by Cheran
just for today.
Will there be a time, soon,
when each truth that bursts out of our mouths
is rewarded by a bullet?
If not, then why this tragedy?
Beneath the mango tree, where three streets meet,
the bodies lie burning;
the flames rising
blacken the unfurled palm leaves above.
Smoke,
fear, cruelty,
sorrow, terror.
Everything is black;
the colour of demons
when dark shadows
and hostile omens
envelop
the bodies and the hearts
which lie there, burning
at this time.
Even the birds have lost their song,
their voices suppressed.
Children forget to scream,
their shocked eyelids frozen.
The wind carries away
the ashes,
the dogs carry away
the bones.
They frog-march humanity
at gun point,
shoot it dead at the grave’s edge
and shovel the earth over it
with their feet.
The walls along the streets
drip with blood
as they justify themselves.
Justification!
Who asked you for justification?
I know
each blade of grass,
each small shoot
and the tiniest weed
blossoms,
grows, matures and dies
because of the life-breath of hope.
But now, at this moment,
when the aged call out in their grief
that this, our land, is cursed –
at this moment
when bodies and hearts are burning –
at this moment
how can I speak of hope?
Among these graves,
among these corpses,
between the bloodstained clothes,
among grief-stricken mothers
weeping for their dead sons
I wander,
with my wasting body
and unshaven face,
a heavy heart and confused mind,
searching for false words
of false comfort.
ó£TQ
(RAJANI)
Þ¡‹ ªè£…ê «ïóˆF™
ÅKò¡ ñ¬ø‰¶M´õ£¡
Þ¼œ èM‰¶M´‹
ÞQ õóŠ «ð£Aø Þ¼œ
º¡¹ «ð£ô Ü™ô
Hꣲ
Gô£¬õ‚ ªè£¬ô ªêŒ¶
ªõœOè¬÷Š «ð£†ªìKˆî
꣋ð™ ÌCò Þó¾
Þ‰î Þ󾂰 º¡
å¼ CÁ ¬èM÷‚¬è
Ü™ô¶ å¼ ªñ¿° FK¬ò
ãŸP Mì«õ‡´‹ â¡Á
M¬ó‰î£Œ
Ü‹ñ£,
«õè‹ Üõ˜‚èFè‹ Þ¡Á
ªî¡ F¬ê G¡Á õ‰îù˜.
òñQ¡ Éî˜èœ;
¬èˆ¶Šð£‚A;
䉶 °‡´èœ
c M¿‰î «ð£¶
ÅKòQ¡ è¬ìC‚ Aóíƒèœ
²õK™ M¿ˆFò
à¡ Gö™
¬èè¬÷ iC «ñ«ô æƒAŸÁ.
º®ML õ¬ó.
RAJANI [1989]
(ó£TQ)
Now, in a little while
the sun will set,
darkness will fall.
The darkness that is yet to come
will not be as before
but the very devil –
a night that has murdered the moon
and set fire to the stars;
an ash-smeared night.
You hurried on your way
hoping to light a small hand-lamp,
or at least a candle,
before such a night could fall.
Amma,
today they were in great haste
arriving from the south –
Death’s messengers
with their rifles
and their five bullets.
As you fell
the sun’s last rays
threw upon the wall
your shadow:
your waving hands rising
higher
and higher
beyond the horizon.
