French and Kreol Translations by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
FRENCH TRANSLATIONS
Blood
I have always been proud of my distinguished benefit to this Earth,
surpassed only by oxygen. Yet, at times, my portrayal is less than benevolent. My most precious essence
as red as cherries, apples, Oklahoma dust, spilled in the street for the price of territory.
Frozen by horrors of truthful revelation, thickened by cold, boiled by outrage.
Or depict me as the moon’s command over ladies, offering womanhood, granting new life.
Many believe one shed me to deliver this world. Lifetime loyalties have been sworn in my name.
See me as you will.
Le sang
J’ai toujours été fier de mon bienfait remarquable sur terre,
surmontant qu’avec de l’oxygène. Mais parfois, mon image est moins justifiée. De nature précise
aussi rouge que les cerises, les pommes, la poussière d’Oklahoma, répandu dans les rues marquant le territoire.
Figé par le dévoilement de la vérité, endurci par le froid, brûlant d’indignation.
Ou me projetant comme l’effet lunaire sur les dames, offrant la féminité, accordant une nouvelle vie.
Nombreux sont ceux qui croient qu’on me déverse pour délivrer ce monde. Des serments ont été faits à mon nom.
Apercevez-moi comme vous le voulez.
All Those Chairs in the Field
Rapturous orchestral maneuvers performed by bees and butterflies.
One to each symphonic chair, they sit upon these colorful structures, measuring each refrain with the beating of wings.
I lie at the edge, enchanted by this euphoric ensemble that plays out the course of life while perched upon nature’s own soft seats.
Toutes ces chaises dans le champ
Ravissantes manœuvres orchestrales réalisées par les abeilles et les papillons.
Une créature pour chaque chaise symphonique, elle s’assied sur ces structures pittoresques, évaluant chaque refrain avec les battements des ailes.
Je m’allonge à l’extrémité, éblouit par ce groupe euphorique qui démontre le parcours de vie en se perchant sur leurs propres sièges de la nature.
Tower of Bones
A parade seen from the perspective above the clavicles of a king among men; or lengthy fields of bluebonnets, or guitarists on stage.
He counted train cars aloud to me as they passed.
Now as I stand at ground level and watch his funeral procession go by, I long to once more climb that tower of bones, to view the majesty of this life’s moment while perched atop my father’s shoulders.
Tour Des Os
Un cortège vu du regard au-dessus des clavicules d’un roi parmi les hommes ; ou de vastes champs de lupins, ou des guitaristes sur scène.
Il me comptait les wagons à haute voix dès qu’ils passaient.
Maintenant, lorsque je me tiens au ras du sol et regarde son cortège funèbre passer, Je veux à tout prix encore une fois grimper cette tour des Os, pour mieux voir la Majesté à cet instant de la vie en se perchant sur les épaules de mon père.
The Shaping of Clouds
At dawn I recall the shapes of yesterdays’ clouds, each one at variance, a differing
outline, and how we argued about their shape and the wispiness of that cruciform shape that disbursed
right in front of our eyes, before we could settle the debate and come to an agreement on how it had really appeared
to us. As the sun rises, I notice the sky is cloudless and your chair is empty too.
Later in the week as I look at the clouds alone, it does not much matter their shape nor that they even exist. By tomorrow, I’ll no longer feel like looking.
La formation des nuages
A l’aube je me souviens des formes des nuages de la veille, chacun d’eux en opposition, un différend
contour, et comment nous nous discutions à propos de leurs formes et de la légèreté de cette croix qui se dispersait
tout droit devant nos yeux, avant que nous puissions trancher le débat et parvenir à un accord s’agissant de comment il paraissait vraiment
à nous. Dès que le soleil se lève, Je constate que le ciel est sans nuage et ta chaise vide aussi.
Plus tard durant la semaine quand je regarde les nuages toute seule, je ne me rends pas vraiment compte de leurs formes ou même s’ils existent. D’ici demain je ne voudrai plus les voir.
Cathedral
Bells are ringing around both thieves and priests. Those bespoke to the below, those contracted to the heavens.
Electrified guitar plays as the carillon of a cathedral, within this sacred theater. The licks and strums of Old Man Rivers.
And while Wichita slow dances and sways to the music, we recall the discarnate push and pull of yesteryears’s greatest songs.
Knowing that Old Man Scratch enjoys a good riff from a Gibson, as well as angels, thieves, and priests and the Savior Himself kept such company.
