Sudeep Sen
Nació en 1964 en Nueva Delhi (India). Es graduado en literatura inglesa de la Universidad de Delhi y en periodismo de la Universidad de Columbia de Nueva York. Dentro de sus libros se destacan Las visitaciones lunares, Tiempos de Nueva York, Talla sudafricana, El monte Vesubio en ocho marcos, Las manos torcidas de Dalí, Líneas de deseo, Monzón, e India con Matasellos: Poemas nuevos y selectos, este último premiado con la Beca Hawthornden en el Reino Unido y nominado para un Premio Pushcart en USA. Ha publicado sus poemas en la India, Estados Unidos y en el Reino Unido.
GAZA
Niños empapados en sangre,
sus cabezas reventadas
incluso antes de formarse.
Gasa, gasa, más gasa-
longitudes interminables
que no llegan a absorber
toda la sangre en Gaza.
Fluye un río de sangre,
inundando las arenas del desierto
con el odio encarnado.
Un arroyo sin fin de lava,
un rojo manantial
en una tierra seca,
por lo demás, huérfana,
bombardeada cada cinco minutos
para despojar a Gaza de lo que sea
que queda de la franja de Gaza.
Con mancilladas manos
de niños inocentes,
nos despojamos
de toda dignidad y gracia.
Mirad los cuerpos
de los pequeños asesinados-
sus rostros con cicatrices sonríen,
sus cuencas vacías miran
sin malicia
la futilidad de toda
la sangre derramada.
Y aunque nos neguemos a aprender
de las muertes
en vano de estos niños,
sus padres, su país,
el mundo-llora sangre. Parad
el baño de sangre-atended, curad
© Traducción : Verónica Aranda
GAZA
Soaked in blood, children,
their heads blown out
even before they are formed.
Gauze, gauze, more gauze —
interminable lengths
not long enough to soak
all the blood in Gaza.
A river of blood flowing,
flooding the desert sands
with incarnadine hate.
An endless lava stream,
a wellspring red river
on an otherwise
parched-orphaned land,
bombed every five minutes
to strip Gaza of whatever
is left of the Gaza strip.
With sullied hands
of innocent children,
we strip ourselves
of all dignity and grace.
Look at the bodies
of the little ones killed —
their scarred faces smile,
their vacant eyes stare
with no malice
at the futility of all
the blood that is spilt.
And even as we refuse
to learn from the wasted
deaths of these children,
their parents, country,
world — weep blood. Stop
the blood-bath — heed, heal
Sun-Blanched Blood
(for Kwame)
1
It is mid-afternoon now,
the sun streaks slant wards
through the attic's double-glazing
melting the scorched ink
in my crowded note-book
that lies blanched
on the sparse weathered table.
Hardened sepia-stained lines
that once approximated to
a flock of metaphors,
now rearrange themselves
into a congregation of phrases,
a lineation of new line-breaks:
stops that defy
even the physics of refraction,
thoughts that now re-surface
and resurrect just as
passion and reverence did
within the folds of The Prophet.
2
It is still mid-afternoon,
the blue blaze makes the pages
of my book flip over gently
in the invisible wind of silence.
The heat penetrating the glass
focuses even more fiercely
smoking out redolent similes,
questioning the whole point,
the nib of writing itself.
Underneath the permanent scar
of jet-black fluid and heat
is pulp, half-dead.
Beneath the persistent hoarse-
drone of metal-scratching
is bleached pulp, half-alive,
its cotton laid sheets
carefully encoded with
the magic arc of a gold-tip.
Words appear, and more
words. And under them all,
I discover much later,
a small spring insect
that lay mummified,
quietly crushed below
the weight of words,
its innocence and juice
trapped under oppression
of ambition and intellect,
baptised and bloodied.
3
It is mid-afternoon,
and I too lie, dead-
still, blanched, bloodied.
One Moonlit December Night
One moonlit December night
you came knocking at my door,
I took my time to open.
When I did,
there was just a silk scarf,
frayed, half-stuck in the latch.
Grammar
she has no english;
her lips round / in a moan ….
calligraphy of veins ….
— Merlinda Bobis, ‘first night’
My syntax, tightly-wrought—
I struggle to let go,
to let go of its formality,
of my wishbone
desiring juice — its deep marrow,
muscle, and skin.
The sentence finally pronounced —
I am greedy for long drawn-
out vowels, for consonants that
desire lust, tissue, grey-cells.
I am hungry for love,
for pleasure, for flight,
for a story essaying endlessly—words.
A comma decides to pr[e]oposition
a full-stop … ellipses pause, to reflect—
a phrase decides not to reveal
her thoughts after all—ellipses and
semi-colons are strange bed-fellows.
Calligraphy of veins and words
require ink, the ink of breath,
of blood—corpuscles speeding
faster than the loop of serifs …
the unresolved story of our lives
in a fast train without terminals.
I long only for italicised ellipses …
my english is the other, the other
is really english — she has no english;
her lips round / in a moan ….
her narrative grammar-drenched,
silent, rich, etched letters of glass.
Mediterranean
1
A bright red boat
Yellow capsicums
Blue fishing nets
Ochre fort walls
2
Sahar’s silk blouse
gold and sheer
Her dark black
kohl-lined lashes
3
A street child’s
brown fists
holding the rainbow
in his small grasp
4
My lost memory
white and frozen
now melts colour
ready to refract.
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