°ö‰¬îèœ
(CHILDREN)
°ö‰¬îè¬÷ ò£˜ à¼õ£‚°Aø£˜èœ
â¡Á  «è†«ì¡
Fø‰¶ ¬õˆî ò¡ùÖì£è„ êôêôˆ¶
ï£ù™ô; Üõ˜èO¡ °ó½‚°„
êƒWî ïó‹¹è¬÷ˆ î¼õ«î â¡ «õ¬ô
â¡ø¶ 裟Á
Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò è‡èÀ‚°
Ýöñ£ù Gøƒè¬÷ˆ î¼A«ø¡ 
â¡ø¶ åO
Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò H…²Š ð£îƒèÀ‚°
å¼ ¹¡ù¬è¬òˆ î¼A«ø¡ 
â¡ø¶ ªêšõôKŠÌ
Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò ÞîòˆF¡ ²õ˜è¬÷‚
è£îL¡ Þ¬öè÷£™ ªïŒA«ø¡
â¡ø¶ èì™
Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò CKŠ¹‚°
ñ‰Fó õL¬ñ¬ò„ «ê˜‚A«ø¡
â¡øù 裴èœ
ÜŠð®ò£ù£™
Üõ˜èÀ¬ìò ¬èèO™ ¶Šð£‚Aè¬÷»‹
裙èÀ‚° ó£µõ„ êŠð£ˆ¶‚è¬÷»‹
Þ´ŠH™ ªõ®°‡´è¬÷»‹
è‡èO™ ªõÁŠ¬ð»‹
î‰î¶ ò£˜ â¡Á «è†«ì¡
裟Á‹ è콋 à¬ø‰îù;
ªõOJ™
àô˜‰¶ ªï£¼ƒAŸÁ
è‡í£®ˆ ¶‡´è÷£è åO.
å¼ I¡ù™ ªõ†®™
âKò Ýó‹Hˆîù Ì‚èÀ‹ 裴èÀ‹
â™ô£Š ðø¬õèÀ‹
Æìñ£èŠ ðø‰¶ ªê¡Á
܈b»œ M¿‰îù.
°ö‰¬îèœ
âƒèÀ¬ìò °ö‰¬îèœ.
CHILDREN [1994]
(°ö‰¬îèœ)
Who creates children,
I asked.
Rustling in through the open window,
Wind said,
Not I
I only give strong nerves of music
to their voices.
I give deep colours
to their eyes,
said Light.
I touch their tender feet
with a smile
said the Red Oleander.
I weave the walls of their hearts
with love’s threads,
said Sea.
I add magic strength
to their laughter,
said Forest.
If that is true
who put guns in their hands
army boots on their feet
grenades at their waist
and hatred in their eyes,
I asked.
Wind and Sea froze;
Light withered,
shattering away
like splinters of glass.
In a single flash of lightning
Flowers and Forest were in flames
and all the birds, in a great flock,
flew into that fire.
Children,
our children.
áN
(APOCALYPSE)
âƒèÀ¬ìò è£ôˆF™î£¡
áN G蛉î¶.
ÝM‚ ÈF™ Gô‹ ï´ƒAŠ
«ðŒ ñ¬öJ™ àì™ H÷‰¶
àœÀ‹ ªõO»‹ b Í÷
Þ¼O¡ Üôø™.
°ö‰¬îè¬÷, ñQî˜è¬÷
ªõœ÷‹ Þ¿ˆ¶ õ‰¶
bJ™ âPAø¶.
Üè£ôˆF™ ªè£¬ô»‡«ì£‹
ÅöõóŠ 𣘈¶ G¡øõ˜èO¡
Gó£îó
M¡e¶
å¼ àJóŸø è¬ì‚è‡ i„¬ê
âP‰¶M†´
¹¬è‰¶ ¹¬è‰¶ ºAô£è
«ñŸ A÷‹H«ù£‹
è£çŠè£¾‚°ˆî£¡ ìò ⿈¶‚è¬÷ˆ
bJLì õ£Œ‚èM™¬ô
Ýù£™ CõóñE âKˆ¶ M†ì£œ
܉îó ªõOJ™ èM¬î ÜNAø¶
ñŸøõ˜èÀ¬ìò ¹¬ù¾èœ
àJ˜ ªðø ñÁ‚A¡øù.
♫ô£¼‹ «ð£Œ M†«ì£‹
è¬î ªê£™ô ò£¼‹ Þ™¬ô
ÞŠªð£¿¶ Þ¼‚Aø¶
è£ò‹ð†ì å¼ ªð¼Gô‹
Ü «ñô£èŠ ðø‰¶ ªê™ô
â‰îŠ ðø¬õò£½‹ º®òM™¬ô
ï£ƒèœ F¼‹H õ¼‹ õ¬ó.
