Tag: Translation

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Tagore Translations

A Hundred Years Later by Rabindranath

Just as George Orwell (1903-1950) envisioned a bleak future in his novel, 1984, Tagore left his optimistic vision filled with hope for posterity – a vision which has also been borne true. Written in the Phalgun or spring of the Bengali year 1302 (1895), ‘1400 Saal‘ or ‘The Year 1993’, was first published in Tagore’s collection called Chitra (Picture) in 1895. 

Art by Sohana Manzoor
   1400 SAAL or The YEAR 1993 
 
   A hundred years from today…
  Who are you reading my poetry
     With eager curiosity? 
   A hundred years from today.
   I won’t be able to give you
   Even a small fragment of the 
 Exuberance of this spring morning —
    A blossom or a birdsong, 
        The passions that 
             Drench us.
    A hundred years from today…
 
Still, once, open your Southern door,
        Sit by the window,
   Gaze at the distant horizon,
           And imagine — 
  One day, a hundred years before,
A lively, euphoric cluster wafted from
Heaven into the heart of the universe, 
   Like a new-born Phalgun day —
Free of ties, ecstatic and restless, 
  Adrift with the scent of flowers.
      The Southern breeze 
    Rushed to colour the Earth
      With a youthful glow,
   One hundred years before you. 
On that day, the soul of a poet soared
      With a song-soaked heart —
      To find words which bloom 
      With an abundance of love,
       One hundred years ago. 
 
   A hundred years from today
   Which new poet will strum
    Lyrics in your hearths? 
 I felicitate the poet with delight
     In your joyous spring —
     But let my vernal songs,
 Find echoes in your hearts for a while,
   Like the buzz of bees, 
  Like the murmur of leaves...
  One hundred years from today...

About 32 years down the line, Nazrul responded to this poem of Tagore’s with a rejoinder, which is from the standpoint of a young poet and depicts his adulation for the older one and his poetry. Nazrul’s poem in Bengali is also called 1400 Saal and has been translated by Professor Fakrul Alam. The translation can be read by clicking here.

This poem was also discussed and translations read in 1993, the Gregorian calendar year for 1400 in the Bengali calendar, in a function jointly organised by the Nehru Centre of the High Commission of India in London and the Tagore Centre of London and held in the premises of the Nehru Centre. The translations included a rendition of Tagore’s own rather brief and ‘loosely translated’ version, according to the keynote speaker and scholar, Brian A. Hatcher, published in the poet’s collection called, The Gardener and reprinted in The Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore (New York, 1966).

Tagore’s own vision of his songs being remembered after one hundred years has been not only borne true but also his hope that poets and poetry will continue to impact our lives, stirring hope and love in our hearts. The role of a poet as seen by Tagore, perhaps, is what Uma Dasgupta’s research on Sriniketan reinforces — as that of a visionary and not merely a recorder of events. 

Tagore reciting his ‘1400 Saal‘ in Bangla

This poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor and research by Sohana and Mitali on behalf of Borderless Journal

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Categories
Poetry

The White-Coloured Book

Poem by Quazi Johirul Islam, translated from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam

Perhaps you never ever noticed me
Reading this book day after day,
Or seen me looking from cover to cover
For other books in it, single-mindedly.

Tick tock the body clock kept beating.
Day would end and evening descend,
Time after time to the old page I’d return,
And yet I could never ever finish reading;

I had dipped in a river with no water at all,
I’d keep going down and down and still feel
I’d lost all sense of where I was—east or west;
This drying river would swallow me up whole!

A little later, all traces of the evening will disappear.
A shock will paralyse this desert-like land,
But the book will get stuck in the midst of the sand,
Perhaps, only for someone to lift it with his hand!

If you manage to take the book up in your hand,
No letter of the alphabet anywhere in it you’d see,
For this book full of white pages you took from the sand
Was the favourite reading matter of poet Jalal Uddin Rumi!

Quazi Johirul Islam has been writing for over 3 decades. He has published more than 90 books, 39 of them are collections of poetry. His travelogues are very popular. He has been with United Nations, has traveled all over the world, worked in conflict zones, his bag is full of colourful experiences. In 2023, Quazi was awarded Peace Run Torch Bearer Award by Sri Chinmoy Centre, New York. He has also received many awards and honours in Bangladesh, India and abroad.

Fakrul Alam is an academic, translator and writer from Bangladesh. He has translated works of Jibonananda Das and Rabindranath Tagore into English and is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award (2012) for translation and SAARC Literary Award (2012).

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Categories
Poetry

Moonlight

Balochi poem by Bashir Baidar, translated by Fazal Baloch

O kind and gentle moonlight!
In your embrace, hold me tight.
Like a mother, rock me with love
And chant to me the songs of delight.
 
