'Pathunku Kuzhiyil Pirantha Kuzhanthai’ (poems of deebachelvan) poem book was released on 12 of January 2009 by kalachuvadu in Chennai book fair. # four poems are Translated on deebam english site. # "The war begins from the Childen’s dreams" poem was Translated in some days ago on deebam english site.

Friday, December 8, 2017


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.

Rendered in English by Latha Ramakrishnan

Monday, December 4, 2017

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.

Friday, November 24, 2017


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’

Rendered in English by Latha Ramakrishnan

Monday, October 16, 2017


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

Friday, March 10, 2017


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

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
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.

Thursday, January 12, 2017


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.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016


*A poem in Tamil by Theepachelvan captioned KOUBRU MALAIYIN MAGAL
(Daughter of Koubru Mountain)
rendered in English by Latha Ramakrishnan

You, the darling daughter of Koubru Mount
with deer aplenty, frightened and apprehensive
wandering hither and thither _
and the red jasmine flowers blooming all over
call off your decades-long fasting and have something to eat.

In this soil that is for the sale of guns
don’t you remain hungry any further.

The pricking sense of guilt that those people
who stood by the side of your emaciated body
experienced at every lunch time -
whenever they hold their cups and bowls _
Oh, let it subside at least from henceforth.

Let the punishment of forceful feeding inflicted upon you
and the imprisonment of food tubes inserted into your nostrils
end now
and please have your food
the memory of which has left you long since.

You, the Iron Woman who,
bearing the hunger of Manipurians
who faced Assam Rifles’ ruthless assault
with their sacred nakedness,
has filled your empty stomach with dreams;
your heart is as soft and tender
as that of an innocent child.

Your body that bore the brunt of huger
drying up with desert-like heat
proving a veritable playground for Death
is indeed a powerful weapon!

Your voice that never ceased to rage and boil
never allowing death to come anywhere closer
and leaving it to taste defeat,
is but wild fire!

My friend, in bomb-cultivating soil
please don’t fight anymore with your tender heart.

The power to stretch their rifles
for inserting many a penis of the army
into hapless vaginas,
the power to arrest anybody
with no rhyme or reason _
thus many turned missing
children with their future dead and gone
eyes that search in all directions
for the Sun, in vain ....
In all these our lands prove
no different….

Oh, the darling daughter of Koubru Mount!
so endearing to my heart –
Our land which has borne Thileepan as its son
knows for sure
that the food you had after years too many
would not have appeased your all-consuming hunger.

For, your heart forever languishes,
starving for Freedom.

For Irom Chanu Sharmila

Thanks to Kumudam

Friday, November 4, 2016


Hit by the cruel stone thrown
turning the dawn terribly darkened
the great blossom of words lay broken.

In the city where blasted words of peace dangle as
the great grand star was felled and thrown down.

Underneath the violently torn peace-treaty
lay strewn the particles of clever smile which could defeat

He who had extended an all warm smile
as bright chrysanthemum
to those who came to our capital city
giving them a helping hand
even yesterday
lay there with his lips covered by the wet sand.

The white-pigeon that was sitting on thorny Morniga tree
rose and flew.
The falguni wearing the face of deadly lion
with its wings broken
fell off from the
Jamun tree.

in the tiny drop of silence
Of his countenance
Filled with the smile of silent thirst
Your immoral war stands defeated.


02.11.2007 : widely known as the lieutenant of peace, the leader of the political wing of LTTE, Su.Pa.Thamizhchelvan died valiantly in the aerial attack by the Srilankan forces

Sunday, October 2, 2016


When he said that peace and harmony flowered out of their guns
I didn’t ask him how peace would be

When he said that security was being born of their eyes
I didn’t ask him how to feel safety.

When he said that they didn’t seize our lands
I didn’t ask about the Buddha statues and army camps.

When he said that we were all the citizen of one and the same country
I didn’t ask him how he would treat his brother.

When he said that none disappeared
I didn’t ask him where those surrendered had gone.

That they had not raped and killed any of our women
Nor disrobed any of our young men and shot them on the nape – when he claimed so
I didn’t ask wherefrom the blood flowed on the land.

While he went on to say
that they had killed none
and that all those killed were terrorists
I said
that my child was a terrorist.

Poem: Theepachelvan
Translation: Latha Ramakirishnan

his poem by theepachelvan captioned MY CHILD IS A TERRORIST is a very significant one, penned by one of the very poignant and effective voices championing the cause of human rights and Liberty, Equality and fraternity. this poem gives us a poignant picture of the children of Tamils who fought for their freedom and were betrayed and butchered, and branded as Terrorists. Latha Ramakrishnan, a reputed writer and translator has rendered this poem in English

Wednesday, September 14, 2016


DEEPACHELVAN’S POEM captioned இருண்டகாலத்தின் பதுங்குழி
Rendered in English by Latha Ramakrishnan(*First Draft)

In the frozen faces of those wordless, voiceless
the flies revel, singing and dancing

In between day and night
when a mammoth army went past our village
a child playing there went missing.