APOCALYPSE [1999]
(áN)
In our own time we have seen
the Apocalypse. The earth
trembled to the dance of the dead;
bodies burst apart in the wild storm;
darkness screamed as everything caught fire
inside and out.
The last flood dragged out children and men
and threw them on the flames.
We died in an untimely hour.
Glancing sidelong with our dying eyes
at the helplessness
of those who surrounded us, watching,
we smouldered and smouldered
then rose up in a smoke cloud.
Kafka was denied the chance
to set fire to his works.
But Sivaramani burnt hers.
Poetry is destroyed in mid-air.
What others write now
refuses to live.
We have all gone away;
there is no one to tell our story.
Now there is only left
a great land, wounded.
No bird may fly above it
until our return.
[Uuzhi, 1999]
ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶
(SUNSET)
ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶
õò™ ªõO‚° ÜŠð£™
ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶
裆®¡ GöL«ô
ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶
Þ¡‹ ªð£Nò£î ñ¬öJ¡
«è£ðˆ¶‚°Š H¡ù£™,
ñ‡E™ ¹ó‡®¼‚°‹ ËŸÁ‚ èí‚è£ù
àì™èO¡ «ñ™,
è¬óJ™ 嶃Aò ¶‡®‚èŠð†ì
å¼ è£L¡ e¶.
ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶
ÞöŠ¬ð»‹ ¶òóˆ¬î»‹
⃰ °MŠð¶ â¡Á ªîKò£ñ™
«è£÷ ܬø‚°œ ð¶ƒè å¼
ͬô¬òˆ «î®ˆ ¶®ˆî CÁ ðø¬õJ¡
安î Þø‚¬èèœ e¶
âù¶ è‡a¼‚°œ ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶
裬ôJ™
îòƒAˆ îòƒA õ‰¶ ªê£™Aø£˜èœ:
àì™ A¬ì‚èM™¬ô.
SUNSET [1999]
(ªð£¿¶ ꣌‰î¶)
The sun has set
across the spreading fields
the sun has set
in the shadow of the woods
the sun has set
beyond the anger of the rain
which is yet to fall
upon the hundreds of bodies
sprawled upon the sand
upon a severed leg
alone upon the sea-shore
the sun has set.
Upon the broken wings
of a quivering small bird
which does not know
where to heap its loss and sorrow
and searches for a corner
in a small cage
where it can lurk;
within my tears the sun has set.
At dawn they arrive
with faltering words:
The body has not been found.
«èœ
(ASK)
«èœ
âŠð®Š ¹í˜õ¶ â¡ð¬îŠ
𣋹èOì‹. âŠð®Š ¹ô˜õ¶ â¡ð¬î‚
裬ôJì‹. ªð£Á¬ñ â¡ð¶ â¡ù
â¡ð¬î ñóƒèOì‹. èù¾èÀ‚°
õ‡íƒèœ à‡ì£ â¡ð¬îˆ É‚èˆF™
ïìŠðõ˜èOì‹. è‡a˜ˆ¶Oèœ C¬ø‚Ãìƒè÷£è
ñ£Pò¶ âŠð® â¡ð¬î
ÜèFèOì‹. ðò‹ â¡ð¶ â¡ù â¡ð¬î
ï´ ÞóM™ Þ‰î ïèK™ ïì‚è «ï˜Aø
èÁŠ¹ˆ «î£™ ñQî˜èO캋
ªð‡èO캋. «ñ£è‹ ºŠð¶ èœî£ù£
â¡ð¬î Í‚°ˆF ÜE‰î è£îô˜èOì‹.
º¿GôM™ ð£ôˆF¡W› à¬ø‰î ð£ŸèìL¡
𣴋 e¡èœ âƒ«è «ð£ŒM†ìù
â¡ð¬î‚ 裘è£ôˆFì‹. ªñ£NJ¡
îQ¬ñJL¼‰¶ HøŠð¶ â¡ù â¡ð¬îˆ
F¬ê ªî£¬ôòŠ ¹ô‹ªðò˜‰îõ˜èOì‹.
