Wage-Earning Fingers - poem

 Wage-Earning Fingers - poem 

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'Thanks to ChatGPT for assisting in the English translation of my original Tamil creations.”)

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Wage-Earning Fingers - poem 

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Some fingers

like matchsticks,

some fingers

like roasted peanuts,

some fingers

like milk packets,

some fingers

like cups of coffee and tea,

some fingers

like shop-wrapped parcels,

some fingers

like muddy fields,

some fingers

like the folds of a sari,

some fingers

like sheets of paper and newspapers,

some fingers

like begging bowls—

wage-earning fingers,

children’s fingers.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English  

Separate seasons - poem

 Separate seasons - poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

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Separate seasons - poem 

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What I studied—

was the first season;

what my children studied—

the season that followed.

The work I did—

was the first season;

the work my children did—

the season that followed.

When I made a family—

that was the first season;

when my children made their families—

the season that followed.

When I began to grow weary—

that was the first season;

when my children began to grow weary—

the season that followed.

Two railway tracks

never meet.

Better, then,

to yield a little,

and to cherish each other.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English 

Hunger and Taste - poem

 

Hunger and Taste - poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

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Hunger and Taste

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Some live for taste,

Many live with hunger.

The aroma of sambar and rasam,

The fragrance rising from rice,

The sour-sweet scent

Of yesterday’s rice,

The tang of pickled roots and tubers,

The crispness of fried and roasted dishes—

At the sight of pickle,

The mouth begins to water.

They sip the juices of fruits

And revel in their sweetness;

They drink water

And quench their thirst.

On a silver plate,

A feast of six flavours.

Yet, in the hollow of another’s palm,

A single handful of rice.

A few have food to eat;

Many must toil

To put food on their tables.

— Nagendra Bharathi

  

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English 

Your Worth - poem

 Your Worth - poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

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Your Worth

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To measure

your worth,

ask a relative

or a friend

for a loan.

“This month,

there are medical expenses…”

“An unexpected

festival expense…”

“The college fee

deadline is near…”

“I just gave some money

to someone else.”

“You should have come

last month.”

“I’ll try

next month.”

In the excuses

they offer

for refusing the loan,

you will come to understand

the true measure

of your worth.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English 

The Sound of a Home

 The Sound of a Home - poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

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The Sound of a Home

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Every home

has a sound of its own.

When the bed is rolled away,

when the vessels are washed,

when the clothes are scrubbed,

when the bath is done,

when chutney is ground,

when idlis are steaming,

when the car pulls away,

when the door is gently shut,

when the television cries aloud,

when a child breaks into tears,

when prayers are whispered,

when an elder sings,

when laughter fills the night,

when words of affection are shared—

it has rehearsed

the sounds it has gathered within.

Every home

has a sound of its own.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English   

A journey of Joy - poem

 A journey of Joy - poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

appreciatory comment by ChatGPT while translating my poem

The final line has a beautiful ambiguity in Tamil: “எண்ணங்களே இல்லாமல்” can suggest not merely “without thoughts,” but a state beyond all thought. I have kept that quiet, understated quality rather than explaining it in the translation.

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A journey of Joy 

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Every journey

has a purpose.

On the journey to work,

a schedule of tasks.

On a journey to the temple,

a list of prayers.

On a festival journey,

a glimpse of the temple chariot.

On a journey for pleasure,

the sights around us.

On a journey on the swing,

a dizzying delight.

On a journey by bullock cart,

the brush of hay.

On a journey by train,

a seat by the window.

On a journey by air,

the spectacle of white clouds.

But on the final journey,

there are no thoughts at all.

-----Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English 

Village Shards - poem

 Village Shards - poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

(appreciatory comment by ChatGPT while translating my poem

This poem has a lovely quality—the ordinary objects and experiences of village childhood gradually become precious memories, culminating beautifully in the image of “pearls sleeping within.” It was a pleasure to translate.)

Village Shards - poem 

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When the village tank ran dry,

the coloured fish we caught,

their skins flashing gold

as they gasped and fluttered;

the tiny strips of green tattooed cloth

that hung from our shoulders;

the cooing of pigeons

that made their homes

in the temple tower;

the patterns of kolam

that blocked the pathway,

mingling with the earthy smell

of cow-dung-washed thresholds;

the little hollows in the earth

we dug during the monsoon

for playing marbles;

the devotional songs

we sang when school began;

those seasons of play

when neither sun nor rain

could hold us back;

the journeys by bus and train,

eyes wandering everywhere,

drinking in the passing world—

all these,

like little village shards,

lie sleeping within me,

pearls waiting to be found.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English 

INNER HEAT - poem

 INNER HEAT - poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

INNER HEAT - poem 

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Hotter than the heat outside,

the heat within

is far more dangerous.

In the heat of caste,

there is the danger

of elections.

In the heat of religion,

there is the danger

of riots.

In the heat of desire,

there is the danger

to chastity.

In the heat of anger,

there is the danger

of words.

In the heat of youth,

there is the danger

of ridicule.

In the heat of old age,

there is the danger

of irritation.

Those who drive away

the outer heat

with artificial coolness—

if only they could drive away

the inner heat

with the natural warmth

of human values,

summer would change

into a season of grace;

the scorching earth

would become

Courtallam Waterfalls.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English 

What Did We Ever Talk About? -poem

 

What Did We Ever Talk About? -poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

What Did We Ever Talk About?

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Inside the hostel room,

we chatted away

till eight at night.

Sitting there,

we talked till midnight.

Then, lying down,

we talked on till twelve.

During our morning bath,

we talked by the village tank.

With idlis in our mouths,

we talked in the mess.

Notebook in hand,

we talked all the way through college.

At the noon break,

we talked beneath the trees.

And as evening fell,

we talked by the roadside.

What all we talked about!

What strange and wonderful things!

How much we talked—

and yet,

what on earth

did we talk about?

— Nagendra Bharathi

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My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English  

I Feel Sorry for Him - poem

 I Feel Sorry for Him -poem 

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(thanks to ChatGPT for helping me to translate my original Tamil Poem into English  )

I Feel Sorry for Him -poem 

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When I look at him,

I feel sorry for him—

not affection.

He could have come along

when I went to school.

He could have come along

when I went to the cinema.

He could have come along

when I went out to play.

He could have consoled me

when I failed my exams.

He could have comforted me

when I lay sick with fever.

He could have consoled me

when I was heartbroken in love.

Instead, he wandered

from office to office,

and all he brought home

was money—

cash to keep the household going.

Now, at sixty,

he lies at home,

with nowhere to go.

And when I look at him,

I feel sorry for him.

Not affection.

— Nagendra Bharathi

My Poems/Stories/Articles in Tamil and English