There is none to accept the child
that was arrested on the land
sans witnesses;
The children hide and crouch
in a dark age once again.
No aeroplanes hovering above
Shells don’t come from any side.
Children feel threatened at the sight of
sky and directions.
We possess no guns;
No cannons;
No aircrafts;
We have renounced battlefronts;
Have shut all the barracks;
Yet we are surrounded;
A war is being waged.
Along the road where the army
goes around keeping vigil
someone had halted his cycle
and went away.
I am living in a house
where someone keeps knocking at the doors;
I am pedalling my cycle in the street
where someone keeps chasing with riffle.
In a land where everyone is being rummaged
where is a bunker for me?

Children have not seen glorious times
All I have _
darkened bunkers

Sunday, August 21, 2016


When the houses and tombs and
temples are being destroyed
a puppy wanders
wondering where to go.

For the departed souls without tombs
An d for those living without houses
What can the god denied of abode do?

When the houses of those living are being erased
A mother wandering with a
Kaarthigai month’s Kantthal flower
asks for a piece of land
for the tomb turned to rubbles
of her dead son.

No children
No tombs
Upon the trees where Kaanthal flowers
bloomed as a dream
lights glow.

When space is denied even while living
and after death too
what at all can the dead
and the living do?

What for we died
What for we survive

You might think –
when even God is
denied a place
with what hope the others exist.

Our land’s tombs
are not the ones awaiting Death
They are the dwelling place
where those buried
with the dream of a beautiful life
are reposing.

As the voice of children
As the voice of tombs
We will ask -
Because it is our Mother Land
We haven’t taken away anybody’s .

(POEM OF Deepachelvan captioned விதைக்கப்பட்டவர்களின் குரல் from his poem-collection 'எனது குழந்தை பயங்கரவாதி' translated into English by Latha Ramakrishnan)

Friday, July 22, 2016


I possess no guns,
nor cannons;
Neither bombs nor Tanks.
All I have are mere words.
They are not mine
They belong to my soil.
They are the words of my people.

Those valourous troops
wandering vigilantly with guns
going around in tankers…
Oh, why do they fear my poems?

Enquiring in the neighbourhood,
in the dwellings facing mine,
counting my footprints in the street
calling from unknown numbers
and disconnecting without response _

Making the dogs howl in the well of night
Riding in the bikes menacingly during noontime
Searching for my books and probing them
All these would unsettle me – so thought the valourous troop.

Oh, you would always be afraid of my words
that break your guns_
that smash your explosives _
that bombard your tankers _
that destroy your camps _

We fight for our Mother Land
You wage war for stealing our land

Therefore, you would always be afraid
of my poems;
ofour people;
of our land.

Translation by Latha Ramakirishnan

Publish : Globaltamilnews (http://bit.ly/2aiyr3J)

Sunday, July 17, 2016


Your pet dog
languishes in the memory of the kisses that you lavished on it
when you came home
during your last vacation.

Mother who plungeddeep into
the gory tales written on the sky
with the sulfuric smoke
is yet to surface.

At midnight one day
when you exploded on our sea
massive lightning flashed across.

If only she had known that you
would return as a mere news of victory
Amma would have givena few more kisses at least,to her heart’s content.

In the tea-cup you last drank
a drop of your smile lingers.

In the sea where you exploded
fetching water in an earthen-cup
looking at your thirsty face
Mother speaks.

On the day
when thechant your name
that rises along the waves
ceases to be
this ocean
would have turned dry.

Poems: Theepachelvan
Translation: Latha Ramakirishnan


The secrets piled up,
the tales aplenty untold _
in the countenance concealed
blended in fire
as darkness embedded in the ocean.

In the wings of a bird that surfaces from
the sea wherein your all merciful smile
there seeps a cinder.

Swallowing fire
the black warriors sleep in the air.
With dark clouds melting and dissolving in the soil
the seeds burst.

In the spot which exploding, melted
carrying sulphuric,
popped up a plant
with fire-flowers.

The world writhed and twisted
with your oceanic quiet
filled with the fragrance of smouldering fire.

Your hand waving infinitely
and the ocean-frozen live smile
would prick as thorn
till the very end of this world.

Poems: Theepachelvan
Translation: Latha Ramakirishnan

Monday, June 20, 2016


For crossing passages
I have a visa
as Israelis passport
in the hands of Palestinians.

For going past the ‘Checkpoints
I possess an identity card
as the American ID that the Iraqis have.

For spending
I have several coins
just as those French coins
with Syrian citizens.

In our soil
a national anthem is aired
just as the Indian National anthem
sung in Manipur.

In my land
a flag is hoisted
as the flag of China
flying in Tibet.

In my finger
the impression of landless refugee is seen
as that branded by fire
in Myanmar’s hand.

Translated from Tamil by Latha Ramakirishnan

Publish:jds (http://bit.ly/29Ry6UI)