TALK TO OUR TOMBS, ATLEAST FROM NOW ON!

A poem by Theebachelvan
Enough of seeing the war –stone that had
smashed our hearts.
Enough of seeing the statue of your soldier
who has killed and thrown us and shout victoriously.
Enough of seeing the stone-map, that,
wrecking our nation,
dance as one country on our mutilated bodies
Come to the land where our warriors are sown
My dear Sinhalese Brothers!
Come and see the wounds on our faces.
Please see the gallantry of those gigantic feet
That had crushed our heads for centuries.
Please witness the valour of your militia
that had bombarded the tombs.
Please see their grandeur of scaring the sleep
of the dead
and denying them place to lie in peace.
Just sit for a while and talk to our tombs
My dear Sinhalese Sisters.
Each atom of the tombs damaged
would convey our thirst;
would carry the dream of our generation.

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Rendered in English by Latha Ramakrishnan

Die Kurdischen Berge

***********************

Mit dem Strahlen der lächelnden Sonne in diesen Fahnen

Welche von Guerilla Frauen hochgehalten wurden

Leuchtend über ganz Accra

Das Ausrufen der Unabhängigkeit

eines kurdischen Jungen

dessen Stimme vom Judi Berg

ausganz nah zu hören ist.

Eine Frau

wartetamUfer des Euphrats

wie ein Olivenbaum

auf ihren Ehemann,

der auf dem Schlachtfeld starb.

Von nun an würde Sie sein Grab

nicht mehr mit Tränen in den Augen besuchen.

Ich rieche den Duft derFritillaria,

derin ihren Herzen blühte

Genauso wie der pausenlos fliessende Tigris

Haben sie den Traum von Freiheit

von Generation zu Generation

mit sich getragen

Und nächstens Unabhängigkeitgewonnen.

Oh! Ihr blutgetränktenkurdischen Berge!

Genau wie eure Nation

Würde auch unsere eines Tages dämmern;

Auch in unseren Händen würden Fahnen schwanken.

VomTrinkomaliaus würdet ihr

die Stimme des Eelam Jungen hören,

welcher unsereFreiheit ankündigt.

Wir umklammern unsere Fahne so, wie jemand, derdie Linusblume umarmt

Wir greifen so fest nach euren Schultern

Euren, oh Berge, die unsere Träume in euren Augen

und unseren Durst in euren Herzen

Getragen habt,

die sehnsüchtig den Tag unserer Freiheit abwarten.

Unsere Freiheit ist so stark, wie der letzteBlick eines Kämpfers.

Die kurdischen Berge, die den Guerillas ähneln

sind eureKameraden.

Ihr seid Unser.

Genauso so,wie die kurdischen Berge

So heilig ist unsere Freiheit.

Dieses Gedicht wurde übersetzt von Seda Karatas, geboren und aufgewachsen in der Schweiz mit türkischen Wurzeln und Sugirtha Shanmuganathan.

THE OLD WOMAN OF CATALONIA

With the Messengers of God sprinkling Borago flowers
all over the Golden City
when the declaration of the birth of a Free Nation
was going on
the old woman whose face was all smiles,
with a loaded heart
said once to her offsprings “My dear daughter!
We are being annihilated by an invisible war!”

When the Spain Premier was speaking over the Television
the old woman with cheeks gleaming as Barcelona city
who would always be going moving around
with zest and life
told her children: “My Dear Son, those who are so used
to steal our pebbles
would interpret freedom as partition and thus
shield our eyes!”
‘What we have is the charter of an indivisible nation!”

The old woman who kept in her handbag an old diary
with the Spanish king’s words
“Henceforth you’ll never be able to sing your old songs”
Written _
told her children: “My darling daughter, “My Mother Tongue is
not just for writing on my tomb when I am gone!”

When Philip the King voiced derisively
‘From now on no new nation is possible’
the old woman having a hearty laugh
with her toothless mouth wide-opened
told her children:
“My darling son, in the hands of betrayers and exploiters
the fragrance of unity is nil.
Our ancestral rule itself was the result of prejudice”.

