घड्याळाचे महाभारत जागतिक (मराठी कविता)

नेमेची सूर्योदय रोज पाहता
चुकुनच कधी येई ध्यानी
माझ्या विचारांच्या गतीहुनी
अफाट आहे धरतीची गती
नि
सूर्य रोजच्या रोज जागा बदलतो,
उगवायची वेळ बदलतो, ऋतु बदलतो,
कधी रात्र मोठी कधी दिवस,
वारयाची दिशा बदलतो;
नि
मी मात्र असतो जागच्या जागी
धावता धावता अधांतरी फिरत्या
प्रचंड चक्राच्या परिघावर वेगाने.
तरीही रोजच्या रोज सूर्य सांगे,
बा रेमी,
ही तुझी घड्याळाची टिक टिक
जळवेसारखी चिकटलेली तुला
आहे एक हुलकावणी देणारी
वादग्रस्त संकल्पना केवळ.
नि
कितीही आटापिटा केला तरी
चुकत नाही काळ; परी
लिहिलेली एक रेषेवर सरळ
चुकतात माझी गणिते केवळ
नेमेची.

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

FOREST DAMES IN THE URBAN JUNGLE

At early hours
Silently thy walk at a quick pace
In a single file
Even in this metropolis as in the forest
Keeping an even
Distance at an arm’s length
From each other,
The spring in their feet, rhythm
Of their bodies,
Like storks in the morning sky.

Their focus is fully
To reach the flower bazaar quickly,
Balancing the head load
Of leaves collected from forest land.
Standing at roadside
They quickly sale, earn some cash,
And by noon time
Return to the forest – their homestead.

They’ve no interest
In this glamorous city of gold and trade.
Neither have they seen
The lures on the life-size hoardings
By half naked beauties
Nor they sight show-windows countless.

They make sure
To wrap a towel or pallu* around
Of nine-yard bikinis,
Cover the bare thighs and swinging hips.
It is a tightrope
Walk for survival – to live sanely
In the habitat
Infected by the barbarian Moderns.

On their way back
In file, they respect each other’s space.
All their attention now,
at noon time, their hungry babies at home.
Their full breasts ache
With milk for the child waiting for feed.
In the sex obsessed city
The motherhood is not on a fashion ramp.

*****
Remigius de Souza
Mumbai, 21(12)/11/2003

NOTES:
* Pallu: a free end usually taken over head or around the shouldes of nine-yard sari.
* These forest dames are mostly from Thane District, the backyard of Mumbai city. They mostly belong to Warli tribe. As of today I notice a change in their attire; the younger generation has adopted to five yard saris in place of traditional nine yard ones.

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

FLOWERS FOREVER

My pathway along the flower bazaar
is hiding its face in utter shame
under the carpet of discarded
faded yesterday’s flowers rising
a stinking aroma as the sun rises up.
They have no salvation and no way
of reaching ever the mother earth
to sustain life eternal, the destiny
denied by the high profile culture
in this flourishing metropolis.


Dirty soil is buried under the tar
layer – no way for a drop of water
to reach thirsty streams below –
as the sun comes up oozes vapour
in the golden city ruled by high culture.
Beside the flower-bazaar lays flesh-bazaar
flourishing spreading its infectious cult
on the high ways and in by-lanes
to other bazaars of hedonic tastes.
A plucked flower here is eye’s pleasure.


Flowers and flesh are graded and priced
from expensive orchid to cheap minor ones
according to affordability in fairness.
Calling the call-girls as sex workers
to honour the labour, the socially awakened
class absolves itself of cultural taboos
and makes way for them to the altar
of progressive newfangled civilisation.
Flowers are offered here to the idols –
the gods or leaders – among the moderns.


The orthodox tribes offer in worship
flowers with grasses ? gains ? leaves ? fruits;
their women who adorn vermilion and
the maidens aspiring for marriage wear
flowers on the heads, celebrate fertility.
Flower is sex, sexual communion in nature
love and romance, fertility and abundance
for all living beings, a healer,
a selfless sacrifice in unison in nature.



(27/11/2002)
((Flower Bazaar at Dadar, Mumbai is a landmark place. Though officially it is shifted to a new place about half a kilometre away, the place is still being used as a flower bazaar by hundreds of vendors who make their living sustainable. Read more on my blog ARCHETYPES INDIA in a coming post.)

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

When we meet death face to face

"...What you do today, do it now." — Kabir

When we meet death
Face to face
Once too may times
There is nothing to loose.

