Some Poems by Rustam Singh

(Note: I write poetry under the name Rustam. For all other purposes, I use my formal name Rustam Singh.)

Fear--1

I live in fear,
fear
sticks to me.

My soul
trembles
like an
everyday thing.

I step out,
then
step back in.

I think of fear,
write about it:

there is fear, too,
on the paper
here.

Words
leap up at me,
frighten me:

how
twisted
their face is!

Thought is fear
Meaning is fear
Speech is fear
Voice is fear

Love is fear
The beloved is fear
The body is fear
Breath is fear

--- Translated from the Hindi by the poet. This English version has appeared in the journal Indian Literature, New Delhi.

 * * *

The Rock

The rock
was turning into fire
which was already fire and
looked like rock
among many other rocks
which were already fire and
looked like rocks................in a way that
among many fire-like rocks
at many a place
rock-like fire
was burning

--- Translated from the Hindi by the Hindi poet Teji Grover. This English translation of the poem has appeared in the journal Indian Literature. It has also appeared in the Estonian, translated by the Estonian poet Doris Kareva.

* * *

Inside the Brown Rock

Inside the brown rock
Inside the brown red rock
Inside the red green rock
Inside the green blue rock
brown red green blue
yellow sun was
fashioning itself
in which there was a
thousand-coloured rock
which in the beginning
appeared to be only brown
and had stung me

--- Translated from the Hindi by Rustam Singh and Teji Grover. The English version of this poem has appeared in Oufgabe. It has also appeared in the Estonian, translated by the Estonian poet Doris Kareva.

* * *

Today Again

Today again
I chanced upon my mother and father.
They tottered on the road,
father in front, mother behind,
they were much older.
In the hot sun
their steps
swayed.
Where were they coming from?
Father held a stick,
his white clothes were dirty, torn.
Tied to the bag on mother’s heavy shoulder, empty, without a lid trundled a green plastic bottle.
Then father
raised his head
and peered at the other side of the road.
What did he see when there was nothing there?
Mother
stood beside him,
a little to the rear.
She too stared at the same spot.
Then,
dodging the traffic,
they crossed the road.

--- Translated from the Hindi by Rustam Singh. This poem has been translated into the Swedish by the Swedish poet and novelist Agneta Pleijel. 

* * *

I Have to Think with Great Patience

I have to think with great patience

about the fact that you are nowhere, the fact that you will not turn up.

You are not there, you will not visit me––I have to let this knowledge simmer in the pot
with great patience,
I have to let it turn into a liquid I can savour.

Then I have to
let the liquid
settle into my soul,
slowly,
with great patience.

--- Translated from the Hindi by Rustam Singh and Teji Grover. The English version of this poem has appeared in Aufgabe 13.

* * *

In the Mirror You Are Not

In the mirror you're not

the mirror
in my imagination

Black leaf
green flower
a drop of snow on blood

Eyes that are clear and stone, a thing
out of
this world

Then eyes that are clear and stone, a thing
out of
this world
and within it

the mirror
that's now blank
and pure.

--- Translated from the Hindi by the Hindi poet Teji Grover. An English version of this poem has appeared in Aufgabe 13.

* * *

Once Again You Are in the Mirror

Once again
you are in the mirror
Once again I shatter you
in the liquid body of the mirror

The body
is shattered too
and
in the cracked mirror

is liquid

-- Translated from the Hindi by Rustam Singh. This English version of the poem has appeared in Aufgabe 13.

* * *

Restless Life in Imagination

Discontent
the rose
grows
without the memories of past lives

In the transparent mirror
the transparent tear
is held up
on the edge of the transparent eye

The shadow
looks at its own shadow

Is almost real

Almost
alive

---Translated from the Hindi original by Rustam Singh and Teji Grover. This translation has appeared in Aufgabe 13.

* * *

Scents

The tendency of some scents to have been just now somewhere here, around, inheres probably in their fragility. And this fragility in their desire to be a scent. And what should I say of this desire? In the context of a particular scent it was just now here, and is no longer here.

Some scents refuse to be captured in the mesh. Some are purely mirror beyond oblivion. Some live in the dream. Some dream. There are some scents which knock at a door, in another mirror, somewhere

when we say:

he must have passed this way, here, and then here

this is his unwashed shirt

the wind
blew this way, then that

--- Translated from the Hindi by Rustam Singh. This translation has appeared in the Indian Literature, New Delhi.