ଗ୍ରୀଷ୍ମଗୀତ / Ein Sommerlied
ଗ୍ରୀଷ୍ମଗୀତ
ମୁଁ ଠିଆ ହୋଇଛି ମଂଚରେ
ଗାଇବି ବୋଲି
କେଇପଦ ଗୀତ ।
ଏ ଗୀତ, ସଜନାକାଠରେ କାଠହଣା ଚଢେଇର
ଠକ୍ ଠକ୍ ପରି
ଥଣ୍ଡା ଚୁଲି ଝିଁକାରେ ନିପାଣିଆଁ
ଭାତହାଣ୍ଡି ପରି
ଏ ଗୀତ, ଥନରୁ ବଞ୍ଚିତ ଅନେକ
ଛେଉଣ୍ଡ କାନ୍ଦରେ ଗଢା
ଏ ଗୀତ, ଖରାଝାଉରେ ତରଳୁଥିବା
ପଂଜରାହାଡ ବିଡା ।
ଶବ ଗହଳିରୁ ଛାଣି ଆଣିଛି
ଆଶ୍ଚର୍ଯ୍ୟ ବିରଳ କେଇପଦ ନିଃଶ୍ୱାସ ପ୍ରଶ୍ୱାସ
ଆସ, ମୋର ଗୀତ ଶୁଣିବ ଆସ ।
ଥାଏ, ଠନ୍ ଠନ୍ ଶୁଖିଲା-ବନ୍ଧ୍ୟା ମାଟିର ମୁଲକ
ଥାଏ, ଢିମା ଢିମା କଳାପାହାଡର ପ୍ରଗଣା
ଥାଏ, ମଲାଜଙ୍ଗଲ ଲମ୍ବା, ଶିରାଳ ଅତୀତ
ଥାଏ, କୋଟି କୋଟି ଫିମ୍ପିମରା ଡାଅ ।ଣିଅ ।ଁ ପେଟ ।
ଶୁଖିଲା ବାମ୍ଫିର ଜଠରରୁ ଉଭାହୁଏ
ଏକ ଦରମୂର୍ଚ୍ଛିତ ପଦ୍ମକଢ
ଥାଏ, ଥାଏ, ପଦ୍ମକେଶରରେ
ଆଶ୍ଚର୍ଯ୍ୟ ବିରଳ ସେଇ ସଙ୍ଗୀତ ।
ଏ ଗୀତ ମୋର ନୁହେଁ
ଏ ଗୀତ ମୁଁ ଗାଉନାହିଁ
ଏ ଗୀତର ଅଗ୍ନିଶିଖା ମୋତେ ଜାଳୁଛି
ମୋ ଆତ୍ମାର କୁହୁଳା ଇଏ
ତମକୁ ଗୀତପରି ଶୁଭୁଛି ।–
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ମୁଁ ଠିଆ ହୋଇଛି ମଂଚରେ
ଗାଇବି ବୋଲି
କେଇପଦ ଗୀତ ।
ଏ ଗୀତ, ସଜନାକାଠରେ କାଠହଣା ଚଢେଇର
ଠକ୍ ଠକ୍ ପରି
ଥଣ୍ଡା ଚୁଲି ଝିଁକାରେ ନିପାଣିଆଁ
ଭାତହାଣ୍ଡି ପରି
ଏ ଗୀତ, ଥନରୁ ବଞ୍ଚିତ ଅନେକ
ଛେଉଣ୍ଡ କାନ୍ଦରେ ଗଢା
ଏ ଗୀତ, ଖରାଝାଉରେ ତରଳୁଥିବା
ପଂଜରାହାଡ ବିଡା ।
ଶବ ଗହଳିରୁ ଛାଣି ଆଣିଛି
ଆଶ୍ଚର୍ଯ୍ୟ ବିରଳ କେଇପଦ ନିଃଶ୍ୱାସ ପ୍ରଶ୍ୱାସ
ଆସ, ମୋର ଗୀତ ଶୁଣିବ ଆସ ।
ଥାଏ, ଠନ୍ ଠନ୍ ଶୁଖିଲା-ବନ୍ଧ୍ୟା ମାଟିର ମୁଲକ
ଥାଏ, ଢିମା ଢିମା କଳାପାହାଡର ପ୍ରଗଣା
ଥାଏ, ମଲାଜଙ୍ଗଲ ଲମ୍ବା, ଶିରାଳ ଅତୀତ
ଥାଏ, କୋଟି କୋଟି ଫିମ୍ପିମରା ଡାଅ ।ଣିଅ ।ଁ ପେଟ ।
ଶୁଖିଲା ବାମ୍ଫିର ଜଠରରୁ ଉଭାହୁଏ
ଏକ ଦରମୂର୍ଚ୍ଛିତ ପଦ୍ମକଢ
ଥାଏ, ଥାଏ, ପଦ୍ମକେଶରରେ
ଆଶ୍ଚର୍ଯ୍ୟ ବିରଳ ସେଇ ସଙ୍ଗୀତ ।
ଏ ଗୀତ ମୋର ନୁହେଁ
ଏ ଗୀତ ମୁଁ ଗାଉନାହିଁ
ଏ ଗୀତର ଅଗ୍ନିଶିଖା ମୋତେ ଜାଳୁଛି
ମୋ ଆତ୍ମାର କୁହୁଳା ଇଏ
ତମକୁ ଗୀତପରି ଶୁଭୁଛି ।–
Ein Sommerlied
(1)
Ich stehe auf der Bühne
und soll ein paar Lieder singen.
