Dead of Night – Sowbhagya, Telugu, Indian Poet
Look where you will
Flowers are asleep – smiles are asleep
and so are the doves— peacefully.
cool breeze soars high up to greet the milky-way
Moonlight descends to soothe pent-up hearts.
beating rhythmically over the sea
Tides lull earth to sleep.
Branches rollick the twigs in their cradle laps
And the heavens look like a serene musical-freeze.
Nature is so arrestingly beautiful
like a dream without frightful nightmares.
The half moon looks ecstatic
like half-opened Lotus-bud in a ripple-less pond.
It seems a spell is cast
like the invisible smile under translucent light.
Like a serein of horripilations
starlight settles slowly over the town
as the world slips into deep slumber.
The midnight silence whispers into my ears:
There is bliss even in an enigmatic life.
As woolgathering withdraws to backstage,
Indulgence takes centre stage to perform.
Heaven and Earth
get lighter and lighter
and waft together to unchartered frontiers
like a wool of cotton.
.
Sowbhagya.
Telugu , Indian Poet
అంతా అయిన తర్వాత … సారా టీజ్డేల్, అమెరికను కవయిత్రి
ఇప్పుడు నువ్వంటే నాకు ప్రేమ లేదు,
నీకూ నే నన్నా ప్రేమ లేదు,
అద్భుతమైన పెను తుఫానులా
ప్రేమ మనల్ని తాకి, వెళ్ళిపోయింది.
అయినప్పటికీ, మనిద్దరి మధ్యా
దూరాలూ, కాలమూ పెరుగుతున్నకొద్దీ
ఏవో చిన్న చిన్న విషయాలు
జ్ఞాపకానికి వస్తూనే ఉంటాయి:
వానతోపాటు వచ్చిన వాసన
చినుకులతోపాటు నేలమీదకి జారి
అక్కడ రాలిన ఎండుటాకుల్లోకీ
పుష్పించే లతాగుల్మాలలోకి చేరినట్టు…
స్ఫటికాల్లాటి వానబిందువులు
అక్కడి సాలెగూళ్ళ వలలపై తేలి
మిణుకుమనే తారకలతో
సామ్యాన్ని ఆపాదించుకున్నట్టు.
.
సారా టీజ్డేల్
(8 August 1884 – 29 January 1933)
అమెరికను కవయిత్రి

.
Afterwards
.
I do not love you now,
Nor do you love me,
Love like a splendid storm
Swept us and passed
Yet while the distance
And the days drift between us,
Little things linger
To make me remember
As the rain’s fragrance
Clings when the rain goes
To the wet under leaves
Of the verbena,
As the clear rain-drops
Cling to the cobwebs
Leaving them lightly
Threaded with stars.
.
Sara Teasdale
(August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933)
American poet
దీవులు… ఆర్చిబాల్డ్ మెక్లీష్, అమెరికను కవి
సాగర దీవుల్లోని గేలిక్ ప్రజల్లా
ముసలివాళ్ళు జీవితాల్ని వెలారుస్తారు,
సముద్రపుటొడ్డున పొలమూ, ఒక భార్యా,
కాసేపు కొడుకులనిపించుకునే పిల్లలూ;
కొంత కాలానికి భార్యా, సముద్రపుటొడ్డు పొలమూ
సముద్రపు హోరూ, దాని గురించిన ఆలోచనలూ,
పిల్లలూ … అందరూ
ఆ నీటిమీదనుండే ఎక్కడికో వెళ్ళిపోతారు.
చివరకి పెద్దకొడుకూ
ఆఖరి కూతురూ కూడా
ఆ నీటిబాటనే జీవితాన్ని వెతుక్కుంటూ
కనుమరుగైపోతారు.
కడకి ఆ ఇద్దరూ… ముసలాడూ, ముసల్దీ
మిగుల్తారు ఆ సాగర ద్వీపం మీద.
ముసలివాళ్ళు మాటాడుకునేట్టుగానే మాటాడుకుంటూ
తలూపుకుంటూ, నవ్వుకుంటూ ఉంటారు.
వాళ్ళబ్బాయిలగురించీ, వాళ్ళనవ్వులగురించీ ఆలోచిస్తారు.
ఆమె గట్టిగా అరిచి పిలుస్తుంది గాని వాళ్ళని కాదు.
“ఆమెకి పిల్లల్ని గుర్తుచేసుకునేకంటే
పెంచుకుందికి ఒక పిల్లి ఉంటే బాగుణ్ణ”నిపిస్తుంది.
