికి 1972 నేషనల్ బుక్ ఎవార్డ్ ను ఇతరులతో పంచుకుంది. ఈ కవితలో మానవ స్వభావాలైన ఈర్ష్యా అసూయలూ, ప్రక్కవాళ్ల విషయాలలో మనకి అక్కరలేని కుతూహలము ఉండడం గురించి చెబుతున్నాడు.

Frank O'Hara
Frank O’Hara (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

.

Spleen

.

I know so much
about things, I accept
so much, it’s like
vomiting. And I am
nourished by the
shabbiness of my
knowing so much
about others and what
they do, and accepting
so much that I hate
as if I didn’t know
what it is, to me.
And what it is to
them I know, and hate.

Frank O’Hara

(Francis Russell “Frank” O’Hara)

(March 27, 1926 – July 25, 1966)

American Writer, Poet and Critic

A sonarman on destroyer US Nicholas in World War II, O’Hara had diversified interests like philosophy, Visual Art and Theology apart from music in which he majored, and English Literature in which he graduated. Arthur Rimbaud, Stephane Mallarmé, Boris Pasternak, and Vladimir Mayakovsky were his favorite poets. A posthumous collection, The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara edited by Donald Allen (Knopf, 1971), shared the 1972 National Book Award for Poetry. 

సగటు మనిషి … రాబర్ట్ విలియం సర్విస్

English: Poet and author Robert W. Service, so...
English: Poet and author Robert W. Service, sometimes referred to as “the Bard of the Yukon”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

మేధావిననే అపోహలు లేని
అతి సాధారణ…. సగటు మనిషిని నేను
జాగ్రత్తగా, ఉన్న కొద్దిపాటి లోకజ్ఞానంతో,
ఒక సుఖప్రదమైన జీవితానికి ప్రణాళిక వేసుకుంటాను
అందరూ చేసే పనులూ నేను చేస్తాను
అందరూ మాటాడే మాటలే నేనూ మాటాడుతుంటాను;
పొద్దున్న వార్తాపత్రిక చదువుతూ
ఈ రోజు సమస్యలేమిటో తెలుసుకుంటాను

నా జీవితం నిస్సారమనీ, మరీ సామాన్యమనీ  
నువ్వనుకోవడం సహజం.  
అయితే నేం? నా దృష్టిలో, నేను నా జాతికి ప్రతినిధిని.
నా పేరు అందరికీ సర్వనామంగా ఊహించుకోవచ్చు
కనీసం పదిలో తొమ్మిదిమందికి;
ఎందుకంటే,ఈ ప్రపంచాన్ని నడుపుతున్నదంతా
సగటు మనుషులే గనుక.

అయితే, నువ్వు కూడ ఒక సగటుమనిషివే
అంటే మాత్రం నువ్వు ఒప్పుకోకపోవచ్చు,
నా లాంటి ఓ సామాన్యుడిలా కాకుండా,   
నువ్వు గర్వంగా కాలరెత్తుకుని నడవొచ్చు,  
బహుశా, నీకో బాంకు స్వంతమై ఉండొచ్చు,
ఇంకొన్ని బాంకుల్ని కలుపుకునే తలపుందేమోకూడా
కాని సోదరా, కాసేపు ఆ హోదాని పక్కనబెట్టి
సగటుమనుషులకి కృతజ్ఞతలు చెప్పుకో!

.

రాబర్ట్ విలియం సర్విస్.

.

Mediocre Man

.

I’m just a mediocre man
Of no high-brow pretence;
A comfortable life I plan
With care and commonsense.
I do the things most people do,
I echo what they say;
And through my morning paper view
The problems of the day.

No doubt you think I’m colourless,
Profoundly commonplace;
And yet I fancy, more or less,
I represent the race.
My name may stand for everyone,
At least for nine in ten,
For all in all the world is run
By mediocre men.

Of course you’ll maybe not agree
That you are average,
And unlike ordinary me
You strut your little stage,
Well, you may even own a Bank,
And mighty mergers plan,
But Brother, doff your tile and thank
The Mediocre Man.

Robert William Service

 

ఔష్విజ్ … లేయాన్ ఫెలిపె స్పానిష్ కవి.

