On 'Gandu Bagicha'

[Achebe]

OK - so here's some more detailed crit since it's not a translation...

// 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. //

On 'Gandu Bagicha' (Revision #1)

The broken glass vials ..can discard the 'the'
breed in the rabid soil ....while there is a tenuous link to 'dog' later on, there are better choices than 'rabid' here. 'Breed' suggests number, and is somewhat appropriate here, even though being discarded is the opposite of breeding. Ist ed, it works.
Junk courses through you 
Watch the giants ...singular to be consistent with 'his'
Lift the boulder ..watch the giant / lift boulders / out of his way avoids one too many 'the's
Out of his way ...this is a nicely surreal image
Lie in the floating dusk 
Cease your chatter .... ..'floating dusk' is one of those unusual phrases that adds to the atmospheric quality of the poem

The promiscuous soil 
does not mind 
loves the dog, ..a missing 'but' here? need a conjunction to link with the previous line
the seal, the lion, ..a random train of thought, but that's the point
the drunk rickshawallah 
Unceasing in her devotion ..the 'her' is confusing here as you're now referring again to the soil and not the rickshawallah
to blind consumption ..abstraction. can be avoided/
The junk takes hold of you ...you don't need this line. it is implied.
Ancient beasts ...slightly cliched
claw at your innards ..an abrupt slang. 'entrails', 'stomach' or something regular is suggested
This boat holds too many ...great image
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 metaphor is outstanding. however, I have a slight issue with bringing marijuana up after all the shooting up, but it's still okay at this point/

The vials now burn 
and melt. the leaves ...don't like the repetitiveness of the image here. The vials / leaves bit earlier was impactful. Now it's time to move on. I'm also confused between whether the speaker is on weed or something harder 
burn. the clippings smoke 
The liquid drips and turns 
into marrow 
My feet taste the soil 
the damp afterbirth 
The junk passes ..one too many 'junk's
It smells of 
dead steel ..'dead steel' is a dead metaphor. What does it mean?  Did you mean rusted steel? then don't say 'dead', which is vague and unvisceral
stale bodies 
warm mulch 
raw sewage 
The soil tickles my neck
My throat is one 
with larks, worms, 
long-dead agriculturists ..'agriculturists' and earthworms - I like how the ramble is going, but 'long-dead' is cliched
My head is a clay pot 
back in the cradle ..nicely done loose thought association


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.