మనిషి చాలా కాలం బ్రతకొచ్చు
అప్పటికి మగపిల్లలూ, ఆడపిల్లలూ
సముద్రాలు దాటుకుని వెళ్ళిపోతారు
భార్య నీళ్ళవంక అలా చూస్తూ కూర్చుంటుంది.
.
ఆర్చిబాల్డ్ మెక్లీష్
(May 7, 1892 – April 20, 1982)
అమెరికను కవి
.
.
Hebrides
Old men live in a life
As the Gaels in those ocean islands,
A croft by the sea and a wife
And sons for a while;
Afterward wife and croft
And the sound of the sea and the thought of it,
Children and all gone off
Over the water;
Even the eldest son,
Even the youngest daughter,
All of them vanished and gone
By the way of the water.
A man and his wife, those two,
Left on the ocean island:
They talk as the old will do
And they nod and they smile.
But they think of their sons, how they laughed,
And she calls but it’s not for them-
“she’d rather a kitten to have
Than a child to remember.”
You can live too long in life
Where the sons go off and the daughter
Off over the sea and the wife
Watches the water.
.
Archibald Macleish
(May 7, 1892 – April 20, 1982)
American Poet
Poem Courtesy:
Archibald Macleish
Collected Poems 1917- 1982 pages 18-19
నేను పెద్దవాణ్ణవుతున్న కొద్దీ… లాంగ్స్టన్ హ్యూజ్, అమెరికన్ కవి
చాలాకాలం క్రిందటి మాట.
నేను నా కలని పూర్తిగా మరిచేపోయాను.
కానీ అప్పుడు ఆ కల
నా కళ్ళముందు కదలాడేది
సూర్యుడిలా ప్రకాశవంతంగా
అందమైన నా కల!
తర్వాత ఒక గోడ లేచింది
నెమ్మది నెమ్మదిగా
నాకూ నా కలకీ మధ్య
ఒక అడ్దుగోడ
ఆకాశాన్ని తాకేదాకా లేస్తూనే ఉంది
ఆ గోడ.
పెద్ద నీడ.
నేను నల్లగా.
నేను ఆ నీడలో పరున్నాను.
ఇపుడు నా కళ్ళకెదురుగా నా కల వెలుగు లేదు.
నా మీదా ప్రసరించడం లేదు.
బలమైన పెద్దగోడ.అంతే!
నిండుగా పరుచుకున్న నల్లని నీడ.
ఓ నా చేతులారా!
నల్లని నా చేతులారా!!
ఈ గోడని పదగొట్టి ముందుకు సాగండి.
నా కలని అందుకోండి.
ఈ చీకటిని పారద్రోలేందుకు నాకు సహకరించండి.
ఈ రాత్రిని ఎలాగైనా పారద్రోలాలి …
ఈ నీడని ఎలాగైనా విడగొట్టాలి…
వేల సూర్యుల కాంతిపుంజాలుగా
పదేపదే పునరావృతమయే
వెలుగురేని అలల కలలుగా.
.
లాంగ్స్టన్ హ్యూజ్
(February 1, 1901 – May 22, 1967)
అమెరికను కవి

.
As I Grew Older
.
It was a long time ago.
I have almost forgotten my dream.
But it was there then,
In front of me,
Bright like a sun—
My dream.
And then the wall rose,
Rose slowly,
Slowly,
Between me and my dream.
Rose until it touched the sky—
The wall.
Shadow.
I am black.
I lie down in the shadow.
No longer the light of my dream before me,
Above me.
Only the thick wall.
Only the shadow.
My hands!
My dark hands!
Break through the wall!
Find my dream!
Help me to shatter this darkness,
To smash this night,
To break this shadow
Into a thousand lights of sun,
Into a thousand whirling dreams
Of sun!
.
Langston Hughes
(February 1, 1901 – May 22, 1967)
American Poet Poem Courtesy:
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/as-i-grew-older/
వాసంత ప్రభాతవేళ… ఏంటొనెట్ డి కూర్సే పాటర్సన్, అమెరికను కవయిత్రి
ఇంత చక్కని మనోజ్ఞ వాసంత ప్రభాతవేళ హృదయమా!
ప్రాణప్రదమైన నా ప్రియుని అడుగుజాడలు తెలుపవా?