Auschwitz concentration camp, arrival of Hunga...
Auschwitz concentration camp, arrival of Hungarian Jews, Summer 1944 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Auschwitz concentration camp
Auschwitz concentration camp (Photo credit: imansari)

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ప్రపంచంలోని యూదులందరికీ…

నా స్నేహితులారా (నా తోబుట్టువులారా),

నరకాన్ని వర్ణించిన కవులు

దాంతే, బ్లేక్, రింబో లని

నెమ్మదిగా మాటాడనీండి…

మౌనంగా ఉండనీండి!

ఇవాళ, ఈ భూమ్మీద నివసిస్తున్న వాడెవడికైనా,

నరకం అంటే ఏమిటో వాళ్ళముగ్గురి కంటే ఎక్కువ తెలుసు.

దాంతే ఒక భగవద్దత్తమైన ప్రతిభకల

వాయులీన విద్వాంసుడని నాకు తెలుసు.

ఓహ్! అతనొక గొప్ప కళాప్రపూర్ణుడు.

.

కానీ,

ఇప్పుడు తల్లి దండ్రులనుండి దూరం చెయ్యబడి

అక్కడ ఔష్విజ్ శ్మశానవాటికలో

ఒక్కడూ, ఒంటరిగా నిలబడి,

తన తరుణంకోసం ఎదురుచూస్తున్న

ఆ యూదు కుర్రవాడిని

దాంతే పదకొండు మాత్రల

అద్భుత, లయాన్వితమైన కవిత్వంతో

భయపెట్టడానికి ప్రయత్నించ వద్దు.

.

ఓ దాంతే!

నువ్వు వర్జల్ చెయ్యి పట్టుకుని

( వర్జల్? ఓహ్! “గొప్ప మార్గదర్శకుడు”)

నరకంలోకి అడుగుపెట్టేవు.

నీ “డివైన్ కామెడీ” ఒక వినోదకర సాహస సంగీత, విహారయాత్ర.

కానీ, ఇదివేరు.  ఈ సందర్భమే వేరు.

నీకు ఆ ఊహాశక్తే లేకపోతే ఎలా బోధపరచాలి?

నీకు… అసలు ఆ ఆలోచనేరాలేదు…

గుర్తుందా? నువ్వు వర్ణించిన నరకంలో

కనీసం ఒక్క పసివాడైనా లేడు.

కానీ, … అక్కడ చూడు… అతడొక్కడూ ఉన్నాడు…

ఒంటరిగా!  ఏ దిక్కూలేక. …

నరకద్వారాలు ఎప్పుడు తెరుచుకుంటాయా అని ఎదురుచూస్తూ…

 ఓ ఫ్లారెంటైన్ నివాసీ,

ఇది నువ్వెన్నడూ ఊహించనైనా ఊహించలేకపోయావు.

ఈ సందర్భమే వేరు … ఎలా చెప్పాలి?

చూడు.

ఈ స్థలంలో నువ్వు నీ వాయులీనాన్ని వాయించలేవు.

ఇక్కడ ప్రపంచంలోని ఏ వాయులీనాకైనా తీగలు తెగిపోతాయి..

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వజల్, దాంతే, బ్లేక్, రింబో!

నరకాన్ని వర్ణించిన కవులారా!

మీకు అర్థం అయిందా?

నెమ్మదిగా మాటాడండి!

మీ మీ వాయిద్యాలని నెమ్మదిగా వాయించండి!!

ష్…! చప్పుడుచెయ్యొద్దు!!!


నేను మహా విద్వాంసుణ్ణి. 

నరకం లో ఎన్నోసార్లు వాయించాను…

కానీ, ఇప్పుడు, ఇక్కడ

నా వాయులీనాన్ని ధ్వంసంచేస్తున్నాను…

చేసి, నిశ్శబ్దంగా ఉండిపోతాను!

.

లేయాన్ ఫెలిపె

స్పానిష్ కవి.