Like the luminous rainbow
On lofty hills and mountains,
Shower pearls of light
On vast fields and arid plains.
 
Look at the downcast hamlets,
The mute and deserted pathways,
Where like a graveyard life stands
Perpetually silent and dismayed.
 
Fathom the pain of the blue sea,
Listen to the shrieks of the tides.
Night cried again the last night,
Look at the dewdrops far and wide.
 
I wonder at these canyons,
Barren caverns, and pastures --
These made wretched by time.
Will your bright scarf ever flutter?
 
If we do not reap the harvest of heads,
Of corpses, floods will not surge.
After all, how will a rainbow form
On earth, if the sky doesn’t rain blood?
 
How long will the night linger on
To kill all the stars one by one,
Smother the twilight over and over again!
Yet, I am sure, there will be a new dawn.

Bashir Baidar belongs to the generation of the Balochi poets that emerged on the horizons of Balochi literature in the 1960s. Drawing inspiration from Progressive Writers Movement, Baidar’s poetry is widely cherished for his political undertone. So far, he has published four anthologies of his poetry. This Poem originally featured in poet’s third collection of poetry “Mahikaan” (Moonlight), published by Gaam Publication Gwadar in 2011.

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Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.

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Categories
Poetry

The Window and the Flower Vase

Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

In front of the window, there's a flower vase,

Bright and colourful with various blooms.

As I remove the vase,

The colours and scents leave in droves.


The space in front of the window is now open wide,

Without any colour or fragrance.


The window, all alone in its place,

Finally becomes a true window.

Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.

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Categories
Poetry

Barnes and Nobles

Poetry by Quazi Johirul Islam, translated from Bengali by Fakrul Alam

Courtesy: Creative Commons
Going up from East River to all heated up 46 Street,
Crossing quite a few avenues one after another,
Just where 5th Avenue comes into view jarringly,
One comes across America’s biggest bookstore, Barnes and Nobles,
Poised at this point of the city like an ancient philosopher.
And when I say “biggest”, I mean one store of a really big bookshop chain.
There may perhaps be a bigger shop than this one somewhere else,
Or perhaps there may be none comparable in size!

On weekdays I stand there for some time around ten
Perhaps because of its proximity to Diamond District,
The morning sunlight here—an amalgam of diamond and gold—
Streams onto the 5th Avenue pavement.

Perhaps to pick them up,
Causal and loosely clad, white-skinned women flood the street.
Usually, I buy a glass of smoothie from the Mohican youth
Making energy drinks on his machine,
Savouring afterwards a glass of the diamond-gold drink.

I can take many roads to come to F train station,
But I always use this particular crossing point.
On evenings, while returning from the UN building,
Unthinkingly, I enter Barnes and Noble’s cavernous stomach
Two concrete monsters cover the orange-coloured cloud.
What can a man possibly need in a bookshop?
It is quite one thing if it is a bar or a meat shop!
Of course, Americans crowd vegan shops nowadays,
Who knows if one day vegans will alter the American language?

From some aisle of the shop, on any given day, I’ll pick up any one.
The other day it was that old man from the Vermont Hills, Frost.
As soon as I picked him up, he wanted to make me wise in my ways.
“Try and fathom out the music of verse—that is it essence!”
What rubbish! The guy is still stuck in the 1960s! 
The world of poetry has marched forward a lot,
And has been crossing all sorts of holes and pits nowadays,
And prose’s highs and lows.
The old man is such an ignoramus! 
 
Holding a milk-honey concoction on her lap sat the Punjabi girl, Rupi Kaur.
Seeing me, she sprang into my lap.
India seemed to tremble as fingers touched soft dark skin.
Though someone who was still in her teens only yesterday,
She couldn’t resist dishing out advice. She said:
“Forge a knife on your own dear poet; hold the weapon in your hand,
The time has come to slice things with one stroke after another!”

The day I banged against Rae Armantrout, was the day I learnt about her verse,
About how in their silences became representative of language movement poetry. 

I saw many others in their welcoming aisle as well! 

I saw Ezra Pound trying to suppress a smile when I entered,
For sure I did not dare go near him out of fear
But let me whisper this into your ears:
I sure did mangle his poetry in trying to translate it!

I saw Amiri Baraka’s unruly beard fly in the air conditioner’s wind.
Nude Ginsberg was walking up the stairs leading to the second floor,
Shouting as he did so, “They don’t understand people’s sufferings
So obsessed are they with “development”!
John Ashberry was looking at the Hudson with one eye,
His tears stonily registering some hidden pain there
The other eye was all ablaze
All of a sudden, like a scene in some animation film,
The man’s eye’s fire made Manhattan burn.

I fled the fire that was burning so
Thinking as I did then—
How could Barnes and Nobles accommodate such hostile pronouncements,
                                                                                              such wrath!

