Poetry at Sangam



UNTITLED by Gulam Mohammed Sheikh

(Translated by the author and Adil Jussawalla.)

I want
to crush
the frozen oil
of a winter moon
and rub it into all my body
by which, perhaps,
its stopped volcanoes
will mushroom again.

I want
to saw
these chopped-of limbs of dust
with a primitive pain,
so that, again,
these shut stones speak.

On the sharp ploughs of desert grass
I would run my body’s fields,
by which, perhaps,
its furrows will sprout with green.

On this light-reverberating
diamond night
I would hammer
with the iron
of Satan’s inventive brain
so that
the gods huddled behind it, have to
waddle out as spiders.

I would etch the line of earth’s
first mantra
on the copper-cold earth
on Time’s wrinkles
buried in the dark of caves
I would brand the ice
of bloodless suns
so that my wild beasts, taunted,
spring to life again.