La Cathédrale
Les cloches sonnent autour de tous les deux, cambrioleurs et prêtres. Ceux personnalisés sur terre, ceux embauchés au Paradis.
Des guitares électriques jouent comme le carillon d’une cathédrale, dans cette salle de spectacle sacrée. Les coups de langue et grattements d’Old Man Rivers.
Et lorsque Wichita danse lentement et se balance à la musique, nous nous souvenions du pousser et tirer désincarné de meilleures chansons d’antan.
Sachant que Old Man Scratch se réjouit d’un bon refrain de Gibson, aussi bien que des anges, voleurs et prêtres et le Sauveur lui-même leurs tient compagnie.
Guitars Galore and Big Boots
Up and down the sacred corridors of the Country Music Hall of Fame, is shared an evolutionary picture, of those who never grew tired of hurting as their years passed. Those who were once young enough to know it all, and many now old enough to have lived it all.
Words sung, torn from male tongues: The whiskered rhetoric of Willie Nelson to the shadowed loudness of Brad Paisley, even work of the virtual poet, Bob Dylan, is displayed here. (Nashville Skyline)
Enter into this universe, female gambits, once seen in thorny kinships with men who ruled the slide guitars.
These performers, now a binding cult, including the electrifying falsetto of Dolly, and folk women like Emmylou. Patsy Kline built such a bridge!
Guitars galore and big boots, exhibited as memorials to the roots of the American heart.
Those born of mountains, Those born of hills, Whose daddies worked as miners, And labored within the hot sawmills.
Des guitares à gogo et de grandes bottes
Le va-et-vient des couloirs sacrés du Country Music-Hall of Fame , se partage en un portrait évolutif, de ceux qui ne se sont jamais lassés d’être blessés dès que les années passaient. Ceux qui étaient jadis assez jeunes pour tout savoir, et beaucoup d’entre eux actuellement assez vieux d’avoir tout survécu.
Des mots chantés, brisés par les voix masculines : De belles paroles moustachues de Willie Nelson au intensité sonore assombri de Brad Paisley, même les œuvres du poète virtuel , Bob Dylan y est exposées. (Nashville Skyline)
Entrant dans cet univers, des gambits féminins, autrefois en affinités épineuses avec les hommes maitrisant les guitares slide.
Ces artistes, maintenant devenu un culte contraignant, y compris le fausset électrisant de Dolly, et les femmes folkloriques comme Emmylou. Patsy Kline établit un tel lien !
Des guitares à gogo et de grandes bottes, exposées comme monuments commémoratifs traçant l’origine au fond de la Culture Américaine.
Ceux natifs de montagnes, Ceux natifs de collines, Dont leurs pères travaillaient comme mineurs, Et peinaient dans les scieries surchauffées.
MAURITIAN KREOL TRANSLATIONS
Schadenfreude
The crows refuse to turn away from the carnage. The broken and bent frames of machine and man thrill them. Across the road is spilled dreams and desires, never to be realized, and the crows flap their wings with glee.
Schadenfreude (Plezir malsin)
Bann korbo refiz aret masak. Bann parti kase e kabose masinn e imin fer zot plezir. Lor larout finn eparpiye rev e dezir, ki zame pou realize, ebann korbo bat zot lezel dan lazwa.
Lumen
Feel the flame in your bones, a miracle invited, When seeking light. learn ancestry without greed. Study where the voyage takes you. The simplicity of your soul will become celestial bliss.
Lalimier
Resanti laflam dan to lezo enn mirak dan ler Kan rod lalimier. Konn orizin san gourmandiz. Obzerv kot vwayaz-la amenn twa. Sinplisite to nam pou vinn boner ki bondie pou done.
A Street Prayer
I lay this rose above you. I leave my prayer for you. I ask the angels to guide you. I will write all manner of pen that those who threaten your brothers and sisters will choose to lay down their weapons and take up the arms of righteousness, and find valiant deeds better suited to their days than blind hatred of different colors of scarves and shirts.
Enn lapriyer lor sime
Mo les sa roz la lor twa. Mo les mo lapriyer pou twa. Mo demann ban anz gid twa. Mo pou ekrir dan tou fason ki kapav pou ki tou seki menas to frer e ser pou swazir depoz zot zarm e pran dan lebra zistis, e fer bann aksion brav ki amelior zot lavi olie viv dan laenn aveg pou bann diferan kouler foular e semiz.
Temple Moon
In Heaven, memories fade. This is why the dead do not visit. They no longer remember.
God remembers real sin he took from us. Angels he sends try to change things. They aim to help you understand why it is that you live.