				Holliswood, New York
				24 June, 2022

Quazi Johirul Islam has been writing for over 3 decades. He has published more than 90 books, 39 of them are collections of poetry. His travelogues are very popular. He has been with United Nations, has traveled all over the world, worked in conflict zones, his bag is full of colourful experiences. In 2023, Quazi was awarded Peace Run Torch Bearer Award by Sri Chinmoy Centre, New York. He has also received many awards and honours in Bangladesh, India and abroad.

Fakrul Alam is an academic, translator and writer from Bangladesh. He has translated works of Jibonananda Das and Rabindranath Tagore into English and is the recipient of Bangla Academy Literary Award (2012) for translation and SAARC Literary Award (2012).

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Categories
Poetry

A Homage to Yuan Zhen’s Grief of Separation

Poetry and translation by Rex Tan

A Homage to Yuan Zhen’s Grief of Separation*

Shall I compare an ocean's vastness to 
the width of the greatest river? The 
evening sky pales to the azure of the summit. 

The time I wandered through a familiar flower field --
I can’t be bothered to look back, partly due 
to Fate’s weaving hands, partly due to you. 

Smoking under the 
bleak wintery overcast
memories of your 
bright summery laugh dissipates 
into a fleeting mist.

Forlorn, I’m a shadow by the hills 
of a spire-filled dream.
And with a gentle flick, I cast 
the hanging memories of your sojourn 
into the wind. 

*The first two paras are a liberal translation of Yuan Zhen's "Grief of Separation". 
Yuan Zhen was a Tang dynasty poet, lived from 779 to 831 in Luoyang, China

Rex Tan is a journalist by trade and a poet at heart. As a Malaysian, he is fluent in English, Mandarin, and Malay, yet he calls none his first language.

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Categories
Poetry

Cast Away the Gun: Balochi Poetry by Mubarak Qazi

Translated by Fazal Baloch


Mubarak Qazi (24 December 1955 – 16 September 2023). Photo courtesy: Kamanchar Baloch
Fellow traveler! “Moons and seasons” have changed.
The eyes and the gaze are now trailed to elsewhere. 
You too forget the roar of muskets and bullets, 
Of our sorrow and happiness, the reasons have changed. 
Speak of the sun,
Of the moon.
Speak of light, 
Of life.
Cast away the gun! 
  
Fiddle pain, pluck soulful strings. 
Stop rhyming songs, extolling the curse of war. 
Don’t raise the fire of envy and hatred anymore. 
I long for love, its love I’m so desperate for. 
Speak of wine,
Of wineglass.
Speak of pain,
Of colors. 
Cast away the gun! 
  
Remind me of soft-treading maidens, 
And of sweet and dainty betel nuts.
Nobody’s pain is ever healed by fire and steel. 
Remind me of those fair and pretty damsels.
Speak of flowers,
Of lips. 
Speak of love, 
Of intimate moments. 
Cast away the gun!

Mubarak Qazi (1955-2023), is one of the most prolific and popular of modern Balochi poets. He is credited with making poetry a vocation for the masses in a lucid vocabulary. In other words, Qazi is lile the conscience of the people — one who addresses them in a language they can easily comprehend and decipher. Instead of maintaining a subtle or vague approach, he conveyed his sentiments in simple and unembellished language. He has published ten anthologies of poetry. The translated poem is taken from the second edition of his first anthology published by Drad Publication Gwadar in 2007.

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.

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Categories
Poetry

The Time for the Janitor to Pass By



Poetry and translation from Korean by Ihlwha Choi

THE TIME FOR THE JANITOR TO PASS BY 

Birds colliding with the glass window and falling,
The janitor sweeps them away with familiarity.
Birds that once lived in the square of the sky,
On Ukraine's transparent glass window,
On Myanmar's ruthless glass window, they plummet.

The time for the janitor to pass by again.

Flowers we see are like a fleeting paradise,
The way we viewed America once.
Glass windows erected over America, horrible barriers.
The time for the janitor to pass by again.
The mother bird becomes a glass wall of death,
Time and time again, a baby bird falls beneath the glass wall.
From the glass window of the sea,
To the soundproof walls of the land, colliding silver wings,
Many things plummet daily onto the blue star.

Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.

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Categories
Stories

A Hand Mill

Ammina Srinivasaraju

A story by Ammina Srinivasaraju, translated from Telugu by Johny Takkedasila

Chandu is a smart child studying in the ninth standard at a Government High School in Charla village. He excels not only in his studies but also enjoys playing games. Everyone in the School knows him for his intelligence and hard work.

Every morning, Chandu wakes up early and completes his work. He even helps with household tasks before going to school on time. In class, he pays close attention to his teachers and diligently completes his homework.

