Poems from the Ghats | Save Mollem

It’s a tree talking. Lamenting the cutting of forests. Its a take on our politicians who are responsible for destroying the forests yet stand under umbrellas and plant saplings to celebrate vanamahotsav.

वनमहोत्सव

हांव ह्या वनांत तग मारुन आसा
कारण म्हज्या मदेराक दर ना
एका काळार एकमेकांक घश्टून
उजो पेट्टाली तीं दाट रानां
आतां काणयेतूच उरतली
आतां हांगा वनांत
पयलींसारको गुपाट काळोख ना
सुर्याची किरणां आतां
धरतरेचो उमाव घेतात
एका झाडाची खांदी
दुसर्‍या झाडाक तेंकना
दाट वनांत रावपाची
संवकळ आशिल्ली जनावरां
आतां रानांत रावूंक भियेतात
कोले, वाग, हत्ती
खाण सोदूंक गावांत वतात
सुकणीं घोंटेर बांदूक विसरल्यात
रानांत आतां गांव वसपाक लागल्यात

आनी गावांत
आतां मनशांभितर नवें फॅड आयलां
जंगलां वाटावपाचे
झाडां रोवपाचे
झाडां जगोवपाचे
पावसांत सत्री हातांत घेवन
वनमहोत्सव करपाचे

जांणी वनां काबार केली
म्हजे शेजारची तरणी टवटवीत
झाडां मारुन लाकडां केली
तांच्याच हातांत वनमहोत्सव मनयतात
आनी आमी रानांतली झाडां
हें सगळें मोन्यांनी पळयतात !

उदय नरसिंह म्हांबरो

I wonder if the trees knew you were coming for them

They have seen people like you before

They have outlived people like you before

Did you stand under their shade while you made your plans?

Did you dare to call it an execution?

You can only see as far as your greed

Your eyes hungry for more zeroes

You tell us it is development

But we know it is destruction

You tell yourselves you run the world

Drunk on the power to make decisions

A tree could fall on you tomorrow

and silence you

But we need them upright not falling

We need more of them than us

Don’t leave your children an inheritance of concrete

Don’t teach them that highways are better than forests

Don’t displace the birds and the animals and the fish

Don’t remove what you cannot replace

How can you do this to a sanctuary?

What will you do with their bodies?

- Rochelle Dsilva

सैम राखया

अस्तंत घाट सोपलो कसो कोणाक कळूंक ना !

मनीस सुवार्थी जायत चल्ला, 

तेका कोणाचें पडूंक ना ! 

काबार जालीं झाडां - पेडां,

मेकळीं केलीं रानां !

मोनजातीचो स्वास घुस्मटलो सुलूस लागूंक ना !

मनीस सुवार्थी जायत चल्ला 

तेका कोणाचें पडूंक ना ! 

उदरगतीची हाव आमकां 

पयशांचो माज 

राजकारणी मांडटात डाव

आनी सैमाचो -हास 

सैम सोपता, मनीसूय सोंपतलो

हें कोणाक कशें कळना ?

मनीस सुवार्थी जायत चल्ला 

तेका कोणाचें पडूंक ना !

सैमाची सासाय आमचेर, 

सैमूच आमचो आदार 

मनशा, आतां तरी सुदार पापया ! 

नाजाल्यार जातलो निराधार !

सैमाच्याच गोपांत आंमी घेतलो मेकळो स्वास 

सांबाळूया सैम आमचो, सोडून दिवया दुस्वास !

सैम आमचो राखणो आनी तोच देंवचार ! 

सुवार्थ दिवया सोडून आनी करया बरो विचार ! 

सैम राखया, सैम राखया ! 

दाखोवन दिवया आंमचो एकचार !

मागीर तोच आमकां सांबाळटलो 

सासणाचो, सदांकाळ ! 

सासणाचो, सदांकाळ ! 

   - तन्मयी देविदास सहकारी 🔅🔅

I Sing a Song of Goa :

Of the first liquid purl of birdsong that pulls
Up the kingfisher day like a fishing line looping into water;
Of the fist of the sun at noon and the cracking of the parched earth;
Of the brawling of buffaloes, breasting the woodsmoke,
Heading for home.

I sing of the creak of the windlass and the clean
Taste of water in the earthenware pitchers;
Of the desultory conversations on the balcaos at dusk
- somebody's daughter; somebody's son  -
As the crickets fiddle on hot stones and the sun dives,
Dolphin-deep, into the sea;
Of the anguished squeal of the Christmas pig, as flesh
Becomes sorpotel on the laden tables of festivity.

I sing of the riches of May, when the mango and the cashew apple
Grow so heavy with desire that scent weds heat;
Of the generous gulmohur, so reckless with its flowery coinage that it
Paves the country roads with red gold;
Of the baptism of the first rains, when the round
Earth grows hair : a tender fuzz of green on the skull,
Over the bones of the beloved soil.

I sing of the knotted rosaries of families, that stretch to lands far away;
Of the crucifixion of weddings ( nailed to the cross of respectability );
Of the benediction of funerals, and the village drunk
Howling his loss to the young moon on her back...
Loss of love ?
Of life ?
Never mind : it is the deepest sound a human being can make.

But, too,
I sing the lament of the rape of the hillsides by bulldozers and moneymen;
I sing along the veins of the rivers whose blood
Is being poisoned by the excreta of factories;
I sing a farewell to the sons and the daughters who go abroad
To seek their fortunes, leaving the fields untilled.
This land is drenched in the voices of our ancestors.

