POEMS OF PAZHANIVEL IN ENGLISH_Translated by Brammarajan
All the poems of Pazhanivel has been chosen from his first and only collection called Thavalai Veedu.
The body woven by hands-Pazhanivel
Till the fishermen prepare to go
The fish turn into stars on the catamarans.
The catamarans resemble the lute that strums the night.
Its varying strings
Tremble because of thirst
Covering the full expanse of the sand
The decorations of the threaded conch
Those who had both the sides of the coin with them
And a smile dancing on their lips
crawl on the skin’s sand
As the urchins swim in the water
No one cares
About the pearl scattered on the ground.
Rare chance- Pazhanivel
If I had been a stamp collector
Or a collector of coins
Even if I had gathered clocks, torches, even match boxes
I would have been known as an achiever.
All these years
Scattered in the house
They broke like moth eaten bones
The bronze vessels
Have become give away gifts.
The gun bartered for the balance in the toddy shop.
Taxidermied leopard skin
The locket with the tiger claw, the silver plate
All these turned into the base manure.
The antler has been lost in lending and is gone forever
As a collector of butterflies_
When I chase them all over the thur bean fields
What am I going to do with them.
Can grow the mating bull
that impregnates as it wishes
In this land
Instead of becoming a person of knowledge
Should do something remarkable
I should leave in some city bus
First the crowbar and the shovel
Would not I?
Today is very hot-Pazhanivel
Today is very hot
The presence of water
In the city’s river
Is a comforting sight
But a cool bubble of air
As though it is the breath of the land
In the bus waiting to start
Green saree clad women
move here and there in search of seats
The bus waves like a field.
Two blind men
Cross the congested lane
Stir and stir
With something resembling an oar
With inability the traffic signal is weeping
Today too the temperature has touched high
Today must also be a very hot day.
Unable to find the shore the ship blinks motionless
The flags of identification
A fruit falls squeamishly
From the flag
Unusually the sun is hotter
Mirage of rain
Falls on the city streets
Flood water flows
The tired school girl who returns home
Gleans a little in the inside of her shoes
And in it she bathes the sun
Rushes past coolly.
One who has been made ostracized in the habitats
Lusting the stones
All over the mountain rears peacocks of sculpture
The touch-me-not leaves chosen exclusively for the plumage
Play relationship with moss.
The plumage spreads to a grand size.
For the sake of the eggs laid by the sculptures
He scratches sleep with his chisel.
He never interferes with the rain when the peacocks mate.
Everywhere peacocks abound
In peak summer
They cry with unclosed eyes
The language he had lost when he left the habitat itself
It could be his breath.
It could be the love he had for the peacocks.
If you are a connoisseur of Van Gogh
I will offer you a well grown field of sunflowers.
With the mountain backdrop
and the edge the sun.
Crores of canvass skies are also free.
If you can put up with my foul language
Will give you
The pond where the Seven Virgins bathed
The metal memoranda of Rajendra Cholan left in Naththam
The paniyarams fried in pig fat.
If you are some one
Who tells something resembling the truth
I will give the parrots fattening on the sunflowers
The people who perish later and the worn out future
The villages that will be the source of small change_all free.
If you can catch the parrots that taught me
The abusive language
Will give you the symbols of Chithrakulam
Monitar lizard’s skin
innumerable manuscripts on magic
And pirandai pickle.
If you submit yourself for free drinks and snacks
Let me give you the red earth hue of blood.
The salt which the body yields
the overflowing tears.
Lands the peasant had lost
The left over hay is also free.
If the regular abuses do not hurt you_
Pest- stricken coconut trees
The cattle waiting to be slaughtered
The streets of marwaris
Cold gruel and tasty fingers are free too.
The parrots splitting the nuts
Sit cozily around the grand rims of the sun
If you can just stand in the garden and watch
Striking of the tin sheets
and shooing away
The parrot voices and shouts of wood,
In a short while
The sweet dumplings are arriving
While we eat it
Whoever we are
Since we are somebody
This should happen.
All poems are translated by Rajaram Brammarajan
Being published for the first time here.