అప్పుడు నేను నా స్వామికి, నా ప్రభువుకి
ఉచితమైన దృక్కులతో, నైవేద్యములతో
త్వరత్వరగా ఎదురేగి స్వాగతిస్తాను
సప్తవర్ణాల ఇంద్రధనుస్సులను సృష్టించే తుంపరలుగా
మహోన్నతమైన శిలలపై పతనమయే నీటిచాలుల
అతని కనుగొంటే, అవి నే తెచ్చే కలలకు సాటిరావని గ్రహిస్తాడు;
తెల్లని ఎండలో తళతళలాడే పచ్చని గోరింటలతో
మైదానం కళకళలాడే చోట అతని దర్శించితినా
‘ఆమె బంగారురంగు శిరోజసౌందర్యము ముందు
ఈ పూలసౌందర్యమేకాదు, ఏదీ సాటిరా’దనీ
‘ఆమె చెక్కిళ్ళలో పూచే గులాబులముందు, తోట
సరిహద్దుల పూచే గులాబులు దిగదుడు’పనీ తప్పక అంటాడు
.
ఏంటొనెట్ డి కూర్సే పాటర్సన్
(1866-1925)
అమెరికను కవయిత్రి
.
In Spring
.
On this most perfect morning of the spring,
Tell me my heart, where Love’s dearest feet shall stray,
That I may haste to meet him on the way,
With looks, and with an offering
That shall seem fitting for my lord and king.
If I shall find him where the waters play
About the mighty rocks, their rainbow spray
He’ll think less lovely than these dreams I bring:
And if I meet him in the meadows where
Are yellow cowslips gleaming in the sun,
I know that he will say, her golden hair
Outshines them in its glory, everyone,-
And in her cheeks my roses bloom so fair
That those upon the hedgerows are outdone!
.
Antoinette De Coursey Patterson
(1866-1925)
American Poet, Translator and Artist
From:
Page 16
Sonnets and Quatrains by Antoinette De Coursey Patterson
Philadelphia
H W Fisher & Company
MDCCCCXIII
The Lost Case… Sriraj Ginne, Telugu, Indian
Sriraj Ginne
(Born: November 22, 1946)
********
“A lawyer shouldn’t discriminate between one case and the other. Doing justice to one’s clients is true dispensation of justice,” is what lawyer Sundara Ramayya always told his colleagues.
Everybody knew that only Sundara Ramayya had the knack of distancing ‘in’ from ‘justice’ jumbling with words and provisions of law to win cases for his clients. He argued every case with a blend of professional skill and artistic finesse to gain the winning edge. Anybody who had entered the Court premises anytime during the last fifteen years must have known that!
Not a single case he had taken up so far was lost. None of his clients was ever convicted. He never refused a case nor turned away his client.
He argued impetuously the love affairs of minor college girls; got many couple divorced; helped drunkards evade conviction; saved prostitutes from penalties and imprisonment. In one word, he took up every kind of case and won every one of them hands down! Of course, he collected fabulous amount as fee.
The Public Prosecutors quivered when they were to argue against his defence. He could even flummox the judges with his arguments. Many a criminal escaped the noose. Many an innocent was awarded rigorous imprisonment.
Sundara Ramayya was notorious for his sharp tongue. ‘your mother must have given some special brew in your childhood; otherwise, how could you argue with such ease?’ his friends used to compliment him bitterly.
‘Lord Brahma must have put his tongue one point up. That’s why he’s able to win any case so effortlessly,’ his senior colleagues at the bar used to say grudgingly.
‘He must have had the good omen of a beautiful dame coming in front on the very first day of his practice. He is still riding that Dame Luck to this day! That’s why he wins every damned case in a trice,’ the young crop of advocates thought, with a touch of envy.
Sundara Ramayya just laughed away all their remarks.
In the last fifteen years, he took up thousands of cases, collected lakhs od rupees in fees, constructed a palatial bungalow, bought an Impala, bought as much wet land as permissible by law and registered in his name and opened accounts in many prestigious banks.
You could sum-up his character thus:
He had ambitions with sky as the limit!
He had ideas as expansive as a desert!
He was all love for his queenly wife!
And, he had ‘polished popularity’ in the society.
*
One fine morning…
When the dew drops on the roses were melting away,
When the leaves of grass were smiling happily in the lawn,
Sundara Ramayya was looking at himself in the mirror tying his bow.
His wife, Lakshmi, was standing behind with a cup of coffee in one hand and a black coat in the other.
