On 'Gandu Bagicha'

[vagabond]

// 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        which surface I wonder
Junk courses through you. 
Watch the giant 
Lift boulders 
Out of his way 
Lie in the floating dusk 
Cease your chatter    disturbing line - makes me think that there´s some inner battle (and the boulders are bot really lifted)   

The promiscuous soil    the "promiscuous" stays mysterious for me, but interesting
does not mind 
the dog, 
the seal, the lion, 
the drunk rickshawallah.

Unceasing in her devotion 
to mutilate
Fleshless horses
tear up plastic wrappers   those 4 lines i like very much - seems like an inversion of who does what to whom

This boat holds too many   an image of fugitives comes to my mind, seems almost too real in comparison to the theme as a whole, but the next line would confirm this in my view
The river claims us lustily 
Watch the vials levitate    makes me see the attempt to escape or soothe reality via drugs
The dark inside 
is a shining nothingness.

My head is a wicker basket 
full of old leaves 
and green clippings    these 3 lines for me would create an image of what might be going on in the subject´s mind, however chopped up and unclear the content remains...

This ugly vortex
bleeds
The liquid drips and turns 
into marrow                               ... and what might be forged from it

My feet taste the soil 
the damp afterbirth  
It smells of 
limp steel 
stale bodies 
warm mulch 
raw sewage  those 7 lines would give me with few words an impression of awakening to some cruel reality, the closeness to this reality increasing as the lines progress

Soil tickles my neck
My throat is one 
with larks, worms, 
disillusioned agriculturists   in connection with the image of the "soil" created above this line is quite genious
My head is a clay pot   clay makes me think of burned out (in comparison to the wicker basket)
Back in the cradle     here the meaning escapes me (and it´s a pity as last lines tend to have some weight)

some haunting vision of a nightmare.
 (and I write this knowing it´s only what I see, but maybe it helps to decide if the poem´s clear enough or as it should be).