(మానవజాతి చరిత్రలో శాశ్వతంగా మిగిలిపొయే మాయని మచ్చ ఈ ఔష్విజ్.  అక్కడ యూదులని ఒక క్రమప్రణాళిక ద్వారా కోసిన ఊచకోత ఈ కవితలో ఫెలిపే చెప్పినట్టు ఊహాతీతమైనది.  ఇక్కడ పసిపిల్లలన్న జాలి దయా దాక్షిణ్యం లేకుండా, గాస్ ఛాంబరులోకి పంపి దారుణంగా చంపడం ఊహించుకుంటే వళ్ళు జలదరిస్తుంది.  స్నానఘట్టాల్లా ఏర్పాటుచేసిన గదుల్లోకి పంపి, వాళ్ళు హాహాకారాలు చేస్తున్నా ముందు ఎవరికీ  వినిపించనీయకుండ కట్టుదిట్టాలు చేసి, తర్వాత వినిపించినా పట్టించుకోకుండా నిర్భయంగా, వ్యక్తి స్వాతంత్ర్యాన్ని సమూలంగా నాశానం చేసిన దౌర్భాగ్య ప్రదేశమిది. Anne Frank అనే చిన్నారి నిత్యం ప్రాణభయంతో బతుకుతూ,  అయినా క్రమం తప్పకుండా వ్రాసిన          “ఏన్ ప్రాంక్ డైరీ” అన్న పుస్తకం దొరికితే చదవండి. మనం ఎన్నో కష్టాలు పడిపోతున్నట్టూ, ఆ కష్టాలుపడలేక చచ్చిపోతున్నట్టూ బాధపడిపోతుంటాం. మృత్యువుతో సహవాసం చెయ్యడం అంటే ఏమిటో తెలుస్తుంది. “ఇరవైలో అరవై వయసు” అన్న మాటలోని ఆంతర్యం ఏమిటో బోధపడుతుంది.).

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Auschwitz

.

To all the Jews in the world, my friends, (my brethren)
Those infernal poets Dante, Blake, Rimbaud…
Let them speak quietly…Let them be silent!
Today
any inhabitant of these earth
understands more about hell
than those three bards together.

I know Dante is a gifted violinist…Ah, a great virtuoso!
But do not dare to attempt now, with your amazing stanzas
and perfect hendecasyllables, to frighten that Jewish boy who is standing there, extricated from his parents…

Alone
Alone!
Awaiting his turn
in the Auschwitz crematorium

.

Dante… you descended to hell by the hand of Virgil (Oh Virgil, the “great cicerone”) and that Divine Comedy of yours
was an amusing adventure
of music and tourism.

This is something else… something else…How can I explain?
If you don’t have an imagination!

You… do not have an imagination, remember that in your “inferno”there is not a single child…
But that one over there…He is alone
Alone! Without cicerone…Waiting for the gates to a hell to open, that you, poor Florentine!
Could not even imagine.
This is something else… How can I explain?Look! This is a place where you can not play the violin
Here, the strings of every violin in the world get broken

Have you understood, Infernal Poets? Virgil, Dante, Blake, Rimbaud…
Speak quietly! Play your instruments quietly! Shht!…

Be quiet!!I am too a great virtuoso And have played many a time in hell…But now, here…I shatter my violin…

and keep silent.

.

León Felipe Camino Galicia 

(11 April 1884 – 17 September 1968)

Spanish poet.

ఆవేదన … ఆస్కార్ వైల్డ్

Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde (Photo credit: boocal)

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విశాలమైన బంగారపు పాతరలు సంపాదించి

తుఫానుల వలన భయం గాని

అడవిలో చెట్లు కూలుతున్న చింతగానీ లేని

ఎవరికైనా జీవితం సాఫీగా సాగితే సాగనీ

.

ఆకలితో అలమటించిన రోజుల వేదనగాని

బాధలూ కన్నీళ్లతో తలపండిన తండ్రిగాని

ఏకాంతంలో దుఃఖాశృవులు రాల్చే తల్లిగాని ఎరుగక

ఎవరికైనా జీవితం సాఫీగా సాగితే సాగనీ.

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కానీ, అలయించే కష్టాల,పోరాటాల బాటలో

కాళ్ళరిగినా, ఎంత జీవనవిషాదంలోనైనా

దేవునికి చేరువగా నిచ్చెనలు వేసేవారికి

మాత్రం జీవితం సాఫీగా సాగిపోవాలి

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ఆస్కార్ వైల్డ్

(16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900)

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A Lament

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O well for him who lives at ease
With garnered gold in wide domain,
Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,
The crashing down of forest trees.

O well for him who ne’er hath known
The travail of the hungry years,
A father grey with grief and tears,
A mother weeping all alone.

But well for him whose feet hath trod

The weary road of toil and strife,
Yet from the sorrows of his life
Builds ladders to be nearer God.

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Oscar Wilde

(16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900)

Irish Dramatist, Poet and Author.

For his bio please visit: http://www.online-literature.com/wilde/

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