സച്ചിദാനന്ദന്റെ കവിതകള്‍ ഞാന്‍ ഇംഗ്ലീഷിലേക്ക് മൊഴിമാറ്റം ചെയ്തതത്

All the poems translated here by me are unofficial translations of works by Malayalam poet K. Sachidanandan

Madmen

Madmen don't have caste or religion;
and also maenads.
Our gender divisions are not applicable to them.
They are out of ideologies.
We don't deserve their sanctity.

Language of madmen is not of dream
it is of another reality.
Moonlight is their love and
it overflows on the full moon day.

When they look up, they see
goddesses we never heard of.
When the invisible wings are moved
we feel, they jerk shoulders.
They think flies also have soul,
and grasshopper's god
jumps around on its long green legs.

Sometimes, they see
blood flowing down from trees
sometimes, lions roaring
on the road
sometimes, heaven glowing
in cat's eyes.
They are like us only in these matters.
But only they can hear
the ants singing in group.

When they run finger in the air
a storm in the Mediteranean
is being tamed.
When step forcefully
taking care, not to erupt a volcano.

Madmen's time is different
for them, our one century is a moment
only twenty fillips to reach Christ.
Six more fillips to Budha.
In a day-time they reach
Big-Bang of the beginning.
Because earth boils violently
they keep on walking without sitting anywhere.

Madmen are not
mad like us.

How to Go to Tao Temple?

( visiting Tao Temple, Chu-Fu, China )

Don't lock the house.
By the side of dawn
like a leaf in the breeze
go weightless.

If too fair
go putting on ash.
If too wise
go in half-sleep.

Faster will be
tired fast.
Go slowly
almost like standstill.

Be shapeless like water.
Settle in the lowlands,
try not
to climb up.

Not keep at right
emptiness has neither left nor right,
neither front nor rear.

Don't call name
his name has no name.

No offerings,
take an empty bowl,
easier than taking a filled bowl.
No prayers also,
this is not the place
for those who have wants.

Talk in silence
if want to talk,
like rock does with trees
and trees do with flowers.
The most sweet sound
is silence.
And the most beautiful color
is that of nothingness.

Let not others know your arrival
and also your return.
Like one who crosses river in cold
need to cross the arch
shrunk by a quarter.

Like melting dew drop
you have only a fleeting moment.

No performance:
you are yet to be formed.
No anger:
Not even dust is in your control.
no regret:
it doesn't affect anything.

If fame calls change the way,
not even a foot print
is to be left behind.

Don't use hands at all
they always think of
violence.

Renounce glory
no other way to glory.

Let fish in the river be in the river
and fruits on tree on tree.

More hardened will be broken
softer will be bent
to survive,
like tongue to teeth.

Who not does anything
can only does everything.

Go crossing the gate
waiting for you
the unmade idol.


Love in the City

Love in city is

a tear drop
fell on red-hot iron,
it leaves only burning
fume in the heart.

Love in city is

a rose flower
thrown from a speeding
vehicle to another,
it gets smashed
between two speeds,
on street only a blood stain
is left.

Love in city is

a pair of sandals
searching for a room,
it gets wasted
on sharp-cornered stones and
only a hole is left in the middle,
stripping of wild memories
the sweetheart vanishes
through it after ordeal.

Love in city is

like sky in the city,
we know that exists,
but we see only walls
wherever look for it.

Love in city is

the last poison-tablet
the prisoner swallows with hope,
he can't know ever
whether it tastes bitter or sweet.

Gandhi and Poem

One day a slim poem
came to Ashram to see Gandhi.
Sitting head-down, Gandhi was spinning
thread leads to Rama.

Gandhi didn't acknowledge it first
which was standing at the door and
feeling shy of not being a bhajan.
When poem hawked, Gandhi
started questioning, looking askance through
his glasses which seen hell:
'Ever spun thread ?
Pulled scavenger's trolley ?
Felt smoke in the kitchen
after getting up at day-break ?
Ever starved ? '

Poem said:
'Born in the jungle
in a huntman's mouth.
And brought up in a fisherwoman's hut.
But don't know any work
but songs.
Lived in palaces
for long, singing
and was fat and fair then.
Now in street, with half-filled stomach.'

Gandhi said smiling:
'Thing you said last
is nice, but
should give up the habit of talking Sanskrit.
Go to fields,
listen how farmers talking.'
Poem reached the field,
metamorphosed as a seed and
lied waiting for the day
on which farmer will come to plough the land.