Chandu has a habit of thinking deeply about everything and seeking guidance from his elders whenever he has doubts. Sometimes, he recalls the words of his Telugu teacher, Mr. Satyanarayana, who had said, “The one who asks questions is the true student.”

Chandu had come across an article in the newspaper. It mentioned that “Madhuravani” had been honoured as the principal of the school because Chandu’s class had scored good marks and achieved the highest pass percentage in the entire district. However, Chandu felt confused when he read this news.

Chandu had never seen Madhuravani teach a single day. She would come to school and comfortably sit in her room under the fan, signing papers brought by the attender. Sometimes, she would briefly visit the classes and give moral lessons to the students in the morning. This was her daily routine, as Chandu observed.

Chandu knew how hard the teachers worked every day to teach lessons in the classrooms. They put in a lot of effort to ensure the syllabus was completed, and the students could study well. The teachers’ hard work was the main reason for the students’ good results. But something seemed different about the recognition Madhuravani received.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Chandu gathered courage to approach the principal with folded hands and humbly ask her to clarify his confusion.

Madhuravani smiled at Chandu and told him to come back after the evening classes for a detailed explanation during the prayer session.

After the evening classes, all the children gathered for the prayer session under the supervision of the physical education teacher. Madhuravani began sharing a meaningful message with the students. She said, “Children, let me tell you a story. In the past, people used a handmill to grind flour. They would rub one stone against the other to make fine flour. It seemed the stone on the top bore the brunt of hard work, while the one underneath remained still and seemingly comfortable. But in reality, all the effort was actually to churn the contents in the stone that lay below.”

A hand mill made of stone.

All the children looked surprised and curious.

Madhuravani continued, “Just like the top stone, in our school, the teachers work hard every day and give lessons to you. Their work is visible and evident. On the other hand, I may not give lessons like the teachers, but my role is equally important. I take care of the administrative tasks and ensure everything runs smoothly behind the scenes.”

Chandu finally understood why the district collector had honoured Madhuravani, the principal, even though she didn’t teach. Her invisible efforts were essential for the school’s success, just like the bottom stone in the grinding process. From that day onward, Chandu developed a newfound appreciation for all the teachers and the principal, realising that everyone’s efforts, whether visible or invisible, contributed to the school’s achievements.

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Dr. Ammina Srinivasa Raju is a writer and essayist with more than 300 articles and over 100 stories published in various journals. Since the academic year 2009-10, the Maharashtra Government Curriculum (Sarala Bharati) has included the children’s story ‘Adavilo Andala Poti‘ in Class 7. In addition to these achievements, Dr. Raju has delivered many speeches on the Akashavani. In 2005, he received the Pothukuchi Vamsa Award from Vishwasahiti Hyderabad.

Johny Takkedasila is a popular young poet, storyteller, novelist, critic, translator, and editor in Telugu. In 2023, he received the Kendra Sahitya Akademi Award for his criticism book, Vivechani.

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Categories
Tagore Translations

Proshno or Questions by Rabindranath

Proshno or Question was written by Tagore somewhere between December 1931 and January 1932 and later published in 1932 in a collection called Parishesh[1]. The poem with its poignant overtones continues relevant to this date.

Art by Sohana Manzoor
Almighty, over eons, you sent emissaries
              To this ruthless world, 
They say: “Forgive everyone”, say, “Love only Love — 
               From deep within, toxicity purge.” 
In these cataclysmic times, I turn them away with a shamed bow
 For they now remain only as ideals to be revered, remembered.

I have seen the helpless persecuted by 
            Violence in the shadows of deceitful night. 
I have seen unprotesting truth victimised, 
             Justice weep secretly in plight.
I have seen passionate young men driven wild,
Beat their heads on rocks and tortured, die. 

Today, I am voiceless. My flute is stilled. 
            In the moonless night, who have filled 
 My universe with nightmares? 
            That is why cleanse with tears —
Those that poison the air, extinguish the light. O God, 
Have you forgiven them? Have you given them your love?

One of the interesting things to note here is the reference to the flute player. Is he the same one who was evoked in his poem Ebar Phirao More (Take me back) written in 1894? That poem[2] starts with:

While the world moves busily
You play the flute, like a truant boy, 
Leaning under a shady tree in a field with 
The fragrance of the forest floating on 
A tired breeze. O, arise — there is a fire!

Is it the same flute player whose flute has been stilled?

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[1] Translates to — At the End

[2] Our translation of Ebar Pherao More can be read by clicking here.

The poem has been translated by Mitali Chakravarty with editorial input by Sohana Manzoor on behalf of Borderless Journal

A video of Proshno recited by the poet in Bengali with subtitles by the you tuber, Swarup Dutta.

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