Heart and Earth, within and without, Earth and space, up and down, sky and graves.
The esoteric scent of sage and incense.
We, as builders. Who are the teachers of the builders?
The Earth spoke to the moon. The moon spoke to the sky.
Has the need for temples passed? For teachers? For builders? For angels?
Why then do we still have death?
Tanp Lalinn
Dan paradi, bann memwar efase. Lakoz sa bann seki mor pa vizite. Zot nepli rapel.
Bondie rapel vre pese li finn pran ar nou. Bann anz li avoye sey sanz kitsoz. Zot lintansion se ed zot konpran kifer zot viv.
Leker e later, avek e san, Later e lespas, anba lao, lesiel e tonbo.
Later finn koz avek lalinn, Lalinn finn koz avek lesiel.
Eski nesesite tanp finn pase? Pou profeser? Pou konstrikter? Pou anz?
Kifer sinon nou touzour ena lamor?
Pulse
Through a net of dreams engraved in memory, I sensed the tempo of love between us, redolent kisses beyond midnight that kept me yearning. I dreamt your music was all I could hear from where your gentle spirit sung the psalm.
At the start, I had no music. Only a plenitude of need to learn the lilt of love, performing. Then, came awakening, rhythm, rhythm, within sinews, into our very cells.
Now, the pulse breathes on and on for as long as time itself.
We will be, for as long as time itself.
Pou
Par enn file rev grave dan memwar, Mo resanti kadans lamour ant nou, bizou dou apre minwi ki les mwa anvi sa. Mo finn rev to lamizik ti tou seki mo ti kapav tande depi kot to nam dous sant Psalm.
Avan, Mo pa ti ena lamizik. Zis enn dezir konple pou aprann fason lamour, performe. Apre, finn ena levey, ritm, ritm, dan misk, dan nou selil.
Aster, pou respire, kontinielman ziska ki letan exziste pou nou.
Nou pou la, ziska letan pou nou exziste.
The Cards Spoke
On the day no one was looking, everyone aged, only by a day, but that day went fast, as the cards were shuffled so quickly. It was as if a parlor trick was being presented. And people wept, knowing the chance to slow down time had eluded them. The clock’s hands would spin. When no one was listening, life spoke secrets for earning immortality, long lost knowledge was confessed. and all were deemed unlucky. The flip of the cards was so loud that they drowned out any chance to catch the words. And people wept, knowing that to live forever had eluded them. That last day would come.
Bann kart finn revele
Enn zour personn pa ti pe gete, zot tou ti vieyi, zis dan enn zour, Me sa zour-la li finn pas vit, parski bann kart ti bate bien vit. Li ti koumadir enn vre trik ki ti prezante. E bann dimounn finn plore, kan konn lasans fer letan pas dousman finn anbrouy zot. Zegwi revey ti pe marse. Kan personn pa ti pe ekoute, lavi finn revel bann sekre pou gagn imortalite, konesans perdi ti konfese e zot tou ti sorti malsanse. Batman kart ti telman for ki zot finn touy lasans resezi bann mo. E bann dimounn finn plore, kan finn kone ki lide viv pou touzour finn deles zot. Dernie zour pou vini.
Santosh Bakaya is a resident of India, internationally acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu; and a biography of Martin Luther King Jr. Only in Darkness can you see the Stars,
She is an academic, poet, essayist, columnist, novelist, biographer, TEDx speaker, and creative writing mentor, whose TEDx talk on the Myth of Writer’s Block is very popular in creative writing Circles, and so are my columns Morning Meanderings in Learning and Creativity.com. And Trigger that Creative Spark in Kashmir Pen . She has thirty well-received books to her credit, many of which have been Amazon bestsellers. Her latest book is Din about Chins which has garnered a lot of critical acclaim .
She is giving finishing touches to her novel and a poetry anthology, The Bridge over the River Jhelum.
Here is a video of Santosh Bakaya reading her poem:
Dylan Thomas – Portrait by Gianpiero Actis (Italy)
Let’s Pay Tribute to Dylan Thomas
by Vatsala Radhakeesoon (writer/poet, Editor and Organizer)
Dear Poets and Literature-lovers,
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated each year on 14th May. This date marks the anniversary of the reading of Dylan Thomas’s popular play Under Milk Wood for the first time in New York in 1953.
This year, a group of poets have joined to write a collaborative poem to be featured on my blog. The theme of the poem is Poetic Sea.
I’m grateful to Immagine and Poesia, Italy (founded under the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) for its continuous support over the years.
