05-26-2017, 12:34 PM
// Gandu Bagicha, or Arsefuckers' Park, is a poem by Marathi Dalit poet, Namdeo Dhasal. His poems were translated from Marathi to English by Dilip Chitre. An excerpt (link to the English translation): http://marathidalitpoetry.blogspot.in/20...hasal.html
What I wrote below is old, and I'd like to work on it. //
Currently on version 1.2.
Revision #2
Broken glass vials
soil the shattered surface
Junk courses through you.
Watch the giant
Lift boulders
Out of his way
Lie in the floating dusk
Cease your chatter
The promiscuous soil
does not mind
the dog,
the seal, the lion,
the drunk rickshawallah.
Unceasing in her devotion
to mutilate
Fleshless horses
tear up plastic wrappers
This boat holds too many
The river claims us lustily
Watch the vials levitate
The dark inside
is a shining nothingness.
My head is a wicker basket
full of old leaves
and green clippings
This ugly vortex
bleeds
The liquid drips and turns
into marrow
My feet taste the soil
the damp afterbirth
It smells of
limp steel
stale bodies
warm mulch
raw sewage
Soil tickles my neck
My throat is one
with larks, worms,
disillusioned agriculturists
My head is a clay pot
Back in the cradle
On 'Gandu Bagicha' (Revision #1)
The broken glass vials
breed in the rabid soil
Junk courses through you
Watch the giants
Lift the boulder
Out of his way
Lie in the floating dusk
Cease your chatter
The promiscuous soil
does not mind
loves the dog,
the seal, the lion,
the drunk rickshawallah
Unceasing in her devotion
to blind consumption
The junk takes hold of you
Ancient beasts
claw at your innards
This boat holds too many
The river claims us lustily
Watch the vials levitate
The dark inside
is a shining nothingness.
My head is a wicker basket
full of old leaves
and green clippings
The vials now burn
and melt. the leaves
burn. the clippings smoke
The liquid drips and turns
into marrow
My feet taste the soil
the damp afterbirth
The junk passes
It smells of
dead steel
stale bodies
warm mulch
raw sewage
The soil tickles my neck
My throat is one
with larks, worms,
long-dead agriculturists
My head is a clay pot
back in the cradle
Original
On 'Gandu Bagicha'
The broken glass vials
breed in the rabid soil;
Junk is coursing through you.
Watch the giants
Lift the boulder out
Of his way.
Lie in the floating dusk.
Cease your chatter.
The promiscuous soil
Does not mind,
Loves the dog,
The seal, the lion,
The drunk rickshawallah.
Unceasing in her devotion
To blind consumption.
The junk takes hold of you.
Ancient beasts
Claw at your innards.
This boat holds too many.
The river claims us lustily.
Watch the vials levitate.
The dark inside
Is a shining nothingness.
My head is a wicker basket
Full of old leaves
And green clippings.
The vials now burn
And melt. The leaves
Burn. The clippings smoke.
The liquid drips and turns
Into marrow.
My feet taste the soil,
The damp afterbirth.
The junk passes.
It smells of
Dead steel
Stale bodies
Warm mulch
Raw sewage.
The soil tickles my neck.
My throat is one
With larks, worms,
Long-dead agriculturists.
My head is a clay pot
Back in the cradle.
What I wrote below is old, and I'd like to work on it. //
Currently on version 1.2.
Revision #2
Broken glass vials
soil the shattered surface
Junk courses through you.
Watch the giant
Lift boulders
Out of his way
Lie in the floating dusk
Cease your chatter
The promiscuous soil
does not mind
the dog,
the seal, the lion,
the drunk rickshawallah.
Unceasing in her devotion
to mutilate
Fleshless horses
tear up plastic wrappers
This boat holds too many
The river claims us lustily
Watch the vials levitate
The dark inside
is a shining nothingness.
My head is a wicker basket
full of old leaves
and green clippings
This ugly vortex
bleeds
The liquid drips and turns
into marrow
My feet taste the soil
the damp afterbirth
It smells of
limp steel
stale bodies
warm mulch
raw sewage
Soil tickles my neck
My throat is one
with larks, worms,
disillusioned agriculturists
My head is a clay pot
Back in the cradle
On 'Gandu Bagicha' (Revision #1)
The broken glass vials
breed in the rabid soil
Junk courses through you
Watch the giants
Lift the boulder
Out of his way
Lie in the floating dusk
Cease your chatter
The promiscuous soil
does not mind
loves the dog,
the seal, the lion,
the drunk rickshawallah
Unceasing in her devotion
to blind consumption
The junk takes hold of you
Ancient beasts
claw at your innards
This boat holds too many
The river claims us lustily
Watch the vials levitate
The dark inside
is a shining nothingness.
My head is a wicker basket
full of old leaves
and green clippings
The vials now burn
and melt. the leaves
burn. the clippings smoke
The liquid drips and turns
into marrow
My feet taste the soil
the damp afterbirth
The junk passes
It smells of
dead steel
stale bodies
warm mulch
raw sewage
The soil tickles my neck
My throat is one
with larks, worms,
long-dead agriculturists
My head is a clay pot
back in the cradle
Original
On 'Gandu Bagicha'
The broken glass vials
breed in the rabid soil;
Junk is coursing through you.
Watch the giants
Lift the boulder out
Of his way.
Lie in the floating dusk.
Cease your chatter.
The promiscuous soil
Does not mind,
Loves the dog,
The seal, the lion,
The drunk rickshawallah.
Unceasing in her devotion
To blind consumption.
The junk takes hold of you.
Ancient beasts
Claw at your innards.
This boat holds too many.
The river claims us lustily.
Watch the vials levitate.
The dark inside
Is a shining nothingness.
My head is a wicker basket
Full of old leaves
And green clippings.
The vials now burn
And melt. The leaves
Burn. The clippings smoke.
The liquid drips and turns
Into marrow.
My feet taste the soil,
The damp afterbirth.
The junk passes.
It smells of
Dead steel
Stale bodies
Warm mulch
Raw sewage.
The soil tickles my neck.
My throat is one
With larks, worms,
Long-dead agriculturists.
My head is a clay pot
Back in the cradle.
The Chronicles of Lethargia