“So, what man! You say that we should go to Leela Mahal this evening!” he asked his wife, looking mischievously into her face in the mirror.
She was a fan of Richard Burton. He had been teasing her with promise to take her to “Where Eagles Dare”.
“Forget it! You shouldn’t be believed. You never stand on your word,” she said in mock annoyance.
Courts… Clients… and Cases!!! How could he find time?
“You are mistaken dear! Ask any of my clients how powerful my word is!” he said receiving the cup out of her hand.
He wins cases in courts with his arguments.
But wins the heart of his wife humoring her with his words!
“Lakshmi! Do you know how beautiful you look?… like a string of white clouds… a smooth rose… a glistening water drop! I don’t feel like looking at those palling faces on the silver screen after looking at this divine beauty!”
She was over thirty-five. But she blushed like a chrysanthemum knowing the import of his words.
“Sir! Someone has come for you,” announced his servant.
Sundara Ramayya put on his black coat and walked into the hall. The two visitors waiting in the hall stood up and greeted him. One of them was old. The second one was on the first rung of his chewing-gum-like youth. Looking at his chequered lungi, the red vest and the black belt round his waist and the sabre-sharp moustache, Sundara Ramayya smelt a first-rate villain in him.
“Picked a pocket, is it?” he asked the chequered lungi.
“No Sir!” His voice has the grating sound of an overused gramophone record.
“Severed a head, then?”
The chequered lungi bent his head down silently. The older man demurred.
“remember! Never hide the disease from the doctor and truth from the lawyer! If you do, you are out, and your case is lost! Come on… tell me the truth!”
“This is Simhadri… my som. I got him out… on bail. We belong to Yendada village…” the old man was speaking in broken words.
“Come to the point.”
“Rattalu runs a country liquor shop in our village. The boy fell in love with her daughter Varalu. But the girl did not like him. This fellow is short tempered. He asked her why she could not love him. She replied in a very derogatory manner. In a fit of anger he stabbed her. It’s all that had happened sir!”
“Very good! So it is a case of spirited love, then!”
Sundara Ramayya was not new to such cases. That is why it did not surprise him. For him, winning a murder case is as easy as burning a nylon thread with matchstick.
“Hmm! What is your name?” he asked the old man.
“Gangulu, Sir!”
“Listen, Gangulu! Was there any eyewitness when your son stabbed Varahalu?”
“Her mother Rattalu was there itself, sir!” Gangulu thought it wise to place all the facts before the lawyer who gave such an assurance.
Sundara Ramayya spent thoughtfully five minutes of his invaluable time.
“Does Rattalu have any kith and kin, Gangulu?”
“No, Sir! She had only that Varalu… that too not her own… she adopted her.”
The eyebrows of Sundara Ramayya unknotted immediately.
“Gangulu, don’t worry about the boy. We will win the case. Give all other details to my clerk… see me later,” he said stepping out.
“You are our only hope, sir! Only you can save his life. But for his short temper, he is very innocent, sir! Take whatever fee you want, but we should win the case. He should not be convicted.” Gangulu wrung his hands in obedience. Simhadri was staring at him. Sundara Ramayya shot back a smile at them and got into his grey Impala.
*
Yendada is a small village about seven kilometers from the nearby town. Still, Rattalu and her country liquor shop were very famous. In fact, people believed that the success of her business and her popularity were solely due to her daughter Varahalu. Her business picked up only after Varahalu started managing the affairs of the shop.
It is very difficult to describe her beauty. She is whiter than the white cirrus clouds, smother than the smoothest rose, and brighter than the brightest dew drop.
Varahalu laughed seductively. Intoxicated by that, people took more and more draught. In their drinking spree, they paid all that they had on them. In a short span of time, Rattalu became one of the “Haves” of the village.
One day, Simhadri saw the aurelian hand of Varahalu as she was serving him arrack. He looked up. Varahalu smiled at him like a spotless full moon. His inane heart softened to a wick of wax.
“Isn’t she the daughter of aunt Rattalu? Isn’t she Varalu?” he asked himself within.
Unable to endure anymore delay, he started loving her instantly.
“Rattalu! You are earning so much. Why don’t you have a building of your own?” customer used to ask her every day.
“This hut brought us luck. Why do I need another building? When Varahalu gets married, I shall construct a big building and keep her and her husband there,” was her usual reply.
Combing his moustache and looking covetously at Varahalu, Simhadri sitting nearby used to say, “when I am here why need you to look for somebody else for Varahalu?”
