Lament of the Flowers

[ Pushpa Vilapamu] by Karuna Sri, [pen name of Jandhyala Pappaya Sastri, 1912, -1992] translated from the Telugu

Bent on worshipping you
I woke up with cock-crow:
Bathed, clad in pure white,
Entered an orchard to fetch flowers.

As I stood by a plant, held the bough
And touched a flower, lo: all the flowers raised
Their voices in chorus, wailing, ‘Must you kill us all?’
My hear sank, something flashed in me, as ‘Lament of Flowers’.

‘Will you nip us all and collect in baskets
As we play in the tender leaf-lap of our mother
And sell us to gain salvation? What use
Any worship, when you are heartless?

‘We are dull heads, you are wise;
You have intellect, imagination;
Has your heart turned to stone?
Doesn’t it yield a few flowers to offer to god?

‘While we breathe, we air the identity
Of our creeper- mother---enjoy rocking freely
In her hands--and as the hour approaches,
Contented we close our eyes--at her holy feet.

We facilitate the air dashing scents; feast the bees
That court us with sweet nectar; please the eyes
Of the likes of you; why this selfishness and--
Stop, don’t snap us--Do you sever mother and child?

‘You’re fine--cutting others throats for your sake---
How mean of you to acquire merit thus? Will the Master of all
Accept this bloody offering? Won’t the all knowing Lord
Receive our poor souls? Why an intermediary?

‘Strangling our throats with a thread of wool,
Sending needles through our hearts, they bind us
To deck their fashionable hairdos---
Alas, pitiless indeed is your fair sex!

‘Squeezing us in presses to the last drop
Of life, you men make attar
With our heart’s blood to was the foul
Smell of your bodies, O murderer!

‘Alas! All those luxuriating beasts of men
Sprinkle us on their beds, trample our tender bodies
Under their heavy feet--crush and crush-- and next
Morning throw us out, all faded and unpetalled.

‘Offering all our priceless tender sweet lives
At your feet, aren’t we lost,lost? Having
Plundered our youth, beauty, you sweep us away
With a broom! Do men have any ethics?

You are born in the land of the Buddha,
Why is natural love just dead in you?
O murderer, murdering beauty,
Tainted indeed is your human birth.

For God’s sake leave your worship,
Don’t cut our innocent throats!
Oh! What grace can you earn
Killing us with your own hands?’

Thus admonished by the flowers--so
I thought--I had no hands to pick them;
To report the matter to the Lord
Thence I came, all empty-handed.

[1944, trans K Godavari Sharma.]

Extracts from Snow Fu by Hsieh Hui-Lien

Many years ago while doing research I found this poem in a journal, and wrote down part of it. Today it must be available on the net, but I reproduce what I noted down at the time.

‘The year approaching its close,
The season getting dark
Cold winds gathering
Gloomy clouds clustering.

The Prince of Liang was not cheerful
As he strolled in Rabbit garden—
So he set out fine wine,
Called for his friends to come…’

……………………..

‘How could integrity be my name,
How could purity be my virtue?
With the clouds I ascend and descend,
On the wind I flutter and fall.
Encountering objects I diffuse over their images,
On the earth I spread over its form.
Blank according to what I meet,
Foul following another’s sullying,
My hear is wild and free—
Whay should I worry, why hustle and bustle?’

The Hero by W. H. Auden

He parried every question that they hurled:
"What did the Emperor tell you?" "Not to push."
"What is the greatest wonder of the world?"
"The bare man Nothing in the Beggar's Bush."

Some muttered: "He is cagey for effect.
A hero owes a duty to his fame.
He looks too like a grocer for respect."
Soon they slipped back into his Christian name.

The only difference that could be seen
From those who'd never risked their lives at all
Was his delight in details and routine:

For he was always glad to mow the grass,
Pour liquids from large bottles into small,
Or look at clouds through bits of coloured glass.

Autumnal Day by Rainer Maria Rilke

AUTUMNAL DAY


Lord! It is time. So great was Summer's glow:
Thy shadows lay upon the dials' faces
And o'er wide spaces let thy tempests blow.

Command to ripen the last fruits of thine,
Give to them two more burning days and press
The last sweetness into the heavy wine.

He who has now no house will ne'er build one,
Who is alone will now remain alone;
He will awake, will read, will letters write
Through the long day and in the lonely night;
And restless, solitary, he will rove
Where the leaves rustle, wind-blown, in the grove.

[I am looking for another translation I once read--the third para in this begins 'The homeless man finds it too late to build/ The lonely man will keep his loneliness' would appreciate it if anyone has this version and can send it to me]

Sixty-seven years ago

Partition
by
W.H. Auden

Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission,
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition
Between two peoples fanatically at odds,
With their different diets and incompatible gods.
"Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late
For mutual reconciliation or rational debate:
The only solution now lies in separation.
The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter,
That the less you are seen in his company the better,
So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation.
We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu,
To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you."

Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day
Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away,
He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate
Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date
And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect,
But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect
Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot,
And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot,
But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,
A continent for better or worse divided.

The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget
The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not,
Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot.

extract from Auguries of Innocence, by William Blake

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro' all its regions.
A dog starv'd at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf's and lion's howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand'ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus'd breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher's knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won't believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever's fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov'd by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov'd
Shall never be by woman lov'd.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider's enmity.
He who torments the chafer's sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother's grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar's dog and widow's cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer's song
Poison gets from slander's tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy's foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist's jealousy.

The prince's robes and beggar's rags
Are toadstools on the miser's bags.
A truth that's told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro' the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.