Poets

ଗପ

ଗୋଟେ ଗପ କହିବି
ଯୋଉ ଗପରେ ତମ ଓ ମୋ ଛଡ଼ା
ଆଉ କିଛି ନାହିଁ

ସେ ଗପରେ ମୁଁ ଅଛି
ଓ ତମେ ଅ ।ସି ଫେରିଯାଇଥିବାର
ସାମାନ୍ୟ ସଂକେତ ଅଛି
ସେ ଗପର ପୃଷ୍ଠଭୂମିରେ
ମୋର କପାଳ ଦିଶୁଛି
ଉତ୍ତାପ ମରିନଥିବା ପାଉଁଶ ପରି
ଆଉ ତମର ଅନୁପସ୍ଥିତି
ସତେ ଅବା ସଦ୍ୟ କଟାଯାଇଥିବା
ବଗଗଛର ଉଦାସୀ ଶୂନ୍ୟତା ।

କାହାକୁ ଗପ କହୁଛି, ବସି ବସି ଭାବୁଛି
ଧମନୀରେ ବୋହୁଥିବା ରକ୍ତ
ଗୋଟେ ଲୋହିତ ନଦୀର ଶତଧାରା
ତମେ ଫେରି ଆସୁଛ ସମୁଦ୍ରରୁ ଉଜାଣି ସୁଅ
ତମେ ଆଖି ଚକ୍ ଚକ୍ ରୁପାର ଇଲିସି
ମୋତେ କହୁଛି - କୁହ, ଆମର ଗପ କୁହ । ।

ଗପର ଆରମ୍ଭରେ  ଅନ୍ଧାର ଯେ ଅନ୍ଧାର
ଗପର ବଖରା ସାରା ଲୁହା କଣ୍ଟା, କାଚ ଗୁଣ୍ଡ
ଛାପା ଛାପା ରକ୍ତଚିତ୍ର, ମଲା ପାରା ଓ ମୟୂରଙ୍କ ପର
ଗପ ଭିତରେ ଗହନ ବନ, ବାଟବଣା ଲହ
ମାଡ଼ିଥିବା ଭାଗ୍ୟ
ଗପ ଭିତରେ ଘନଘୋର କଳିତକରାଳ । ।

ମୁଁ ଗପ କହୁଛି ଅବା ପାଲଟି ଯାଉଛି ଗପ
ତମେ ଗପ ଶୁଣୁଛ ଅବା ଗପ ଭିତରେ
ପାଲଟି ଯାଉଛ ଅଂଧାର ଓ ପାପ
ଏବେ ଲାଗୁଛି ଅ ।ମର ମିଳିତ ପାପୁଲିରେ
ସାରାଟା ପୃଥିବୀ ଗୋଟେ କାଗଜ ଗ୍ଲୋବ୍ର ଗପ । ।

Geschichte

Ich werde eine Geschichte erzählen
In der es nur dich gibt, und mich,
und sonst nichts.
In der Geschichte bin ich,
und es gibt nur einen winzigen Hinweis darauf,
dass du zurück gekommen sein könntest
und wieder gegangen.
Im Hintergrund der Geschichte
liegt meine Stirn, aus Asche, ja,
sie glüht aber noch.
Und wo du warst, ist es jetzt so wehmütig und leer,
als habe man gerade einen Baum gefällt.

Aber wem erzähle ich das, denke ich,
während ich auf dem Boden sitze.
Der Fluss ist rot und hat in meinen Adern hundert Arme.
Du kehrst vom Meer zurück, als Gegenströmung.
Deine Augen glitzern wie die Hilsa-Fischlein, sagen
Komm, erzähl mal unsere Geschichte.

Am Anfang der Geschichte stolpert Dunkel über Dunkelheit
In jedem Zimmer liegen Eisendornen ausgestreut,
Glasscherben, Blutspuren wie Gemälde, tote Tauben, Pfauenfedern.
Ein dichter Wald steckt in der Geschichte,
ein Schicksal unentwirrbar wie Lianen.
Im Inneren der Geschichte wird gestritten und gekämpft.

Erzähle ich eine Geschichte oder werde ich selber zu einer?
Hörst du eine Geschichte oder wirst du selber
zur Dunkelheit, zur Sünde der Geschichte?
Jetzt scheint es mir so zu sein:
Unsere Handflächen berühren sich und zwischen ihnen ist die ganze Erde
die Geschichte eines Globus aus Papier.

Translation: Jan Wagner

The Story The English version below is a standard translation and not a direct result of the ‘Poets Translating Poet’ Encounter.

I will tell you a story
with only you and me in the backdrop,
a story where I am there, and
there is a little hint about your departure
shortly from the scene;

you read my destiny against
the backdrop of the story,
like the ashes , still hot and shimmering,
and your absence, glowing red
like the pale void of a banyan tree
that had just been struck down;

I ponder over the story,
the blood flows in the arteries
like the numberless streams of a river gone red,
and you come back with the ebb tide,
your eyes glow like the silvery ‘Hilsa’fish
very eager to tell our story;

at the outset of the story you have
only darkness, dense darkness,
the plot line filled with iron nails,
splinters of glass, drawings etched in blood,
feathers of dead pigeons and peacocks;
there inside the story you have a dense,
dark forest, endless bickering and quarrels,
and a tear-soaked destiny that has lost its way;

I know not if I am telling the story,
or, am only a part of it;
I know not if you are listening
to the story, or just a part of
the sinful darkness inside it,
for now I feel as if the entire world
is like a paper globe
on your joint palms.

(Translated by by Prof. Kalidas Mishra)

 

Biography Kedar Mishra

More poems

ଗ୍ରୀଷ୍ମଗୀତ /
Ein Sommerlied

ତୋରେ ଶରଣ ଗଲିରେ ମୂରଲୀ /
Dir, Flöte, gebe ich mich hin