Varahalu used to get furious at such remarks.
“Simhadri! You are no match for my child. She doesn’t like you in the first place.” Rattalu used to snub him.
He was unable to suffer the indignity and the insult.
Simhadri used all possible tricks at his command in his dull head to win over Varahalu. The more he tried, the more she despised him. He wanted her at any cost and by any means. One such essay brought about Varahalu’s death and lodged Simhadri temporarily in jail.
That was summer evening. It was past eight. Varahalu counted the collections for the day, gave money to Rattalu and sent her to town for replenishment of stocks. When Varahalu was changing into fresh clothes after a bath, Simhadri entered her room and closed it behind him.
Covering herself fully with her sari, she howled at him in uncontrollable fit of anger, “You!… will you get out of this room immediately or not?”
“Varalu! It’s me, Simhadri. Tell me why don’t you like me? Don’t I have money? Lands? Am I not handsome? Why don’t you marry me?” He was pleading and advancing towards her simultaneously.
“Ah! A handsome figure!” she sneered, “look at that face! A black polecat! Don’t you ever dream of marrying me! First get out of here!” she did not conceal her abhorrence.
Simhadri’s anger scorched him like acid. The beast in him was thoroughly aroused. With enraged eyes, he advanced towards her menacingly. Her heckling added fuel to his already volatile anger. His inebriated body leaped over her.
Varahalu deftly slipped away hissing like a she-cobra. Commanding all the strength at her disposal, she bit him on his gullet. At that very moment a dagger pierced through her heart. Rattalu who entered the house at that very moment shrieked hysterically in fear and anguish and fell over her daughter’s body.
Life left Varahalu’s body with rocket speed. Simhadri bolted from the scene.
*
God had only ten incarnations. But the money created by man has infinite incarnations to date; and would assume as many in future. It lifts the “Haves” further up in the society and crushes the “Have nots” further down.
Gangulu’s money transformed itself into justice. It reached Sundara Ramayya wallet, stirred many brilliant and fertile ideas in him, and prompted to rack his brain day and night with reference books on law. And, to his own amazement Sundara Ramayya argued the case as he had never done before!
Simhadri was innocent. It was only Rattalu who committed the murder. Varahalu was not her own daughter but an adopted one. Rattalu proposed Simhadri to Varahalu and she flatly refused. There were heated exchanges and in a fit of anger unable to stand Varahalu’s refusal on one side and the love she bore for Simhadri on the other, Rattalu killed her… was Sundara Ramayya’s line of argument.
His arguments were so foolproof that even the Public Prosecutor was not able to counter. The judge asked Rattalu if she had anything to say in this matter.
“What have I to say, Sir? Justice or no justice, my daughter can’t be brought back to life. Then, why should I be living? I cannot live without her. Please award the maximum punishment to me. Please hang me, I pray! I plead guilty. Please hang me!” Rattalu wept.
She did not say a word more. She did not answer the questions put forward by the judge or the Public Prosecutor. In the withered old frame of Rattalu, there was no desire to live. Neither there was any vengeance against those who perpetrated the crime on her daughter. Nor there was any anguish that a crime she had never committed was slapped on her.
She thanked Sundara Ramayya with folded hands for giving a direction to her meaningless life.
The judge awarded her life term.
The police took her to jail.
Simhadri was acquitted. There was a glow of success in Sundara Ramayya’s eyes. Simhadri ran after Sundara Ramayya’s car up to Ganjipet junction. His ocean of happiness was on a high tide.
*
Sundara Ramayya was reading newspaper sitting in the hall. He looked up to Simhadri and asked, “What is the matter?”
“Nothing in particular, sir! I just wanted to give you a small present,” Simhadri demurred.
“What’s that?” Sundara Ramayya asked curiously, putting the newspaper aside.
“Sir! You have saved my life. Had it been anybody else, it would have been gallows for me. Sir! Please keep this chain,” he took out a gold chain from his pocket.
Sundara Ramayya looked at the chain. He suddenly turned pale.
“Simhadri!… this locket…” he minced words.
“Belonged to that dead Varalu, sir!”
“You mean…!”
“I snatched it while running away. She used to parade with this chain. It is with this locket they say Rattalu found that winch near Seetamadhara, Sir!”
“Get out! Get out!” He wanted to roar at Simhadri, but the words failed him. His face lost its color.
Simhadri kept the locket on the table and left.