Many thanks and congratulations to all the poets whose lines have been selected.
Hope the readers will enjoy reading this poem as a whole and continue to support the works of Dylan Thomas.
Words-Waves
Welcome, Welcome dear Poets One by one with pen-corals on the golden sunny beach -grins let your lines flow with the glow of undying flame of creativity – A tribute to Dylan Thomas.
– Sea Blue (Oceans Endless)
Amidst the sea waves echo blue, green, orange, grey words locked in seashells carrying centuries of inspiration born in a second, grown gradually, dead- blurred momentarily but phoenix-reborn singing poetry’s immortality
– Vatsala Radhakeesoon (Mauritius)
Who is this enigmatic figure creating music, stirring the soul? What sublime message is the bass player sending across? Trees sway in sync with the music, energized. I emerge from my languor, rejuvenated. Resurrected. Risen from the ashes, poetry pulsating on my lips
– Santosh Bakaya (India)
Amid these waves I swim each day caressed by waters whispering tales from times gone by. Here, I roamed with whales and dolphins for company.
– Gloria Fu Keh (Singapore)
You propose to the word near the sea. Wind plays the wingman, bear the ring forged with your breath. You cheat your word, stray with silence, and even then chiselling the word’s shape in your mind. Word makes you fight, give you peace, row the boat when you fish for thoughts.
– Kushal Poddar (India)
In the unreal grey of these liquefied lines in the vortex of a sea of steel where shadows stretch darker and darker I listen to Dylan’s words – echoes in subtle vibration like a slow crescendo like a gloomy, confused whisper… And death shall have no dominion
– Lidia Chiarelli (Italy)
The light of the soul lives in us as an inexhaustible spark it explores the darkness and erases the shadows with echoing resonances It brings forth the rainbow … and new words slowly take shape on the horizon
– Gianpiero Actis (Italy)
From within the eyes of Wales, breaks open the light, sunshine pulled inside the soul, and the soul shall revive the life of the man, and the man shall sing his words into the heart of the sea, and the sea shall remember him beyond all eternities.
– Linda Imbler (USA)
What if by drowning these letters baptize themselves– as simple softness of our existence, cold rivers run through like pillows of thought sleeping eternally: awe-defying eternity.
– Dustin Pickering (USA)
A gathering of waters, the word of God cresting, breaking over ramparted dunes— Here is the bereaved sea, afflicted by Eden’s sorrows. Does her children’s diaspora of reason fracture the spectral bow of the Lord? Unknowing, the sea waits, her heart in tides ebbing, flowing, cleansing the just and unjust alike.
– Melissa Chappell (USA)
How I love this sea facing me My thirst for every water body All rolled into one The drought last year I tilted my head for every drop Directly from the faucet What else is this feel if not poetry Toes first
– Vandana Kumar (India)
Although fleeting in its own right Faithful to the arrival of spring The sea seems reborn from the strandline Like the stirring phoenix that comes back to life
– Dinesh Bachoo (Mauritius)
The Sunday supper knocks at our sea-facing door reckoning what’s remembered in a half-forgotten voyage The whiff remains in burnt out butts on the deck Aimless arguments await menu card on the waves
– Shyamasri Maji (India)
Words flow and lines unite to praise your creativity-boldness Gone too soon, young poet but your writings unlock inspiration on the cycle of centuries of Poetry Thank you, contemporary friends, for safeguarding the literary flame within!
French and Mauritian Kreol (Kreol Morisien) Translation by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
French Translation
Crescendo
It is said when on his death bed, Beethoven lifted his lion-maned head, propped himself on joints weakened by age, and though unable to hear the thunder rattling the casements of those windowpanes, shook his fists and pointed at the sky, glaring at the lightning outside as if to chide God and His angels to beware, for they were about to bear witness to a new, unhumbled essence — and they would hear him express an eternal note— bold and relentless filled with the rumbling of kettle drums, a blare of brass.
Crescendo
On dit que sur son lit de mort, Beethoven leva sa tête de crinière, se souleva par une mobilité articulaire affaibli par la vieillesse, et malgré qu’il ne pouvait pas entendre le tonnerre cliquetant les châssis de ces fenêtres, menaça du poing et indiqua le ciel du doigt, aveuglé par la foudre comme s’il voulait gronder Dieu et ses anges à prendre garde, qu’ils seraient témoin d’un nouveau phénomène , de nature impuissante – et ils l’entendront créer la note éternelle – audacieuse et incessante emplit de grondements de timbales, un vacarme de cuivres.
