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Hemant Divate


Hemant Divate



Raindrops. Credit - naturelovesyou.wordpress.com


Translated from Marathi by Dilip Chitre



The Fragrance Your Body Would Give†

íIím remembering
The fragrance of ĎPondís Dream flowerí your body would give†
And your e-mails
Iím remembering
Our intimacy
In the cacophony at Marine Drive
How we would go on talking without tiring
Canít recall any subjects we talked about though
Then sometimes
We would share a cigarette

I who had never seen the inside of a disco
Havenít yet visited one†
Postponing my visit so far

Later you gave up smoking
Gave up drinking as well
And we gave up
The intimacy at Marine Drive

We continued to cling to each other
within four walls
Now as though we were caught in a wheel
We have no time to talk to each other
We sit reading the newspaper
Sometimes we have tea together
And if we ever talk
Itís about our child and our home
Or else about when we would return home
Making a phone call in the afternoon we ask
Each other
ĎHow are you?í
And nowadays, instead of the fragrance of ĎPondís Dream flowerí
At night your body gives†
The desired-undesired odour of tired sweat


And I Shall Be Released On A Piece Of Paper

Who is writing a poem?
With holes in it
That canít be blocked
Even if words are stuffed into them
(Holes---
Even the silence in the brain has them)

The TV is on
The kid is dancing in front if it
Heels over head, head over heels
Heís changing the channels
I am getting pissed at him
Should I spank him or not?
Even spanking makes
A hole in the silence
Not spanking too makes a hole

I am peeved
An ant has bitten me
I have crushed it
Iíve smashed up the ant
I am peeved
Shall I write this poem?
Or shall I stretch it for the kid
His name, a bat, a ball, a toothbrush, Colgate, a TV
I am peeved
The TV is on
I must smash the TV screen
The kid is hollering
Iím barking at him
Heís pushing his finger into a hole
In my undershirt
I am trying to close
The holes with the poem / the words
Gushing out from inside me

Dhullu is switching the TV on and off with the remote
Heís telling me to switch on one channel after another
Till his favourite channel is found
Any moment soon after
He begins to hate the channel
I am writing a poem
I write one word, then another
The kidís stubbornness turns me on and off
I am tormented
When will the poem come out?
Iím gnashing my teeth restlessly
Any moment now
The hole Iím looking for will be found
Iíll whoosh out of myself in a gush
And I shall be released on a piece of paper.

Men Without A Navel

Negation is a rising and falling relief
Beating its own drums
And
The foetus of memories is eternally growing
How much should I wait for you
The flowers in my hands poured into my eyes
Now as I open the window of aching absence
To look inside, what do I find
But the paralyzed body
Of wasting, skinny words
What hospital shall I go to?

Sonofabitch this whole world has lost its navel
Now I do not feel
That I love anyone at all
Nor can I loathe them
And therefore I brush off
Her tactile script
The female poem rustling with abandon from the breasts to the bellybutton

Now I have to walk only a bit further
To reach a town which is not hers
Then I shall get the Aids of my mind cured
I shall get holes made into my thoughts
And get screws fitted into them
But now I swear
Not to remember anyone at all
Now one must wrap up the moon and bury it under a neem tree
Like we bury the umbilical cord of a newborn baby



 

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