¶òóˆF¡ ê£Á HN‰î îQ¬ñ âŠð®J¼‚°‹
â¡ð¬î â¡ ðQŠð£¬ø»œ ªï¼ŠH¡
àJ˜„ ²õ†¬ì âP‰îõOì‹, ÜõOì‹
ÞõOì‹. ÞóM¡ è¬ìC óJ½‹ «ð£ŒM†ì
HŸð£´, î‡ìõ£÷ƒèÀ‹ °OK™ ¶®ˆ¶Š
H÷‚è 埬ø„ Cø°ì¡ ¬èJ™ 埬øŠ
Ì¾ì¡ è£ˆF¼Šð¶ âŠð® â¡ð¬î
â¡Qì‹
«èœ.
ASK [1995]
(«èœ)
Ask
snakes, how to copulate. The morning,
how to dawn. Trees, the meaning
of patience. Ask sleep-walkers what colour
dreams are. Refugees, how their tears
became their prison cells. Women and Blacks
who must walk the streets of this town
at night, what fear is. Lovers who wear nose-studs
whether lust lasts for only thirty days.
The monsoon, where the fish have all disappeared,
fish which once sang in the still milk-ocean
beneath the bridge, on full-moon nights.
Ask a lost diaspora, what is born
out of the loneliness of language. Ask her, who flung
a living ember of fire upon the ice-cliffs of my life,
about the quintessential loneliness of grief.
Ask her. And her.
Ask
me,
when the last train of the evening has gone
and the railway lines shiver and break in the cold,
what it is to wait with a single wing
and a single flower.
Gø‹
(COLOUR)
ðQ ð옉¶ àô˜‰î ð£¬îJ™ ⊫𣶋 «ð£ô
ñƒAò åO  ªî¼M÷‚A¡ W› °OK™
M¬øˆ¶„ Cõ‰î Í‚° ¸Q»‹ AN‰¶ ¶õ¿‹
«ñ™ «ñô£¬ì»‹ Üî¡ «ñ™ ÜCóˆ¬î»ì¡ å†ìŠ
ð†®¼‰î å¼ CÁ èù®òˆ «îCò‚ ªè£®»‹ Ü옉î
c‡ì 𿊹ˆ J™ ËŸø£‡´è÷£Œ„ «ê˜‰î
Ü¿‚°‹ è¬ø»‹ à¬ø‰î Hò˜ ¸¬óJ¡ 𮾋
î¬ôJ™ ñ¬ö ðQ ¹ò™ ªõJ™ â™ô£õŸP½‹
Ü®ð†´ˆ «î£Ÿø‹ C¬î‰î 裆´Šð„¬ê Þó£µõˆ
ªî£ŠH»‹
Ãù™ º¶°‹ õ¬÷‰î ïèƒèÀ‹ c‡´ ªïO‰¶
C‚°‡ì ñJ¼‹ âù„ ²¼‡´ A쉶 ð£F Þ¼À‹
ð£F ªõP»ñ£Œ Ü®‚è® Fø‰¶ Í´‹ cô‚
è‡èÀì¡ è£™ ðí‹ «è†´ ÞóŠðõ¡ C™ô¬ø
âPðõ˜‚° ï¡P â¡Aø£¡
âPò ñÁˆ«î¡
‘Fuck you, Paki,’
â¡Á ºèˆ¬îˆ F¼ŠHù£¡.
COLOUR [2003]
(Gø‹)
In the street, dry now after a
fall of snow,
beneath the street-lamp with its dim light,
the tip of his nose frozen and red,
a small Canadian flag pinned carelessly
upon his ragged, drooping overcoat,
centuries of dirt and stains and beer-froth
on his long, dense brown beard,
a forest-green army cap on his head
now shapeless,
buffeted by snow, wind and rain,
with hunched back, crooked nails and
long, curly, tangled hair, he lies huddled,
his blue eyes blinking frequently,
part sunken in darkness
part crazed. He begs for money
and thanks those who fling him coins.
I refused.
‘Fuck you, Paki,’ he said
turning his face away.
ïœOó¾Š Ì¬ê