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So Many Births : Three Decades of Poetry
115 pages
First published January 1, 2001
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About the author
K. Satchidanandan
69 books19 followersK. Sachidanandan (Malayalam: കെ സച്ചിദാനന്ദൻ) is a Indian poet and critic writing in Malayalam and English. A pioneer of modern poetry in Malayalam, a bilingual critic , playwright, editor, literary columnist and translator, he is the former Editor of Indian Literature journal and the former Secretary of Sahitya Akademi.He is also a public intellectual of repute upholding secular democratic views, supporting causes like environment, human rights and free software and a well known speaker on issues concerning contemporary Indian literature.
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January 1, 2018
THE MAD
The mad have no caste
or religion. They transcend
gender, live outside
ideologies. We do not deserve
their innocence.
Their language is not of dreams
but of another reality. Their love
is moonlight. It overflows
on the full-moon day.
Looking up they see
gods we have never heard of. They are
shaking their wings when
we fancy they are
shrugging their shoulders. They hold
that even flies have souls
and the green god of grasshoppers
leaps up on thin legs.
At times they see trees bleed, hear
lions roaring from the streets. At times
they watch Heaven gleaming
in a kitten’s eyes, just as
we do. But they alone can hear
ants sing in a chorus.
While patting the air
they are taming a cyclone
over the Mediterranean. With
their heavy tread, they stop
a volcano from erupting.
They have another measure
of time. Our century is
their second. Twenty seconds,
and they reach Christ; six more,
they are with the Buddha.
In a single day, they reach
the big bang at the beginning.
They go on walking restless, for
their earth is boiling still.
The mad are not
mad like us.
***
CACTUS
Thorns are my language.
I announce my existence
with a bleeding touch.
Once these thorns were flowers.
I loathe lovers who betray.
Poets have abandoned the deserts
to go back to the gardens.
Only camels remain here, and merchants,
who trample my blooms to dust.
One thorn for each rare drop of water.
I don’t tempt butterflies,
no bird sings my praise.
I don’t yield to droughts.
I create another beauty
beyond the moonlight,
this side of dreams,
a sharp, piercing,
parallel language.
***
The mad have no caste
or religion. They transcend
gender, live outside
ideologies. We do not deserve
their innocence.
Their language is not of dreams
but of another reality. Their love
is moonlight. It overflows
on the full-moon day.
Looking up they see
gods we have never heard of. They are
shaking their wings when
we fancy they are
shrugging their shoulders. They hold
that even flies have souls
and the green god of grasshoppers
leaps up on thin legs.
At times they see trees bleed, hear
lions roaring from the streets. At times
they watch Heaven gleaming
in a kitten’s eyes, just as
we do. But they alone can hear
ants sing in a chorus.
While patting the air
they are taming a cyclone
over the Mediterranean. With
their heavy tread, they stop
a volcano from erupting.
They have another measure
of time. Our century is
their second. Twenty seconds,
and they reach Christ; six more,
they are with the Buddha.
In a single day, they reach
the big bang at the beginning.
They go on walking restless, for
their earth is boiling still.
The mad are not
mad like us.
***
CACTUS
Thorns are my language.
I announce my existence
with a bleeding touch.
Once these thorns were flowers.
I loathe lovers who betray.
Poets have abandoned the deserts
to go back to the gardens.
Only camels remain here, and merchants,
who trample my blooms to dust.
One thorn for each rare drop of water.
I don’t tempt butterflies,
no bird sings my praise.
I don’t yield to droughts.
I create another beauty
beyond the moonlight,
this side of dreams,
a sharp, piercing,
parallel language.
***
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