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Devathachan

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Devathachan



Devathachan


Translated by Rajaram Brammarajan

WATER MEANT FOR THE DESERT

The street corner is made of
Those who are missing
Those who are waiting
          Advertisement boards
          With crows sitting on them
There
One path disappears
         in another
         secretly
There
One path originates
Secretly
         in another.
This secret
Has been given to me too secretly
The shit of crows
         That fall on my shoulders
         Ridicule me.
         It’s all right
         In the secret that resembles a hump on my back
         Lies the water for my desert

 
UNTITLED

In the cages of the interrogation rooms
I am waiting
With tiring legs.
Though seasons disappear from sight
They never seem to perish.
In the sequential numbers of the documents
They are breathing.
In the corner of the building
Under a tree
There lies on the roots
A crow’s lean feather
partly visible,
Always  
a bit invisible.
It
Resembles a small scimitar.
For a few moments
I day dream
As if I am flying
Keeping it
on my flank.

If kept in the shirt pocket
It may be found out
If kept in the trousers
it will break.
However
I put inside my vest and return.

*
When the inspector came
And checked me
after
Removing my clothes
it fell off again
My sword-feather.
Flying up and down
Straying here and there
on the two sides of the evening

 
ESCAPING

The river escapes
And is running
away from the multinational companies.
On the edge of its shore
On a reed it 
Sits
The old butterfly.
It is not dead yet.
Behind our screens it has roamed
And now is tired.
And its eyes are still watching us
With hunger
And empty solitariness.
Around it the children in their festive mood
Who will try to catch it are absent.
The yellow light that shines
On its wings
Crosses the wind’s agitation
peacefully.
If you go back
Even now you can see it seated there.
If at all
you can return.

 
UNTITLED

When did you drink water
The last time?
When you touched
And lifted it up
Did it come along with you
Like your pet daughter?
When you entered into the water
As if it was the space
Did you hear its celebration?
In the moving bus
The hand-cuffed
eyes of the young accused
Sitting beside the policeman
Caress the closed pot’s
Unclosed 
water.

 
FORTY MOMENTS

For forty seconds duration I looked.
Not just standing here
Or in front of her
But from the
left side.
In the mid afternoon
She disappeared
riding a two-wheeler effortlessly.
Those forty seconds were longer
Than
the forty seconds.
Like the seven-year-old little boy
Wearing his father’s shirt
I stood
Wearing those forty seconds.
At the moment
My leg fingers were not visible to me.
And even
now too.

 
UNTITLED

When you enter the fortieth year
Your make up and attire changes
Either
you wear your shirt very loosely
Or fitting tight.
You shorten your hair
Or wear it long.
You look from afar
The peacock called ‘twenty years’
that had flown off from you
dancing now
spreading its  feathers
on your daughter’s shoulder.

Sunsets
Sunrises and
The anxiety of love
Slowly fills
The empty branches.

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Feature–Tamil Writing

Editorial
    Rajaram Brammarajan

Article
    K S Subramanian – ‘Sangam Women Poetry’

Poetry
    Devathachan
    Kavin Malar
    Leena Manimekalai
    Nundhakumaran
    Paampaati Siddhan
    Perundevi
    Riyas Qurana
    Sangam Women Poets
    Thenmozhi Dass
    Veyyil

Short Fiction
    Lakshmi Kannan: ‘Savvyasachi Square’

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