Calendar pages reeled back swiftly in Sundara Ramayya memory quickly. Fourteen years!
That was last week of November . He and his wife Lakshmi went out for picnic with their only daughter and few neighbours to Seetamadhara. With the Bay of Bengal in the distance and Yarada hill in the neighborhood, the city was looking like a woman at an advanced stage of pregnancy. Everything looked pleasant, he took many photos, and they all walked up the hill racing, reached the picnic spot and lost completely absorbed in conversation. It was only later that they noticed the baby missing. Lakshmi shrieked in fear. He shuddered to think. They searched the entire area. In a garden where about three thousand people were picnicking. A three-year baby went missing … never to be seen by the parents again!
“Baby!” he cried in anguish as his eyes rained tears. Image of the three-year-old baby was hammering the ‘man’ within him. He wept his heart out. Humaneness, love and all fine sentiments engulfed him from all corners and started heckling him.
Whom did he help to win?
Whom did he get convicted?
His head fell, like one from a noose.
He never entered the premises of a court room again!
***
Telugu Original: Last Case Sriraj Ginne
Translators: RS Krishna Moorthy & NS Murty
From : The Palette, March 1997
(The translators changed the ‘Last’ in title to ‘Lost’ keeping the story in mind)
చెట్టునుండి రేగుపళ్ళు రాలుతున్నాయి…అజ్ఞాత చీనీ కవి.
చాలా కాలం క్రిందట ఒక కథ చదివేను. పేరు గుర్తు రావటం లేదు. అందులో కథానాయకుడికి ఒక అమ్మాయిమీద మనసుంటుంది. దగ్గర చుట్టం కూడా. అమ్మాయి వాళ్ల దగ్గరనుండి సంబంధం కలుపుకుందామని కబుర్లు వస్తుంటాయి. ఇష్టం లేనపుడు ‘నాకప్పుడే పెళ్లి వొద్దు అనడం ఒక ఆనవాయితీ’. అబ్బాయి వాళ్లింట్లో తల్లీ, వదినా, అన్నా ఒక్కొక్కరే కథానాయకుడి అభిప్రాయం కనుక్కుందికి ప్రయత్నిస్తారు వేర్వేరు సందర్భాలలో. సిగ్గుకొద్దీ ‘నాకప్పుడే పెళ్లి వొద్దు’ అని అనేవాడు వాళ్లతో. దానితో, చివరకి మన కథానాయకుడుకి ఆ అమ్మాయి అంటే ఇష్టంలేదేమోననుకుని విరమించుకుంటారు. చివరకి, వాళ్ళెప్పుడు ఈ ప్రస్తావన తీసుకువస్తారా, ఒప్పుకుందామా అని అతను చూస్తుంటాడు.
దీనికే, ‘ఇష్టం ఉన్నా బెట్టు పోవడం’ అంటాం. దీన్నే జూలియస్ సీజర్ లో, షేక్స్పియర్ Casca పాత్రద్వారా చాలా చక్కగా చెప్పిస్తాడు. Antony సీజర్ కి కిరీటాన్ని పెట్టజూసినపుడు he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other మూడూసార్లూ వద్దని నిరాకరించాడట. కానీ, ‘మొదటిసారి కంటే రెండో సారి, రెండో సారి కంటే మూడవసారీ ఆ వద్దనడంలోని తీవ్రత తగ్గుతూ వచ్చింది’ అని అనిపిస్తాడు.
ఒకోసారి ఈ బెట్టు పోవడం ఎలా పరిణమిస్తుందంటే, వద్దన్న వస్తువుకోసమే, తర్వాత కావాలని ప్రాకులాడవలసి వస్తుంది. ఈ మనస్తత్వాన్ని ఈ కవిత చాలా చక్కగా పట్టిస్తుంది.
* * *
చెట్టునుండి రేగుపళ్ళు రాలుతున్నాయి.
పదిలోనూ ఇంకా ఏడు మిగిలున్నాయి.
మీలో ఎవరైనా నన్ను పెళ్ళిచేసుకుందామనుకుంటే
యువకులూ, ఓ మంచిరోజు చూసుకుని రండి.
చెట్టునుండి రేగుపళ్ళు రాలుతున్నాయి.
పదిలోనూ ఇంకా మూడు మిగిలున్నాయి.
మీలో ఎవరైనా నన్ను పెళ్ళిచేసుకుందామనుకుంటే
యువకులూ, ఇవాళే మంచిరోజు.