Tak – tak – tak macht der Specht
am Baumstumpf und so klingt mein Lied.
Kalt wie ein Reistopf
auf einem erloschenen Ofen.
Wenn die Waisen hungern und weinen,
komponieren sie mein Lied.
Und die Rippen, wenn sie schmelzen
im Sengen der Sonne.
Die Leichen wimmeln
und ich habe aus ihnen einige
rare, sonderbare Atemzüge gezogen.
Kommt, hört mein Lied.
(2)
In ihm liegt Erde so dürr und wenig fruchtbar, dass sie klackt.
In ihm liegen Felsen aus den Hügeln um die Häuser, arg und schwarz.
In ihm liegt toter Wald, gestreckt wie eine sehnige Vergangenheit.
In ihm liegen Millionen und noch mehr Millionen aufgetriebener Bäuche.
Aus dem Grund des toten Teichs
schießt eine müde Lotusblüte.
In ihr liegt, es liegt darin ein rares
ein sonderbares Lied.
(3)
Und das ist nichtmal mein Lied.
Ich singe dieses Lied nicht.
Das Lied ist eine Flamme sie verbrennt mich.
Meine Seele raucht, für dich klingt das wie Musik.
Translation: Anja Utler
Summer Song The English version below is a standard translation and not a direct result of the ‘Poets Translating Poet’ Encounter.
(1)
I am on the stage
to sing a song that is
like the pecks of
a woodpecker on a drumstick tree,
like the earthen pot of rice
on a cold hearth,
like the song composed of
the orphaned cries of babies
snatched from their mothers’ breasts,
like the song of
a bundle of rib-bones
in the scorching sun,
I have indeed filtered a few, rare
astonishing lines, a few life-breaths
of a song from a pile of corpses
for you to listen.
(2)
Yes, there is this hollowness of a waste land,
the front yard of a black mountain of boulders,
the long, fragile past of a dead jungle of ‘forest-fires’,
the moss-eaten, spectral belly of a billion hungry souls,
a precariously held , half-dead lotus
budding from the womb of a dry well, and with that ,
a flicker of a rare song deep inside the lotus.
(3)
No, this is not my song,
nor am I singing it ;
the spark of this song only burns me, and
what rings like a song to you is
only the smoldering smoky remains of my soul.
(Translated by by Prof. Kalidas Mishra)
More poems
ଗପ /
Geschichte
ତୋରେ ଶରଣ ଗଲିରେ ମୂରଲୀ /
Dir, Flöte, gebe ich mich hin
(1)
Ich stehe auf der Bühne
und soll ein paar Lieder singen.
Tak – tak – tak macht der Specht
am Baumstumpf und so klingt mein Lied.
Kalt wie ein Reistopf
auf einem erloschenen Ofen.
Wenn die Waisen hungern und weinen,
komponieren sie mein Lied.
Und die Rippen, wenn sie schmelzen
im Sengen der Sonne.
Die Leichen wimmeln
und ich habe aus ihnen einige
rare, sonderbare Atemzüge gezogen.
Kommt, hört mein Lied.
(2)
In ihm liegt Erde so dürr und wenig fruchtbar, dass sie klackt.
In ihm liegen Felsen aus den Hügeln um die Häuser, arg und schwarz.
In ihm liegt toter Wald, gestreckt wie eine sehnige Vergangenheit.
In ihm liegen Millionen und noch mehr Millionen aufgetriebener Bäuche.
Aus dem Grund des toten Teichs
schießt eine müde Lotusblüte.
In ihr liegt, es liegt darin ein rares
ein sonderbares Lied.
(3)
Und das ist nichtmal mein Lied.
Ich singe dieses Lied nicht.
Das Lied ist eine Flamme sie verbrennt mich.
Meine Seele raucht, für dich klingt das wie Musik.
Translation: Anja Utler
Summer Song The English version below is a standard translation and not a direct result of the ‘Poets Translating Poet’ Encounter.
(1)
I am on the stage
to sing a song that is
like the pecks of
a woodpecker on a drumstick tree,
like the earthen pot of rice
on a cold hearth,
like the song composed of
the orphaned cries of babies
snatched from their mothers’ breasts,
like the song of
a bundle of rib-bones
in the scorching sun,
I have indeed filtered a few, rare
astonishing lines, a few life-breaths
of a song from a pile of corpses
for you to listen.
(2)
Yes, there is this hollowness of a waste land,
the front yard of a black mountain of boulders,
the long, fragile past of a dead jungle of ‘forest-fires’,
the moss-eaten, spectral belly of a billion hungry souls,
a precariously held , half-dead lotus
budding from the womb of a dry well, and with that ,
a flicker of a rare song deep inside the lotus.
(3)
No, this is not my song,
nor am I singing it ;
the spark of this song only burns me, and
what rings like a song to you is
only the smoldering smoky remains of my soul.
(Translated by by Prof. Kalidas Mishra)
Biography Kedar Mishra
More poems
ଗପ /
Geschichte
ତୋରେ ଶରଣ ଗଲିରେ ମୂରଲୀ /
Dir, Flöte, gebe ich mich hin