They are stirring in their graves and questioning us in their various voices :
Will the bread we eat today be baked tomorrow?
Will the fisherman's boat be capsized by the trawler?
Will the farmers sowing rice be stacking cans in supermarkets soon?

No one is safe, and every innocent must answer the charge.
The jury is out, and the sentence hangs fire :
All we have to tender as bail is the earth beneath
And the sky above:
Neither is acceptable as surety.

But I still sing of the blessing of each dawn,
When we wake with the wafer of hope on our tongues.
The church and temple bells still ring, and the hoot
Of the breadman on his bicycle echoes the rooster.

Some wake;

Some sleep;

And some work to save this land
From the nightmares that gallop apace with our dreams.

If I sing a song of Goa,
Will Goa someday sing a song of me?

If it does,
Let it be from the throat of that wayside flower
That releases its sweetness
As it falls,
And has a stain of vermilion at its heart, so that the foot
That treads on it imprints its fragrance on the tender
Hollow of the instep,

To perfume the road ahead,

Until all the roads seem to be singing.

I want a poem like thick tropical rain
Dense green spatter of syllables
Drumbeat consonants, fertile with meaning.
Sudden. Short. Unforgettable.
Afterwards, jungle silence.

I want a poem like a Russian circus
You should know it has been trained.
No ordinary everyday poem could leap like that.
No quotidian poem could shimmer, spangle, exult like that.
Oh satin, yes, and yes, fakery, and then
Popcorn applause and a lonely child,
Big-eyed, dreaming of running away to the poem.

I want a poem like an animal.
You should be able to eat it. Or domesticate it.
You should be able to befriend it. Or behead it.
You could carry it around or make it bear your burdens.
You could, should, oh should, so should, clean up after it.
Afterwards: Skeleton poem rides in night terror through icecream cloud cover.

I want a poem.
I want a poem.
I get instead this poem.
A poem of clanking wants like a pile of bhaandi-bartan going over a
waterfall in a barrel.
A poem of whispering needs like a tree whose branches scrape plea-bargains from the pavement as it is dragged
to the bonfire.

I want a poem
like a chorus of angels,
a chamber of horrors,
a block buster film,
a sexcapade with candlewax,
an anaconda adventure,
a ride in a Batmobile,
a contessa in a fountain.
I want a poem.

ल्हानपणातल्या म्हज्या सुपुल्ल्या गांवांत शियांळे सकाळी

शीं आंगाक तोपतालें

आंगणातल्या परशान लासूंक

काडयो बडयो पुजोवोंक आमी

दवान भरिल्ले ओले वाटेर

मेळत तशे धांवताले तुका

तेन्ना सरभोवतणी

पयसुल्ले लेगीत

निव्वळ दोळ्यांक दिसतालें

नितळ सकाळचो प्राणवायू पियोन

हड्डें उमेदीन फुलतालें......

आनी आतां

ती सकाळय गेली

ते दिसय गेले

वातावरण प्रदुशणान भरून गेलें

जाणां हांव

प्रस्न किल्लतात जायत्या मनांनी

हें सगळे कोणें केलें..?

सोबीत वातावरण कोणें नानपयत केलें....?

जाप घडये प्रदुशणान

पूण प्रदुशण हाडलें कोणें

केलें कोणें..?

एकामेकांक बोटा दाखोवप सुरूच आसा.....

हाकाताका जापसालदार धरप

चालूच आसा....

आरे पूण सभाग्यानो

हांव विचारता आयज

म्हाका जगपाक नितळ प्राणवायू खंय आसा.....?

म्हज्या भुरग्यांक आंगणात परसो पेटोवपाक

दाडवणां खटखटावपी शीं तरी खंय आसा

पानांपानातल्यान पडपी दंव तरी खंय आसा......?

सकाळच्या पारार

आंगणांत उबे रावचें

उगवते दिकेक पळोवचें

पांचवेंचार पांगरुण

अळंग दोंगर- दोग्गुंल्या वयल्यान

कुशीक सारीत

तेजीस्ट सुर्या मळबार अवतारतालो

सकयल पांचवीच चादर

वयर सुर्य किरणा़ंची भांगराळी झालर

सोबीत देखावो दोळ्यावाटे

काळजामेंरेंन पावतालो,

खंती जाता मन आयज

हो सैम सुवाळो

म्हजो पूत अशेतरेन अणभवतलो

हांव लेगीत अभागी जीव

अशेतरेन ताका दाखयतलो

पुणून पयलींचे दायज वाचून

तो शेर्त म्हाका त्या सुवाळ्याविशी विचारतलो.....

तेन्ना हांव दोळे गच्च धापून

दडका दडकानीं रडटलो...

आनी म्हजो पूत

ह्या आयच्या काळखी विखारी सैमांगणांत

म्हाका बेटरेचो दिवो हातींन घेवन

सांसपीत हांगा थंय सोदतलो

सांसपीत हांगा थंय सोदतलो

सांसपीत हांगा थंय सोदतलो...!

महेश गांवकार.

the small tree frog

for no reason

that I can possibly know of

jumps from m to m

inside this poem

how it got here i don't know…

must have left a window open

why m i don't know…

are they easier for frogs to rest on?

but here it is, looking like a small arrowhead

with a rust colored back

and two bulbous eyes much like

headlights, and a mean yellow streak

along its sides

and i remember

something, seeing it jump

with such precision from

one m to another,

i rem e mber (he made it!)

what my wife had whispered

near the waterfall deep

inside the Ghats

seeing me frozen on a precipice,

a gameful nudge, then this:

'never forget that the forest

flows freely inside your veins.'

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away tonight.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.