చెట్టునుండి రేగుపళ్ళు రాలుతున్నాయి.
మీ బుట్టనిండా పళ్ళు నింపుకోవచ్చు.
మీలో ఎవరైనా నన్ను పెళ్ళిచేసుకుందామనుకుంటే
యువకులూ, ఆ మాట చెప్పండి చాలు!
.
అజ్ఞాత చీనీ కవి
.
Fruit Plummets from the Plum Tree
.
Fruit plummets from the plum tree
But seven of ten plums remain;
You gentlemen who would court me,
Come on a lucky day.
Fruit plummets from the plum tree
But three of ten plums still remain;
You men who want to court me,
Come now, today is a lucky day!
Fruit plummets from the plum tree.
You can fill up your baskets.
Gentlemen if you want to court me,
Just say the word.
.
Anonymous
Translated by: Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping
Poem Courtesy:
https://archive.org/details/worldpoetryantho0000wash/page/66/mode/1up
World Poetry Anthology
Part I: Poets of The Bronze and Iron Ages.
China: The Chou Dynasty and Warring States Period
From The Book of Songs (800- 500 BCE)
చుంగ్ జు… అజ్ఞాత చీనీ కవి
మనందరికీ కొన్ని భయాలుంటాయి. ముఖ్యంగా, చిన్నప్పుడు కొన్ని విషయాలన్నా, కొందరు వ్యక్తులు, వాళ్ళతో స్నేహం అన్నా మనకి ఇష్టం ఉంటుంది కానీ అమ్మానాన్నా, అన్నదమ్ములూ, లోకులూ ఏమంటారో అన్న భయంతో ఆ పనులూ, ఆ స్నేహాలూ చెయ్యలేకపోవడం బహుశా అందరికీ కాకపోయినా కొందరికి అనుభవమే. ఈ కవిత ఆ మానసిక స్థితిని బాగా పట్టి ఇస్తుంది. ఇది సుమారు 3 వేల ఏళ్ల క్రిందటి కవిత అంటే ఆశ్చర్యం వేస్తుంది.
*
చుంగ్ జూ, నిన్ను బతిమాలుకుంటాను
మా పెరట్లోకి దూకొద్దు,
దూకి, అక్కడ నాటిన మొక్కల్ని పాడు చెయ్యొద్దు.
నాకు ఆ మొక్కలు పాడయిపోతాయన్న చింత కాదు,
అమ్మా నాన్నా ఏమంటారో అని భయం.
చుంగ్ జూ నువ్వంటే నాకు చాలా ఇష్టం
కానీ అమ్మా నాన్నా ఏమంటారో అనే
నా భయం అంతా.
చుంగ్ జూ, నిన్ను బతిమాలుకుంటాను
మా గోడమీదకి ఎక్కొద్దు,
ఎక్కి, అక్కడ నాటిన మల్బరీ మొక్కల్ని పాడు చెయ్యొద్దు.
నాకు ఆ మల్బరీ మొక్కలు పాడయిపోతాయన్న చింత కాదు,
మా అన్నలు ఏమంటారో అని భయం.
చుంగ్ జూ నువ్వంటే నాకు చాలా ఇష్టం
కానీ మా అన్నలు ఏమంటారో అనే
నా భయం అంతా.
చుంగ్ జూ, నిన్ను బతిమాలుకుంటాను
మా తోటలోకి దూకొద్దు,
దూకి, అక్కడ నాటిన కలప మొక్కల్ని పాడు చెయ్యొద్దు.
నాకు ఆ కలప మొక్కలు పాడయిపోతాయన్న చింత కాదు,
నలుగురూ ఏమంటారో అని భయం.
చుంగ్ జూ నువ్వంటే నాకు చాలా ఇష్టం
కానీ నలుగురూ ఏమంటారో అనే
నా భయం అంతా.
.
అజ్ఞాత చీనీ కవి
క్రీ. పూ. 800- 500 మధ్య.
.
Chung Tzu
.
I beg of you, Chung Tzu,
Do not climb into homestead,
Do not break the willows we have planted
Not that I mind about the willows,
But I am afraid of my father and mother.
Chung Tzu I dearly love;
But of what my father and mother say
Indeed I am afraid.
I beg of you, Chung Tzu,
Do not climb over our wall,
Do not break the mulberry trees we have planted,
Not that I mind about the mulberry-trees,
But I am afraid of my brothers,
Chung Tzu I dearly love;
But of what my brothers say
Indeed I am afraid.
