Sudhakar Gaidhani (India)

 
Sudhakar Gaidhani (India)
 
Sudhakar Gaidhani is M.A.,M.F.A.from Nagpur University-Maharashtra.His mother tongue is Marathi. He knows three languages, Marathi, Hindi and English.His poems have been translated into English, Romanian, Italian, Chinese, Spanish, Macedonian, Arabic, Swedish, Crotian, German, Russian, Greek, Albanian, Turkish,Tajik, Vietnamese,Tamil, Hindi, Bengali and Gujrati. He has received many State, National and International awards including William Blake International Award from Contact International Journal from Romania and “Silver Cross for Culture” World Medal from World Union of Poets- Italy.
Contact International journal has dedicated its Oct.Dec.2021 issue to Gaidhani’s poetry with the honour as–;
The Celestiall Year 2021 Contact International is named after our Laureate, The Great Indian Epic Poet-
Sudhakar Gaidhani
 
Municipality Khapa City is opened the beautiful garden in two acres Gaidhani’s birthplace in his name and the honour–“Mahakavi (Epic Poet) Sudhakar Gaidhani” in 2006.
World Academy of Arts and Culture- USA/World Congress of Poets has been conferred upon him “Doctor of Literature (Litt.D.) held in 2017 in Mongolia
 
 
Devdoot : The Angel
 
O seafaring birds hunting for pearl-feed!
 
Fill up your beaks
with the eternal youth of my wings
because I’ll soon be flown off
by messenger-fakirs that weep while they laugh.
 
On this isle just a few buds remain
of intoxicating flowers;
so before I too shed my petals
search out and keep my eyes –
because I’ll soon be flown off
by messenger-fakirs that weep while they laugh.
 
One hasn’t yet found the caravans
of Sindbads with golden dreams
that were on this same way misled;
nor has one yet wiped
the stains,
on the stones,
of the jewels that the stars here shed.
 
The ruined pavilions
within a score of miles,
in this phantom’s domain,
were undone by their love of tombs,
their passions yet unquenched.
 
It’s a valley of tyrants where
all hell has broken loose and where
a war is on-a veritable wildfire –
while the waves that girdle me in chains
fornicate freely with the shore.
 
Fledglings!
Since He does not find on my riot-torn face
the glow befitting a prisoner
God himself is pained.
 
I too can hide this earth
under my wings outspread;
I too can soar can flap my wings
Like you and you; every branch here bears
The marks of my claws
 
It was I that gifted
This graveyard to those fakirs
 
To this day I cherish in my wings
the eyes of Christ
and the Buddha’s smile
That’s why this sea has made a captive of me.
 
Birds,
out at sea the boats of my agonies
are singing their sea-songs;
go and receive them please,
because even they will be flown off
by messenger-fakirs that weep while they laugh.
 
Friends,
the tribes of hangmen-weavers
that pleat the ropes for their job
have earned a bad name here;
their only crime is this;
they are slaves to hunger.
 
There is so much fire still
in the kiln of their eyes
that no sooner do the rulers become oppressive
than will they reduce to ash
every dictatorial structure.
 
Hey, is it that you, too,
consider me a madman?
 
So, count your feathers in the dark,
quietly sharpen your beaks
by rubbing them on each other’s
and let the night pass
And pester daylight
so much with your beaks
that night should come back fast.
 
 
It is only now that the sky
is feeling chocked with compassion
and is sending down rains –
at first drop by drop
and then in torrents
 
The benevolent cataclysmic forces
of the universe, have burst out
shaking up all that is quick or dead.
The sun, spangled with stars
is shivering, seeking alms,
with his begging-bowl of horizon
at the gentle evening’s gate.
 
And says in a piteous voice:
“Mother, O mother,
God will bless you –
let me spend here this night.
I’ll be on my way
by break of daylight.”
 
Beware all
A mighty rain is about to fall.
The river will be in full flood again
and my deep, lake-deep eyes
 
that quest for the shore
will be carried by the current
with my oyster-trapped soul.
Before this calm in me that
anticipates an earthquake
breaks loose, come, death,
and set me free.
 
The cry of the virgin night
scorched in a forest-fire
in now more than I can bear
The jungle of sufferings on my body
is ablaze, every cell in me
is cracking, bursting,
so remove at once these houses on the shore –
the world is in flames,
the world is in flames.
 
Hurry up, wash these wounds
on the earth’s heart,
lest it split into two –
because this planet is all
that we mortals have got
 
Translated from Marathi by Om Biyani
 
Translation of Canto – I of Mahavaakya (The Great Utterance), original Marathi Epic Poem in five cantos (555 pages)

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