She Set Out One Day
(Translation - Medha Singh) How trees finish shedding, after a time is how a snake shrugs off its scales similarly, the spirit unclothes a previous being easily, this sad soul, she rid herself of the old touch, of the body itself all had renewed, swiftly no guilt no regret none sprang She dried her long hair for a long while in the sun, one day one day, she set out, passing through mustard fields, all the way up till the old lake Upon returning, she sang her favourite song, for hours - she continued on reading Mahadevi, one day; on another, she went to meet her mother and to meet several others she hadn’t the chance to, in a while One night, returning late after an evening show having eaten a meal made of quotidian things she made herself a cup of Darjeeling tea, and till dawn she heard the singing of Kundanlal Sehgal, of Malka Pukhraj A body was content, after such a long time, and with the premonition of total contentment.
Night, Sleep, Dreams, Woman
It's in sleep that sensation hides, that sensation womanhood that the night feels about, cast over the earth this shadow that resides in it is the shadow of that sensation lemon blossoms beneath it, blossom Champa buds are born In sleep somewhere is beauty attached to it: a woman Somewhere, she augments death razes a violent machoness to the ground, knocking over some beastly thing, she's governing all with gathered feeling In the night, woman is sleep and in the day: beauty night awakens in sleep as woman watches on in the night she's swaying atop the deepest intuition, borne of experience, of being in concupiscent dreams.
For The Real / True Poem
(Translation - Medha singh)
She who carries the basket
of her own flesh on her crown
she who only opens toward darkness
singularly, after a good thrashing opens
like a door
The way my nights are stolen
by her, falling as my own image does
all nights meander along their paths
to such limits losing themselves
in poetic alleyways I cannot fathom
or exiting into fields where the breeze just
flows, as if nowhere else,
abandoning all stations of torture and love
quickly, quickly
one has to see
where I still myself, today
where I’m planted like a banderole
History utters: woman never wrote
her own diegesis, suffering
She only lived out that super-sorrow.
Stars changing in slumber
all the endurance of our civilities
Sacrifice congealed as rock
I’ll keep my eye on those who carted
Their burdens as though another’s
beaten, beaten to unveil the secret
of this dark, who bit off from my nights
So poetry made possible how and when
they return to their bodies
for a sincere face-off, how they calm
their spirits, those who have trembled
thus for holy approval
So except the lust for the real and true
poem, there remains nothing
to harry them.
I Am The House Of Stars
Translation : Lucy Rosenstein Who knows how many stars Fall into my eyes; their dazzling light, scorching heat extinguished in my eyes, Stars Come to die, like people, In the vast radiant house I’ve become Each and every night A star descends in me Its bright light dies; Its great heat disappears Each and every night
Desire
Translation : Lucy Rosenstein To call a path mine A forgotten joy-happiness To rest in someone’s sleep, To wake up in the arms of a sweet dream— This is my desire tonight But as it draws to a close Will this path remain kindled? Joy’s hope melted in memory Sleep’s charm spread in each pore Two eyes like a pair of swan Afloat in my dream?
Savita Singh is a political theorist and a feminist poet from Delhi. She writes in Hindi and English and has three collections to her name, Apne Jaisa Jeevan (2001, Rajkamal Prakashan), Neend Thi Aur Raat Thi (2005, Rajkamal Prakashan), Swapna Samay (2013, Rajkamal Prakashan). She has a collection of fifty poems, Nayi Sadi Ke liye Pachas Kavitayen (2012, Vani Prakashan), a collection of assorted poems in French, Je Suis La Maison Des Etoiles (Dastaan, 2008), and a collection of selected poems in Odia translation, Jeur rasta mora nijara (2013, Timepass Publication). She co-edited an anthology in the world women genre, Jeur rasta mora, Leaves, One Autumn (2011, Rajkamal Prakashan). Her poetry has also been translated into German, Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch and Catalonian, among others. She has a collection of poems translated into Odia,
Savita Singh was Academy Award (2017), Raza Foundation Award (2006), Mahadevi Varma Award (2016) and WE–Eunice De Souza Award for poetry (Languages) (2020). Her poetry is widely featured in national and international journals.
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