Dodoitsu for Sayah Esma
She is our well-born female, born God’s exalted cargo, adored and blessèd shadow whose canto prevails.
Dodoitsu pour Sayah Esma
Elle est fille de bonne famille, Navire glorifié divin, Vénérée et l’ombre bénie dont le chant triomphe.
Fallen Mighty
Once her beauty could pry others’ eyes from a bride.
Then, she was forced to swallow the pill of becoming human
as obligations, and her life as a wife, tore down her facade,
stripping the illusion of cosmetics to reveal
the person below the surface, the one who was real.
Sacrée chute
Jadis sa beauté pouvait faire filer les regards d’une jeune mariée.
Puis, elle s’était contrainte d’avaler la pilule amère de devenir humaine
dès que les devoirs, et sa vie comme épouse, la démasqua,
dépouillée d’illusion du maquillage pour dévoiler
la personne tout au fond, celle qu’elle était vraiment.
Owl Haiku
Hidden in a tree, three grey owls, birds of prey, wait for their hour to hunt.
Haiku d’hibou
Cachés sur un arbre, trois hiboux gris, rapaces, attendent leur tour pour chasser.
Mauritian Kreol (Kreol Morisien) Translation
Restraining the Beast Within
Crouching within my cranium, its curved spine crammed within my skull, having grown out of my reptilian complex, tethered to a binary plane where thought reigns as our ancien regime. Its fangs align with my nostrils as if those flared voids might provide hatches to make its escape. Its left hand, claws out, pushes down, then against my chin, perhaps trying to create a portal of my mouth. Its arms clog my ears, diminishes the low hum of others’ invading voices. Reason tries to disrupt my life, infuses calm to try and restrain the brute residing in the brain, locked behind a collar subdued by a Windsor knot of virtue.
Metriz Mons dan Nou
Asize lor talon elegan dan mo krann, so kolonn vertebral pran plas dan mo servo, li finn forme par mo konplex reptil, ankre dan enn dimansion biner kot mantalite gouverne kouma dan nou ansien regn. So krok pwint an paralel avek mo narinn kouma dir bann koler dan vid pou amenn bann fason pou fer li sove. So lame gos, tir grif, pous anba, apre kont mo manton, Kouma dir pe rod kree enn laport dan mo labous. So lebra fer mo zorey sourd, elwagn bann mirmir lezot lavwa ki akapare. Rezon sakouy mo lavi, donn mwa trankilite pou sey metriz mons ki res dan servo, ferme deryer enn kol ekraze par enn ne karvat drawtir.
The Bravery of Mercedes (from Pan’s Labyrinth)
She slices the captain’s cheek from tragus to lip with a willingness and skill she gleaned from gutting pigs.
Her courage makes me want to see how she saw, feel what she felt, but to do that
I’d have to endure the anguish she suffered, watching a man take joy in torture, slaughter the innocents she tried to save.
Conscience rests on my chest like a concrete pillow. I feel the tickle of guilt at the base of my neck,
like a guillotine blade that cleaves my throat and severs my head from its body.
Kouraz Mercedes
(Inspire par Pan’s Labyrinth)
Li koup lazou kapitenn depi so zorey ziska so lalev avek enn volonte e metriz ki li finn aprann avek ban koson masakre.
So kouraz fer mwa anvi trouve kouma li finn trouve , resanti kouma li finn resanti, me pou fer sa
Mo pou bizin sibir soufrans li finn soufer, get enn zom pran plezir dan tortir, abat bann inosan ki li ti rod sove.
Konsians res dan mo leker kouma enn oreye konkre. Mo santi enn frinson koubab anba mo likou,
kouma lam giyotinn ki ser mo lagorz e separ mo latet depi mo lekor.
What’s Left Behind Hurts Most
Someone thumbtacked the moon too low as well as off kilter tonight, glimmering off the hermitage she chose, wishing for the luck of Thecla. She detected the patterns before they could coalesce and bloom into a sadistic scenario. Now, sitting outside the market, huddled in a cardboard box like so many kittens or puppies, squat the children she offers to give away.
Seki Finn Delese Bles Plis
Kikenn finn pik lalinn tro anba e osi dekal li aswar, briye lor lakaz ermit ki li finn swazir, li swet bonn sanz Thecla. Li finn detekte bann sign avan ki zot kapav groupe e grandi dan enn senaryo atros (efreyan). Aster, andeor lafwar, kwinse dan enn bwat karton kouma bokou ti sat e ti toutou, bann zanfan ki li anvi abandone pe akroupi.
