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My Country My people-Modern Indian Epic
Contributed by
seshendra
on
Monday, 9th June 2003 @ 06:45:00 PM in AEST
Topic:
political
|
Dearest Seshen!
An epic, a long poem (Which Edgar Allen Poe called a contradiction in terms). but
who am I to say No to a poem which chooses to assume the strangest of garbs
in one of the finest of minds.
So, so be it. Let me accept your OEUVRE as an epic.
But why why call it modern? it is timeless.
Why call it Indian? It is spaceless.
SRI SRI
( Indian poet)
It was not only Tagore and Gandhi who crossed the frontiers of their country
and reached the wider world and achieved universality...... Seshendra's epic poem
'My country My People' is an evidence..... some important critics have compared this epic
poem with T.S.Eliot's WASTELAND and 'L' ASCENSION' by St. John Perse. Personally
I would compare the pain and anguish of the poet with one of Loutremont in his lyric
'Mald Aurore'. The difference is that Seshendra's protest is not made in the void. Seshendra walks
firmly on his soil, one can find in the poet a wild whirlwind which attains incredible oratorial heights,
creating terrific images... whirling within him is the idea of strength of life that is fighting the dark powers
which want to take away its freedom and bread.... at times we observe in the poem
a biblical and Prophetic tone that attracts us.
NIKHEPHOROS VRETAKKOS(Greet Poet)
My Country My people-Modern Indian Epic
Last year's spring flowed away like a river;
into which orchards it meandered and slept, I do
not know-
But the spring returned, searching for the
mango tree in the backyard of my house!..
Everything in the world is fleeting, yet keeps
returning, searching for the beautiful. Behind the
leaves in the branches I see footsteps of birds,
marks of the moments which flew away last year.
in my tired journey, my tavern is the shade of
a tree, and the guest is the fallen flower.
This is spring, the year's first dream, in which
I trudge my way on the body of my country
like the dream that preludes the dawn, covering
my nakedness forest, tying the rivers as my turbans,
carrying my road on my shoulders.
I walk, coaxing the fields that are crying;
I walk, yearning to sculpture my country's hills
that have waited for forms, into lions, into elephants and camels..
into workers, toilers, tillers, lovers and into epics that are like their crowns.
the sun is coming with loads of morning
rays stacked on bullock carts! The tree that saw
me first and shed tears, now rained flowers on my dream.
* * * *
In the city of man, in spite of hundreds of
people buzzing about, time, has the upper hand.
It is only the voice of time, that is heard, as
the single domineering voice, superceding all the
millions of voices of man.
It displays the portentous fingers of its
impeccable hands in all the clocks of the city. It
throttles the voice of man, ruthlessly with those
inexorable hands.
It descends on the chest of man, like an
iron eagle of gigantic shape.
But here in the hills, there are not days or dates;
there is not another single soul either;
time, which chased me to this place
collapsed, unable to follow me through the leafy,
and melodious labyrinths of these hills;
strange trees, stranger birds, smiling and defiant hills,
and the immense solitude that sleeps in the hearts of hills....
all collude and weave a spider's web of silence here, in which
the Time is caught like a tiny fly and meets its death.
The feelings of this place are like flowers
unsmelt by anybody before. The tree-tops here can
be reached with eyes only and not with hands;
Over the heads of those trees which are brushing
on the canvas of sky, a large white cloud rolls
by with big strides.
Breeze, lazily knits a delicate net out of
the breath of flowers, all around, in the blue space.
In the powers of unknown happiness, man
changes into melody, and flows in the bodies of
birds and hills; Man leaks away from the
gripping fingers of time's hand.
Even the little insect which flits around on
its wings in pure innocence and freedom, enjoys
the happiness gifted to it wholeheartedly by
creation, to the same degree as man can.
The insect is no less than Man, in the
borders of this land, where the hills rule.
Here the power of Man's ego, vanity and will
are abolished without a trace-
The unpolluted condition of pure life, alone
has the right. That is why I dragged Time into the hills and killed it.
-Seshendra Sharma(1927--)
poet/critic/scholar
homepage:Seshendra:visionary poet of the millennium
www.geocities.com/saatyaki2001
*My country My people-Modern Indian epic
www.geocities.com/gsaatyaki
email:saatyaki@indiatimes.com
Copyright ©
seshendra
... [
2003-06-09 18:45:00]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: My Country My people-Modern Indian Epic
(User Rating: 1 )
by Ilhar on
Monday, 9th June 2003 @ 07:34:39 PM AEST
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a Message)
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This epic has brought me peace, thank you for sharing it
Shari |
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Re: My Country My people-Modern Indian Epic
(User Rating: 1 )
by venkat on
Tuesday, 10th June 2003 @ 02:48:23 AM AEST
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a Message)
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| very beautiful...ageless epic..to thrill me again. venkat |
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