When we meet you,
When we return home,
When we attend work,
Each time last time.

Each meeting,
Each returning,
Each day waiting
Each moment now here
Is celebration of life,
Veneration to death.


Remigius de Souza
28-4-99



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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

Rain! Rain! Come again -5

Farmers’ agonies and ecstasy: sixtytwo years passed since Independence but there seems no end to farmers’ miseries

White cloud takes
charming colours –
Does not rain.

(written: 1999-2000)
(White clouds are like promises by the politicians.)

The educated elite may believe the farmers work only for four months and idle away rest of the year. Even the experts like Amartya Sen may not be an exception. Then what about the government and the bureaucrats, market and the industrial society of the First World?

More than Nature and natural calamities, it is the governments and bureaucracy, market and industrial society, by their lopsided priorities of development and progress, inflict harm on them; they are the real cause for their agonies.

There is much to learn for the governments, policymakers and the experts from the farmers: See "Watering the farms: Learning fro the people".

Remigius de Souza
August 15, 2009

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

Rain! Rain! Come again - 4

Monsoon showers
Rejuvenate the flames
Of forest ever —
Streams deep enter
Suckle suckling
Mother goddess.

(written: 1999-2000)

Sculptors, who make Ganesha and Durga idols during the festivities, year after year, knowing these idols will be immersed after the festivities; they work with devotion. Farmers too work on their piece of land with devotion. Thus their work attains the status of “vocation” – work with the element of contemplation – Spirituality.

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

Rain! Rain! Come again -3

Sowing seeds
Missed showers
Waning moon
Trickle of stream
Hanging hopes
On a moving cloud.

(written:1999-2009)

Farmers are not only artists, they are planners too, unlike city planners who flatten the land, or lakes, with bulldozers and divide it into to plan cities. Farmers’ planning uses contours of land (to manage water).

Farmers are also management experts. They manage land, water, seeds, weeds, fodder, tools, storage, logistics, and other ancillary crops and animal husbandry.

And the last but not the least, the ongoing maintenance of all the aspects in farming as a policy, which involves scrutiny, corrections, improvisations, repairs and strategies, within their available means.

Farmers may be illiterate but they are not uneducated as some elite believe.


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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

Rain! Rain! Come again - 2

Cloud dark and heavy
Pours showers —
Resurgence.

(Written: 1999-2009)

Farmers’ art is in the domain of reality unlike painting, photography, words etc that create “virtual reality”. Farmers work on a canvas of a piece of land – small or big – with colours (!) of Elements from Nature: Prithvi, Apa, Tej, Vayu and Aakash (Earth, Water, Energy (Heat and Light), Air and Space); though consciously but never verbose about it.

Farmers are conversant with every nook and corner of their farms, and health of their plants.

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

Rain! Rain! Come again -1

Rain! Rain! Come again -1: Farmers' agony and ecstasy

Cloud is full
Dark and heavy
Drifting on —
Condemned land.

(Written: 1999-2000)

Very few may believe that farmers are artists; many don't even know.
Among all occupations, professions and vocations, farmers' vocation works at very high risks.
Their living is caught up in the cycles of agony and ecstasy throughout their life.

Remigius de Souza

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

MY WORK MY CULTURE

MY WORK MY CULTURE

In breathing, eating
I am not present
In shitting, pissing
I pollute the Present.
In wealth and waste
I increase my work.

Mumbai [12-07-2003]





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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

With monsoon comes

With monsoon comes

With monsoon comes a peacock’s call.
With first showers comes the fragrance of earth.
With first showers comes hope and longing
for home which is far away in distant hills
where westerly cool soft as peacock’s feather
touch breeze that brings comfort.
It’s time for resurrection.



Mumbai [01-06-2000]

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

The Sons of the Earth

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Passionate ashes of dead volcanoes
dipped in land the essence
of Mohua flowers shakes the covers
of the sons of the Earth

Burning woods in the moonlit warmth;
Evening star rising echoes of the distant
drumbeats in the aching pits.
‘Where are you going
O, sons of the Earth?’


Baroda (Feb 1970)


© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

Orphans of the Earth

No one saw where the rain comes from.
Hidden are the springs of the earth.
No one said of the longings.
No one remembered the dreams.
The orphans of the earth
Deprived of the warmth of her womb
Are seeking refuge in the darkness.