Dylan Thomas – Portrait by Gianpiero Actis (Italy)
Dear Poets/Poetry-lovers,
International Dylan Thomas Day is celebrated every year on 14 May. As a representative of Immagine and Poesia (founded by the patronage of Aeronwy Thomas, daughter of Dylan Thomas) and upon the approval of the main organizers and consultants, UK, I am conducting International Dylan Thomas Day 2025 online.
This year I am conducting a collaborative poetry-writing with a group of poets. Each poet will contribute 3 -8 lines and we will create a single poem together.
I invite poets who are interested to submit a maximum of 8 lines to:
vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Theme : Poetic sea
First lines of poem:
Words-Waves
Amidst the sea waves echo blue, green, orange, grey words locked in seashells carrying centuries of inspiration born in a second, grown gradually, dead- blurred momentarily but phoenix-reborn singing poetry’s immortality – Vatsala Radhakeesoon
[A poem written for my birthday in August, reflecting on my four decades of life. First published in ‘The Space Ink’, October 2021]
Dear August-born, Do not be the burning sage as you Sit on the bed soaking in the morning sun And the washed remnants of your dreams Of the night gone by. Instead, just hang on To your wrinkled sleepwear and do your laundry Listening to the hollow whispers of the washer.
Dear August rain, Do not hold on to songs in your head That can never turn into a hopeful refrain A delectable orchestra. Instead, bolt the doors Carefully when the thunderstorm breaks open Into your pastures, echoing your birth-name That everybody forgot, including you.
Dear August-queen, Do not forget that ‘queen’ is just a perfunctory word And it gives you no privilege in a world where You have floated in a dark, tepid sea of pettiness, betrayals
And there is the sweet, sacred ambrosia of love But loveless evenings, lonely strolls in sidewalks gave you succor.
If only you can thank the August rain, The road trips with false lovers, The unflattering mirrors, the ditched playgrounds, The old notepads of burnt poetry, the stench of abuses, You can embrace your fire and ember. You can be the revolution, the upheaval, the threadbare dance You can be the defiant poem, the silence of ruffled nights That you’ve always dreamt of being.
Lettre à moi-même
(Un poème écrit pour mon anniversaire en août, s’agissant d’une réflexion des quatre décennies de ma vie. Première parution – Space Ink, Octobre 2021)
Chère Native du mois d’août, Ne sois pas la femme sage trop brillante quand Tu te réveilles au lit berçant le soleil matinal Et les étincelles brumeuses de tes rêves d’une nuit achevée. C’est mieux si tu te réjouis de tes tenues de nuit froissées et fais ta lessive En écoutant les murmures vains du lave-linge.
Chère Pluie d’août, Ne te laisses pas berner par les chansons qui ne fleuriront jamais en refrains d’espoir Un merveilleux orchestre. C’est mieux si tu verrouilles les portes prudemment quand l’orage crie dans tes prés, répétant ton nom (nom de naissance) que tout le monde a oublié, ainsi que toi aussi.
Chère Reine d’août, N’oublies pas que Reine n’est qu’un mot superficiel Et il ne te privilégie guerre dans un monde où tu t’es pataugée dans l’obscurité, dans la mer agitée de mesquineries, de trahisons
Et il y a la douceur de l’ambrosie sacrée de l’amour Mais les soirées dépourvues d’amour, les balades solitaires sur les trottoirs qui t’ont sauvée .
Si seulement tu peux remercier la pluie d’août, les trajets avec les amants imposteurs, les miroirs insultés , les terrains de jeux abandonnés , les vieux carnets de poésie brulés , l’abus toxique Tu peux accueillir ta flamme et la braise . Tu peux être la révolution, le bouleversement, la danse démodée Tu peux être le poème révolté, le silence des nuits ébouriffées dont tu as toujours rêvé .
A River Within Me
[First published in the anthology titled ‘Reverse the Rivers’, edited by Geetanjali Dillip]
A river within me knows all my high tides and low tides, The sun’s birth, descending on my banks and the sundown Melting my fiery skin into dark forebodings of death, and rebirth. A river within me knows my light, motion of time And my fallen moon at night, the hungry, volatile dance As I spin around my moist, sacred space, like a child Spinning inside the womb, waiting to be born. A river within me is the smell of my elemental lust As I become the ruthless watcher, my bank made soft With tears of throbbing life, of funeral pyres.
