POEMS BY GURCHARAN RAMPURI
Translated by Sant Singh Sekhon and Balwant Gargi

BLIND ALLEY
A pitcher of wine went into my
stomach
And I gazed and wondered
At the profit and loss account.

After I had put a few learned
words into my head
I trudged the paths of struggle
My face red, my eyes burning
throat choked with slogans
Defiant and proud of my scars
Wearing them like badges.

Suddenly life took a turn
I left the slogans
And worked in a store
selling onions and potatoes.
Glib and humble
But did not leave my pen.

Wife tempted me
And took the place of my mother
A woman’s bed squeals of children
Dark nipples
Shared by me and my sons
And seduction licked my groins.

The yellow devil and lights blinked
I jumped across the oceans
And walked amidst babbling crowds
Crazy streets thick with hamburger fumes
Basements reeking with garlic and powder
My pockets swelled
I laughed and rode the yellow devil.

But in my dreams
The murdered slogans cried.

THE TRAPPED GLOW WORMS

The evening was drenched in the orange darkness
A silken noise
And a forest of laughter.
In the tassled border of swings
The naked mind trembled
It, dipped in wine,
Turned gold.

A kiss
And the body emitted fire
As a shower of monsoon
Fills the earth with desire.

The drunken songs became
A cluster of flames.
In the field of chaos they were
A swarm of trapped glow worms.

The rose bed burst with new thorns:
I missed my country
I was stung by jealousy.
In the warmth of friendship
The evening melted In the dust of life
It left its footprints.

[Tr by Balwant Gargi]

THE PHOENIX

I drift in the of doubt
Floating, sinking and rising again
Diving to find out pearls
Swimming to arrive at some destination
Rising to balance the self
To get out of it and speak.

Truth and doubt are twin brothers
Age old is their kinship
Age old their enmity.

Yesterday’s truth does not weigh enough
Sometimes on the side of this truth.
I stealthily put a make-weight
But the make-weight frowns at me
looking at the scales in my hand
I feel ashamed of my doing.
I wish somebody blindfolded me
I waver, an Abraham
Required to put a dagger into his own breast.

Confidential friends scold me -
Why I am not spell-bound?
The mind questions the self
Why does it lose the solace of magic?
Why does it carry huge rocks?
Why does it sift the sands of the Sahara?
Why does it burn in flames?

Yesterday’s truth does not weigh equal
From where to bring the truth of today?
Instead it is the day before that presents itself.
Why should I wear old clothes?

The phoenix is gathering fagots again
To build its own pyre
For the pleasure of a new birth
Why does it snap the thread of breath?

THE WHIP

I, alien, live for years
Under the sky
As if I was in my own motherland.
The same bread, the same language
The same people and the same quarrels and disputes
The same attachments, friendships and longings.
Every thing seemed of my own.

Suddenly, a moment came when a paragon of bigotry
lashed a sharp whip of hatred and
I woke up.

I was going about as if in sleep
Away from reality.
And now I am among the multitude
That fights against hatred.

[Tr by Sant Singh Sekhon]

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Gurcharan Rampuri (b 1929) is the product of the so-called peace movement ofearly 50s. Trained as a draftsman he migrated to Vancouver in 1964 and has lived there since. He is the author of six collections of poems and the book of his collected poetry is to published soon in Amritsar.