- - - -
[1960–70] Baroda (Now Vadodara)


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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

GO GLOBAL

Earn to burn in the urns of desires.
Eat - drink - sleep - (xxxx) - make merry
And drain the sap in the gutter holes,
which overflow to meet the dump yard
of the sea and add on the heaps
of unwanted generation; Chant. Chant
The global mantra of ilu*, ilu, ilu!
Does one live by food alone?
Or in a metropolitan nightmare
breathe some fresh air!


Mumbai [29-07-03]

(*ilu: I love you.)


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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

WATER, WATER EVERYWHERE

Water, water, water everywhere –
on paper, silver screen and computer –
but not even a drop to nurture.
In the desert sand dunes where
a soul sustains on moisture in air,
but a mind here chases mirages everywhere.
In the twilight zone of the poles
where dolphins go merry making,
its cosy igloo waiting for sunrise.
In my Sahyadri’s jungle, vanishing
now under your rule, it pours and runs,
blesses everyone on its way.
In your urban jungle it’s imprisoned
in conventions, released by taps
and packages that I can’t afford.
I never knew how it manipulates
me, my culture and my relation
with everything, in sublime silence,
from grasses lowly to gods – to air,
never knowing love is yet another
name of water that contains fire.


Mumbai [27-02-2003]


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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

An Eyesore

The lowest of the lowly
Spring up in the blind eye
Of the metropolis of gold
– a capillary action.

Mumbai [03-09-03]


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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

GROWING TREE – GROWING MIND

A growing tree balances
in time and space;
It’s many branches, leaves,
flowers, petals and fruits,
in harmonious whole.
A walking body seeks balance,
but a growing mind:
A product of the Class culture
justifies its multiple splits,
lies to itself, a life in deceit.


[14-07-2003] Mumbai




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© Remigius de Souza, All rights reserves.

Desert Soil (IMAGE)

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

All Fool's Day

All Fool’s Day

Whatever may be, it’s my doing,

by choice or by force, that I forget;

my rush ends it in half-hearted doing

and in endless strife I am caught.

In my fear of loosing my doing

no moment spared to stop and look

from all sides around, inside out,

at all levels, in all dimensions:

much of it I am ignorant.

On the fast track of one dimension

never knew when I lost myself;

never realised I am the means;

and I am the end. A product, an idea,

a thought, an act, or a concept

in time is perishable and transient:

no sooner born belongs to the past.

In stagnant water all actions stink.

But waters of life are always flowing,

condensing, evaporating, raining,

reflecting; that’s the nature of water,

of life born in water, but not my doing.

In looking at doing, the doing ceases.

At the core of ocean prevails

Silence pregnant with new life.

-------

Remigius de Souza

(26 March 2004)

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

चेहरा सावली हरवलेली संस्कृति

© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

LUCKY DOG ON VALENTINE DAY

LUCKY DOG ON VALENTINE DAY

By Remigius de Souza

Valentine or Santa, both strangers to me,
in this media-frenzy in this market place,
though I carry European Christian names:
They remain merely non-entities for me.

Certainly the seasons, even in this urban jungle
are close to my heart; so also the sun, moon
and stars, sky and clouds, dawn and dusk; a rare
patch of green and a song of bird. They evoke

emotions, memories, longings and aspirations
though I have no knowledge scholarly of them
to make money or name from these real entities.

I am enriched as I meet them in remote holes
in this urban maze like a stray ferrous flake
meets magnet: what a windfall for a lucky dog!

Mumbai

12-02-2004

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

CULTURE AND SURVIVAL

CULTURE AND SURVIVAL

Philosopher is a thinking person,
talking saves him of any action,
a self-seeker in self-gratification
gets fruits of loud applaud in vain.
Sustained by the philosophers in ages
raising burden on their dumb heads
the Moderns create wars of louder clutter
and ever-rising deafening noisy culture.

A farmer's thinking is in his action,
in caring seed and soil all in one
like a woman silently bearing a child;
both are in action - a soundless word
like a plant bearing flowers and fruits
bearing and keeping cycles of survival

Mumbai [11-12-2002]






© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.

Cultivated Identities

Cultivated Identities

Do we ever change dear? None ever changes –
neither a man - not even a blade of grass.
We are cultivated only in the reformatory
Out of what we are, bred by waves
Of netty pretty pictures, words pretty
Having no fragrance, no taste of honey
Fed by their ever growing netty tentacles
We are delivered always by the reformists
Selling - buying - swallowing swarms of locusts.
To change is to grow is to keep
The inner flame alive in us
Is the only option most dangerous
Is left to us of our creative powers.

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© Remigius de Souza., All rights reserves.