With the river within me, where do I go? Converge with the sea of garrulous memories, shrink or grow? Take in all the fish coming up for air, all red embers That turn to grey ashes? The river gushes right in, Settles within, slowly, with its waning moonlight, its eager darkness, Its placid body, its secret, superfluous chatter, its keen onlookers. The river scampers, smells inside me, I lose myself In its body like daily offerings of poetry and surreal passages. A river within me fills up and swells, and I become Its wind and melody, its continuum flow, like birth, death and rebirth.
Une rivière au fond de moi
( Première parution dans l’anthologie, intitulée Reverse the Rivers, éditée par Geetanjali Dillip)
Une rivière au fond de moi connait les hauts et les bas de ma vie, Le soleil levant, descendant sur mes rives et le soleil couchant Fondant ma peau brûlante en sombre pressentiment de la mort, et de la réincarnation. Une rivière au fond de moi connait ma lumière, l’écoulement du temps Et ma lune vaincue durant la nuit, affamée , danse fugace Comme je tourne autour de l’humide, l’ espace sacré , comme un bébé se tournant dans le ventre maternel ,attendant sa naissance. Une rivière au fond de moi est l’arôme de mon désir élémentaire Dès que je deviens l’observateur impitoyable, ma rive devient sensible par les larmes vibrant la vie , des bûchers funéraires.
Avec une rivière au fond de moi, que signifie cela ? Se confluant dans la mer de souvenirs loquaces, se rétrécissant où se grandissant ? Prenant tous les poissons en quête d’oxygène, toutes les braises rouges qui deviennent des cendres grises ? La rivière jaillit tout droit, se refuge, lentement, avec son décroissement de rayons lunaires, son obscurité curieux, Son corps serein, son secret ; sa conversation superflue, ses passants attentifs. La rivière se détale, sent au fond de moi, je me perds dans son corps comme des offrandes de poésie et d’extraits irréels. Une rivière au fond de moi se remplit et se gonfle, et je deviens ses souffles du vent et sa mélodie, sa continuité, comme la naissance, la mort et la réincarnation.
Lopamudra Banerjee est auteure, poétesse et traductrice de Texas, USA. Elle est auteure de neuf recueils de poésie et six anthologies de fiction, non-fiction et de poésie. Elle s’est vue discerner les prix ; Journey Awards pour ses mémoires Thwarted Escape : An Immigrant’s Wayward Journey, The International Reuel Prize for Poetry (2017) et d’autres prix littéraires. Ses poèmes ont été publiés sur les réseaux de grand renom, tels que Life in Quarantine, the Digital Humanities Archive de Stanford University. Ses derniers œuvres sont intitulés The Bard and his Sister-in-law (translation) and We Are What We Are écrit en collaboration avec Priscilla Rice, 1er Prix (catégorie Poésie), New York Book Festival 2024.
Translated into French and Kreol Morisien by Vatsala Radhakeesoon
French Translation:
Sonder
Each person you pass on the street, holds the strange beauty of a strange life
We all breathe the same air, and will die without it.
Avoid narrow-tipped assumptions causing you to fail to invest the time to know peculiar characters, rough hewn and angular, who enjoy the talents of spontaneous, unplanned actions. Some leading a saintly life on reverent missions, others bearing subdued pain kept inside.
Many individuals have skeletons in their closet that dance for them.
Indeed, your own closet also bears your tales.
Sonder (Constatation profonde)
Chaque personne que vous croisez dans la rue, porte une beauté étrange d’une vie étrange.
Nous respirons tous de l’air en homogénéité, et mourrions tous privé de cela.
Evitez des idées restreintes vous sombrant de mieux connaitre les êtres uniques, grotesques et cultivés, qui se réjouissent des qualités naissant de la spontanéité, des actes libres. Certains menant une vie sainte berçant des missions bénies, D’autres refoulant la souffrance au fond de leur cœurs.
Nombreux sont ceux qui ont des séquelles dans leur placard murmurant qu’à leurs oreilles.
Bien sûr, votre armoire y cache vos histoires aussi.
Bird Landscape
We enter walls fortified by disillusionment that belongs to us all. A distressed area, where portable gravestones lie prone, and the silence indicates signs of fatigue from trying to conceal the purpose of this place, a retreat into wretchedness while listening to artless stories from the gravedigger.
But, place bird roosts atop these same walls, and watch the spirits being placated, observe the enriching effect as time goes on, as an amazing array of coloring bursts forth, birthing new keen awareness of these surroundings, as if seeing this environment for the first time, projecting a new view of white marble.