I beg of you Chung Tzu,
Do not climb into our garden,
Do not break the hard wood we have planted.
Not that I mind about hard wood,
But I am afraid of what people will say.
Chung Tzu I dearly love;
But of all that people say
Indeed I am afraid.
.
Anonymous
Translated by: Arthur Waley
Poem Courtesy:
https://archive.org/details/worldpoetryantho0000wash/page/68/mode/1up
World Poetry An Anthology from Antiquity to Our Time
Katharene Washburn and John S Major Editors,
Clifton Fadiman, General Editor
(https://archive.org/details/worldpoetryantho0000wash/mode/1up)
Part I: Poets of The Bronze and Iron Ages.
China: The Chou Dynasty and Warring States Period
From The Book of Songs (800- 500 BCE)
11 వ కవిత, తావొ తే చింగ్ నుండి…
ముప్ఫై చువ్వలు చక్రానికున్న కన్నాలకు బిగించినపుడు
శూన్యమూ, పదార్థమూ జతకలుస్తాయి.
బండి నడుస్తుంది.
మట్టిని ఒక కూజా ఆకారంలోకి మలిచినపుడు
శూన్యమూ పదార్థమూ జతకలుస్తాయి.
కూజా పనిచేస్తుంది.
తలుపులూ కిటికీలూ గదికి దారి చేసినపుడు
శూన్యమూ పదార్థమూ జతకలుస్తాయి.
గది పనిచేస్తుంది.
నిజంగా అదంతే!
పదార్థం లాభపడుతుంది
శూన్యం దన్నుగా పనిచేస్తుంటే.
.
లావొ జు
చీనీ కవి
తావొ తే చింగ్
చీనీ గ్రంధము నుండి.
క్రీ. పూ. 4వ శతాబ్ది.
Poem Eleven from The Tao Te Ching
.
When thirty spokes join the wheel-hole
A void to matter paired.
The carriage functions.
When clay is thrown to form a vase:
A void to matter paired,
The vessel functions.
When door and window vent a room
A void to matter paired,
The chamber functions.
Surely is this so:
Materials avail,
Having void for function.
.
Lao-tzu
Chinese Poet
Poem Courtesy: https://archive.org/details/worldpoetryantho0000wash/page/71/mode/1up

ప్రేమే సర్వస్వం కాదు (సానెట్ 30) … ఎడ్నా సెంట్ విన్సెంట్ మిలే, అమెరికను కవయిత్రి
ప్రేమే సర్వస్వం కాదు; తినేదీ తాగేదీ అసలు కాదు.
సుఖంగా నిద్రపుచ్చేదో, వాననుండి రక్షించే పైకప్పో కాదు.
అందులో పడి మునుగుతూ తేలుతూ, మునుగుతూ తేలుతూ,
మళ్ళీ ములిగే మగాళ్ళని రక్షించగల ‘తేలే కలపముక్కా’ కాదు.
ప్రేమ దాని ఊపిరితో ఆగిపోయిన గుండెను కొట్టుకునేలా చెయ్యలేదు
రక్తాన్ని శుభ్రపరచలేదు, విరిగిన ఎముకను అతకనూ లేదు.
నేను ఇలా చెబుతున్నప్పుడుకూడా, ఎంతో మంది పురుషులు
కేవలం ప్రేమలేకపోవడం వల్ల మృత్యువుతో చెలిమిచేస్తున్నారు.
హాఁ! ఒకటి నిజం. ఏదో ఒక బలహీన క్షణంలోనో
బాధలు అణగద్రొక్కి, తప్పించుకుందికి అల్లాడినపుడో,లేదా
లేమి వెంటాడుతూ, మనసును ఇక అదుపుచేయగల శక్తి లేనపుడో,
ఉపశమనం కోసం నీ ప్రేమని మార్పిడిచేసుకుందామనిపించవచ్చు
ఆకలితీర్చుకుందికి ఈ రేయి జ్ఞాపకాలని వినిమయం చెయ్యొచ్చు.
అది కేవలం ఊహ. అలా చెయ్యగలనని నే ననుకోను.
.
ఎడ్నా సెంట్ విన్సెంట్ మిలే
(February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)
అమెరికను కవయిత్రి
Love is Not All
(Sonnet XXX)
.
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
.
1892-1950
American Poet
Poem Courtesy: https://poets.org/poem/love-not-all-sonnet-xxx