Jacinta’s poems

1. Why are trees chopped down?

They wish to bring trees into the mainstream.

But having been ripped out of their soil,

Do trees ever in the mainstream join?

And that is why they are chopped down.

2. Roads speak the truth

Oh, can’t you see,

To make way for wide roads

sacrificing themselves are thousands of trees?

Do you still need

A definition of progress?

New roads reveal

That in the name of development only

Can be uprooted both:

Men and trees.

3. The blossoms of Sârandâ

Deep in blissful slumber

The flower’s perfume

Startles and awakens,

When the stench of machines

Invades the senses

And ears scream in splitting pain

From the noise of explosions.

Eyes still heavy with sleep,

Rubbing its sore cheek,

It feels a throbbing

As if burning

From a smack in the weary face

And a deep hollow

Engraved on its very being.

Yet, gathering all strength, it begins

To pick out the withered remains

Of its roots

Blown up into fragments

By exploding dynamites.

The corpse of rain

Hung by the neck

Dangles on a tree.

Right above the forest

In the oval sky,

Vultures gather on a feasting spree,

And streams of bloody tears

Run down the cheeks of rivers.

The spade, the pickaxe, and a few hands

Shed silent tears in a corner.

And begin digging the grave

Of their own rage

At the behest

Of some scribbled page.

Just then the perfume

On the sly

Strikes at the stench

Of the machine and dynamite,

And steals away in silence

Into every blossom of the forest.

Aflame with passion and new hope,

The next dawn brings forth

Another sweet blossom

Somewhere in the bosom of Sârandâ.

4. O, city!

Leaving behind their homes,

Their soil, their bales of straw,

Fleeing the roof over their heads, they often ask,

O, city!

Are you ever wrenched by the very roots

In the name of so-called progress?

5. The river, the mountain, and the bazaar

It was a Sunday, and I

Holding little Posterity by the hand

Set out for the village bazaar.

Coming upon a narrow path

Amidst dry and withered trees,

I said to little Posterity,

Look, ‘t is where the village river used to be.

A deep furrow in the ground ahead,

Swallowed all the mountains, I said.

Suddenly, struck by fear she held me tight,

A graveyard, vast and sinister, lay in sight.

I said to her, do you see?

‘t is where the barns of your ancestors used to be.

Little Posterity ran on – We’re here at the bazaar!

What would you like to buy, the shopkeeper asked.

Brother, a little rain, a handful wet earth,

A bottle of river, and that mountain preserved

There, hanging on that wall, a piece of nature as well.

And why is the rain so dear, pray tell?

The shopkeeper said – This wetness is not of here!

It comes from another sphere.

Times are slack, have ordered just a sack.

Fumbling for money in the corner of my sari,

I untied the knot only to see

In place of a few folded rupees

The crumpled folds of my entire being.

6. Bloodstained rivers

Hands stained with the blood

Of a thousand slaughtered trees

Quietly wash themselves clean

In the rivers of Sârandâ.

And the waters drenched in blood bewail,

Weeping on the shoulders of riverbanks,

And the entire forest sees red.

Boughs of the sakhuâ tree nail posters of memories

That once were, but have now gone missing.

A voice quivers

In the witness box of time,

And evidences on the brink of death

Await in vain until their last breath

The footsteps of justice forthcoming.

The light of trust in eyes grows dim,

Hope fades, heart sinks, in the evening’s shroud,

When the seal on fates bargained on dry papers

Roars with laughter out loud.

Eyes seeking the truth cower,

Starving voices, raised in protest,

Nibble at morsels of hope and solace,

While endless streams of desperate tears

Weep the bloodstained rivers.

7. Why is the mahua not plucked from the tree?

Mother, why do you wait all night

For the mahua to fall?

Why not pluck from the tree

At once the mahua all?

Mother replies,

They grow in the tree’s womb all night

And when the time is ripe

Fall to the ground on their own

As the dewdrops soak them in the morn

We pick them and bring them home

When all night long the tree

Is writhing with pangs of birth

How could we shake a branch, tell me?

How could we pluck the mahua, say,

From a tree forcibly?

We wait for the mahua to fall,

For we love them, is all.

8. Care

Mother,

Why do you scour the jungle,

Climb over hills all day,

And come home late

With a load of wood – just one bundle?

In reply Mother says,

I scour the woods,

Climb over hills,

Wander the whole day

For dry firewood – just one bundle –

As I’m wary of cutting a living tree,

Out of care for my jungle.

9. Land of the roots

The sight of trees they cannot stand

For the roots of trees-they claim land.

10. The wait

They are waiting for us to become civilised,

While we are waiting for them to turn human.

Jacinta Kerketta

* Original translations by Bhumika Chawla D’souza. Illustrations by Ita Mehrotra.

**These poems are from the following published collections of Jacinta’s poetry: 1, 2, 7, 10: from Ishvar aur Bazaar. Rajkamal Prakashan, New Delhi. 3, 4, 5, 6: from ANGOR. Aadivani, Kolkata. 8, 9: from Land of the Roots. Bhartiya Jnanpith, New Delhi.