View this space as it becomes a living landscape, a remarkable place, where birds, hopes, dreams, and prayers can fly.
Scène d’oiseau
On pénètre les murs ancrés d’illusion qui nous appartiennent. Un quartier déprimant, où les pierres tombales portables demeurent susceptible, et le silence démontre les signes d’épuisements en essayant de masquer le but de ce lieu, Un refuge en désespoir en écoutant des histoires simples racontées par le fossoyeur.
Mais l’oiseau du voisinage se perche sur ces murs, et regarde les âmes apaisées, observe l’effet enrichissant (profond) au rythme du temps qui s’écoule, comme un mélange de couleurs s’émergeant , créant l’enthousiasme d’explorer ces environs, tout comme découvrant ce milieu pour la première fois, projetant une nouvelle scène du marbre blanc.
En accueillant cette espace comme un paysage vivant, un lieu captivant, où les oiseaux , les espoirs , les rêves ,et les prières peuvent s’envoler.
For Teri With Regard To Bill
She always speaks to him. Tell me how you’re doing she says.
It’s claimed there is no return journey. It’s stated that time only flows in one direction.
Then why does she hear something other than surf when she listens to seashells?
Pour Teri au sujet de Bill
Elle lui parle constamment. « Dis-moi comment vas-tu » demande-t-elle.
C’est déduit qu’il n’y a pas de retour. C’est spécifié que le temps s’écoule dans un sens.
Mais, pourquoi entend-elle d’autres bruits que celles des vagues en écoutant aux coquillages ?
Kreol Translation:
My Crowded Bed
Every night I fall asleep with them: The living, the dead, all old friends, family.
They come when my dreams call them, or they show up uninvited on the front porch of my mind, where they knock or ring until I answer.
Some have been there for so long. These feel so comfortable just making themselves at home, settling in.
I can spread my limbs out as much as I want, but the bed is still so crowded. I’m surprised the mattress has not grown saggy.
Yet, for all my complaining, I hope they keep up the knocking, and the ringing because they are the ones I love, and they help me endure the dark.
Mo lili ankonbran
Touleswar mo andormi antoure ar zot: Bann vivan, bann mor, tou bann vie kamarad, bann fami.
Zot vini kan mo rev apel zot, ou zot aparet kan zot anvi lor lantre mo lespri, e zot tape ou sone ziska ki mo reponn.
Ena ti la depi lontan. Sa rekonfort zot kan zot santi zot ansam kouma dan zot lakaz.
Mo kapav repoze komie mo anvi, me lili la touzour ankonbran. Mo etone ki matla finn vinn las.
Mem si mo fer repros, Mo swete ki zot kontinie tap laport, e sone parski se sa bann dimounn la ki mo kontan, e zot ed mwa fer fas lanwit nwar.
,
A New Day
Upon the broken shapes of dying sunbeams, there is reflected the promise of a new day.
I am discovering the stability of petals. Where there was once heatstroke and thorns, there’s now sunshine and roses, growing from the promise of a new day.
It can be hard to realize one’s true orbit, to stand next to silver banners that only occasionally fly, but I’ll throw myself into maximum effort toward the promise of a new day.
Enn nouvo zour
Lor bann form kase reyon soley febli, ena reflexion lespwar enn nouvo zour.
Mo pe dekouver stabilite petal. Kot ti ena sesres e pikan, aster ena soley e roz, ki pe grandi avek lespwar enn nouvo zour.
Li kapav difisil rekonet nou vre plas, debout akote bann banners arzante ki zot fer anvole parfwa, me mo fer mo zefor maximum pou akeyir lespwar enn nouvo zour.
I’m a writer/poet and an artist and I’ve been into poetry -writing for more than 30 years with 18 books published.
I have launched Women Poets read in August 2024 . The aim of this online reading event is mainly to encourage women poets to voice out through their poetry.
I will be conducting the first session of Women Poets read for 2025 in March.
Details of the poetry reading session are as follows:
Title : Women Poets read
Date : 8 March 2025
Time : 19h00 (7PM) Mauritian time 10 AM EST
Venue: On Zoom (online)
Fee: Free/ No fee
Theme: Feminine Strength
Poetry style : Any , provided decent language is used
Number of poems to be read : 2
After the event the poems read by each poet will be published in written or video formats.
Links to join the event will be e-mailed to each poet upon acceptance of invitation.
For further details please e-mail me to: vatsfrankness@gmail.com
Vatsala Radhakeesoon Poetry, Prose, Translated Works 