the canto of begging
1.when the morning sets in
with the sun rising in the east
i put on the dress of a beggar
extended up to the horizon
and the canto of my begging starts
i beg
beside the big-bazar
beside the fly-over
beside the college-campus
beside the cow-market
you then put your elbow
on the body of the day
giving a perfect and unbiased pose
to attached to the album of life
people of the working-class
spread hither and thither
to write some more decimal fraction
on the notebook of life
2.
in the dusts and soil of rural-bengal
in the testament written by the grass
i am a son of the immortal
my begging-bowl is the most
favourite go-ahead of a alone man
then speaking around are
the chop singara aluposta
and the love-story of a hyacinth
blooming in the pond
blind by mud
also in the overflowed dustbin of the city
waiting rightly with an erected head
the excitement of your absence
3.
coming to this canto of begging
do you know
i enjoy both
your intensity and your sharpness
your secret current flows me to the pore of the skin
of the body of the puller of a hand-barrow
your cold attracts me
towards the syllabus of waning moonlight
i do realise now that the stale afternoons
saved in my pocket
stitched so many new muscles
with my vocal chord
and i'm howling in joy...
4.
what's an enjoyment... hahaha...day after day
spending too much chaos
and living to so little extent
tell me is it the least
within the left-over on the leaf-plates
after eating by the baboos
i can discover more and more
love
the mango tree the grass-hopper my begging-bowl
and from the tune of the laxmi-panchali
coming from the middle-class houses
listen, how flourishing is my mother-tongue
5.
all long the day i beg
i beg rice pulses oil salt
royal blood
in exchange i also distribute
peace... peace... and peace...
and the horses of the gypsies making
a dip-swimming in the peace-water
in the canto of my begging
holding a whole body of love
i learn how to be burnt
by the shadow of the trees
i give up all my courage
to book a room in your youth
only for me
6.
going upstairs on the railway foot-bridge
i see the strong light of neon-lamps
the girl from the avtar of the flex
induced trance
the aroma of chhatim-flower in the air
and the song of a blind-beggar
with tambourine
those neon-light flex-women
beggar's-song and flower odour
i see they are all alive
in the canto of my begging
under the evening-star
7.
in the canto of my begging
at the day's end
the moon that rises behind the rain-tree
i put up in her hands
the lemon-leaves the water-balloons the goal-kicks
that i have had throughout the day
by begging
and i beg from her the magic-wand
by the touch of which the date-palm
that was someday burnt by a thunder-bolt
in front of the church
looks very infatuating
and my dress as a beggar gradually
becomes a royal-dress
Poetry by murari sinha
Read 396 times
Written on 2010-04-15 at 02:15
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