Interview
You ask me
Are you always inside poems
and why write so many of them?
You misunderstood me
I’ve no idea what poetry is.
I’m no different from what you’re
Sleeps on time, gets up. Dream.
Calls hunger hunger and grief grief.
Speak to people,
Slip into silence at times, engage in self-talk.
Steps out of home, return worrying ‘Am I late’…
In between haggle with others over price or contest a memory.
Perpetually doubt whether the doors have been closed.
Anxiously check the trap for an ensnared rat again and again.
You tell me, where’s the poetry in all these?
You ask me:
Are you always inside poems
Don’t you have anything else to do?
Look, it’s not me you should be asking this
I’ve no idea what poetry is.
Ask the dog always barking in its cage in my neighbour’s home.
That dog for a while would look at me intently
whenever it takes a break from barks.
Ask the plants and trees that surrounds my home
Ask the narrow concrete bridge on the path that leads to my home.
Ask the vessels, spoons, knives and the mixie inside my home.
Ask the black paint on window bars and faded flowers on the bedspread.
Ask the clock, the calendar and the picture of the river hanging on the wall,
ask the geckos hiding behind them.
You tell me, where’s poetry in all these?
For the last time you ask me:
Which is your favourite poem
And why you love it.
It isn’t one thing alone
For I’ve no idea what poetry is.
My slippers which are dear to me, sand that sticks to it
The dragonfly that lands on my clothes swaying on the washing line
The loosened screw on the wooden chair I sit
The cobweb stuck to the fan that turns constantly
The matchbox with camel label on the shelf next to the hearthstone
The slender crack on the wall that catches your eye as window opens
The bathroom tap that drips however tight it gets shut
The same sound the door emits when opened or closed
The sunlight that spreads when someone looks perplexed having walked into the wrong house.
No one else but you can find the answer to the question why.
Translated from the Malayalam by Binu Karunakaran
Copy
What you see now
is not the original.
It is a print out.
The original poem was
written in blue ink
on a white A 4 size sheet.
The letters were not
shaped like these.
The scent of the paper
was not the same.
Between some lines were
the tell-tale marks of
thoughtful pauses
and corrections made
by striking off words.
Then, always,
a breeze had wafted by.
The crescent moon diacritics
were placed higher.
The question marks were bent over
more than necessary.
The places where the pen had paused
were clearly visible
like cosmetic dots.
There was a chair close by
on rickety legs.
Since it was written in the night
one could observe the darkness
and the flashes of lightning
at some spots.
There still lingered the desire that
the night should never end.
Below the word Death
some space was left vacant.
A tree someone planted
stood all grown up there
in the lushness of green.
What you read now
is not the original.
It is a print out.
In the original there was
no patter of the printer.
There were only the cries
of some night birds.
Translated from the Malayalam by Ra Sh
F. I. R
.
He’s dead,
yeah, he got
stabbed to death.
I know neither
the killed guy,
nor the jack
who stabbed him.
The blood of the
killed man streamed
past the front-porch
of my house.
The knife that the
murderer hurled away
fell bang on the backyard
of my house.
There are now
two women sobbing
in the same pitch,
inside my house.
I donot know
these women either.
My house sits
right next to
yours, though
you won’t be
aware of it.
Snuggling between
our homes,
there’s that
level clearing,
with loose gravel sandsthat
ground,
the one,
where the children play.
It used to be
a hillside,
many moons ago.
Translated from the Malayalam by Sarita Mohanan Bhama
The House
We were fast asleep
Might be then
the house started off.
We woke up
homeless
Windows, doors –
all promptly
shut
at bed time.
The dog
uncaged.
Only the lamp
in the prayer room
set burning.
No suspecious sounds
broke
anybody’s sleep
None had nightmares.
The house though old
was neat and clean.
Trivial property feuds,
some worried, grown a bit old…
Besides this, the house and we
were in harmony.
Gone for a morning walk?
Flew west
with the birds?
Fallen prey
to predators?
Or gone in search
of its house?
How to make tea
without a house?
How to sun-dry chilly
in the yard?
How to quarrel one another
without a house?
To the homeless us
as if to strangers
the neighbour calls out:
“Who are you?
Where from?
Wasn’t a house here?
Here!
You’re mistaken”
The unpenned dog
was barking non-stop
at us.
Translated from the Malayalam by K C Muraleedharan
My voice
I always keep talking
In my own voice
Not sure if you follow
Anything I am trying to say
My voice is always the same
Much like a cricket or house gecko
Chirping away secretly in a corner
I am fascinated by the mooing cow grazing in the yard .
I talk to her too,
To the birds , to the dogs
To the fishes and to the people
I talk to all of them in my voice
And my voice is always the same
Troubled with my own voice
I wish to speak differently
To the birds in like a bird
To the fishes like a fish
To the beggar on the streets like a beggar
To the soldier like a soldier…
Then i choke
I choke on the water
I choke on sands and rocks
I choke on trees and mountains
I choke on sun and stars
And hell and heaven in my throat
All other voices are muffled now
I don’t know if you can fathom
What i am trying to say here
It is always like this
I keep talking in my own voice
Like sandals to the sand secretly
To draw a clear picture
It’s like your lone reading !
Translated from the Malayalam by Reena Babu
For the first time
At fifty five years
For the first time
I dive deep into love.
I Write the word dive
Without understanding the meaning
for the first time
Everything was like this
For the first time.
I hide and peep at myself
I see myself
I search for a word to talk to myself
I touch myself
I think, how do the winds blow
I kiss myself
For the first time.
Now I have a house
I mop it clean
There is a tree near the window
I draw it
I watch the birds nest
I brood for them
For the first time.
My mother calls me by name
At fifty five years
I get a name
For the first time.
Translated from the Malayalam by Jaya Anita Abraham
Beneath the Dark of the Tree
Dearest,
what was it you whispered
beneath your breath
I forget to remember–
it echoes
again and again
in voices o’men
in commercialsdressing
dresses
adorning adornments
slipping into slippers.
inscribing itself
into war memorials
Though I forget to remember–
Every night
escaping velocities,
as the ears of stars
sharpen their pull
Arrestingtrees
branches
leaves
forgetting to
flourish or fade
Dearest,
what was it,
you whispered
beneath your breath?
the same grass
digs for
erased footprints
from hollow depths
the door
weeps,
closing in on itself
it falls,
falling with
every falling rain.
Translated from the Malayalam by Rukhaya M K
About the Author
Nazeer Kadikkad, after a long stay abroad, now lives in Kerala. He has to his credit 3 anthologies of poetry: Kaa Kaa (2002-Current books), Froyidum Njaanum (2022-Logos books) and Aadhyathe kavitha (2024-Notion press. His poems have been translated into other South Indian languages.
