Thursday, March 30, 2006

Kanwar Narain ( ) Hindi Poet

Profile of the Missing One

Wheatish in looks,`
As if a peasant in his ways,
On his brow he bears a scar.
Not less than five feet in height,
He appears care-free,
And stammers as he talks.
Ask him his age and he’d tell you
He’s more than thousands of years old.
Seems like a mad man, but he is not.
Many times he has fallen off high places
And now he is in all pieces.
He might look all put together,
But he is like the map of Hindustan.


Everyday at about ten a.m.

Everyday at about ten in the morning,
The same thing happens over and again.
The same people as usual go out,
Leaving behind wives and children at homes.
Still the earthquake does not shake the ground.
As the evening nears, the same people
Head back to their homes,
All tired and defeated.

I know the earth will not shake this way,
Nothing will happen this way.
These people are afraid of some reason.
They, all over again,
Arrive at the foregone conclusion
That lying is an art,
And every man is an artist,
Not after the reality of the world
But after his own craziness
To give meaning to his world.

Sometime when I return
Home in the evening,
I feel terrifying shapes,
Like thunderbolts,
Crashing through my soul,
As if someone crushed together
All colorless men and things
And pasted them on some blank spot
Against the blood colored ground.
And now all the buried colors of men
Have sprung up by themselves.