The old lady who is still alive
with the same zest and vigour
on the countenance of every Catalonian
who wears a smile which only Liberty can provide
told her children:
“My Dear Children! If History were to forget
that we are not Spanish but Catalonian
your children’s names would end up as ‘Refugees’

Theepachelvan
Rendered in English by Latha Ramakrishnan

KURDU MOUNTAINS

With Sun’s radiance smiling in those flags
held aloft by women guerrillas,
glowing all over Accra city,
From Judi mount
is heard so close
the voice of a Kurdu lad
proclaiming independence.

A woman
waiting beside the Euphrates river
in the manner of an Olive tree
for her warrior- husband who had
died in the battlefield
would not henceforth visit his tomb
with tears.

I smell the fragrance of Brittilla blossoms
that have bloomed in your hearts
who, just as the Igris river
flowing non-stop
have carried along
generation after generation
the dream of freedom
and have eventually won Independence

O blood - soaked Kurdu mountains!
just as your nation
ours too would dawn one day;
flags would be swaying in our hands also.
From Trincomali mount you would hear
the voice of Eelam boy
announcing our freedom.

Holding our flag the way one would hold close the Linus flowers
we grasp so tight your shoulders _
Yours, o Mounts, who have borne our dreams
in your eyes
and our thirst in your hearts,
who eagerly await the day of our freedom.

Our freedom is so strong as the final look of a militant.
Kurdu mountains resembling guerrillas
are your companions.
You are ours.
Just as the Kurdu mountains _
so sacred is our Freedom.

Poem: Theepachelvan
translation: latha Ramakrishnan

SEA-CHILD

Swallowing the massive waves
sleeping on the grand shore _
The Sea-Child
that has no place to sleep

Not knowing what to do
the dolls turned shell-shocked;
the balloons he blew flew
helter-skelter.

A great distance away, beyond the eyes reach
floats upside down
the paper-boat made by him.

By his side lay forlorn
fish and canals;
For he who lay there abandoned
theshrimps and crabs
bowed their heads

O, the swirling wind, was it you who toppled his boat?
O, the surging tidal wave
was it you who smashed his boat?

That he tried to enter Europe defying Immigrant Law _
said those who offer arms as gifts;
that in violation ofthe Law of
Migration he got inside and was
sleeping on the shores of Turkey _
said the big bosses of wars.

For, he was a Syrian kid.

*AylanKurdi lay there
face downward, deep in silence.
As the children of Eelam
eaten by bombs;
As the children of Afghanistan
bullet-riddled,
As the children of Iraq
torn to pieces;
As the children of Myanmar
brutally chased away,
As the children of Somalia

shrunk and sunkin hunger.

Alas, how many more children of
how many more lands
for how many more reasons
would be thrown away
know not where?

When our children were butchered and thrown
along the shores of Eelam
no voice was raised.

For, they were the children of Eelam.

In the World of Wars
The sea turns a tomb forChildren.

Poem: Theepachelvan
Translation: Latha Ramakirishnan

* AylanKurdi was a Syrian child. Leaving his home land where war was raging, while trying to enter Europe as an immigrant, caught in the boat-accident that took place in Turkey he drowned in the sea and died. His body came to lie on the sea-shore of Turkey.

I WOULD RISE AND RAGE FOR YOU

Theepachelvan’s poem titled உனக்காக கொந்தளிப்பேன்
Rendered in English by Latha Ramakrishnan(*First Draft)

Wherefrom they sprung
to destroy my town yesterday
and yours today?
My friend, I who raise my voice for you
know only too well the pain of loss.

Why did they break my house yesterday
and that of yours today?
I who is anguishing for you from a badly damaged house
knows only too well the agony of homelessness.

Who are they who threw bombs at me yesterday and
swords against you today?
I who suffer for you, with wounds afresh
know only too well the raw flesh.

What for they smash my temples and your mosques?
I, who pray for you
from the land where gods too are butchered
know only too well the sorrow of being abandoned.

I don’t have a cap.
And you don’t have the sacred-ash
Yet our blood being sucked
For the eyes of blood-thirsty animals
absolutely no difference.

My sisters don’t wear purdah;
Your sisters don’t wear flowers
on their hair.
Yet our tears are being gulped.
For the eyes of blood-thirsty animals
You and I are no different.

My friend, I who wipe your tears
and rage for you
know only too well the malevolence of oppression.