Phonemes and Poems… Virinchi Sharma, Telugu, Indian
What if a lone faceless idea
Gets lost like a homeless child
In the spectacle of words?
Enough if one has an enduring faith
That it would come back as a poem
Should it survive somewhere, somehow.
If it were a dream
To be able to pen a good poem,
Well, at dawn, I would close my eyes
And pretend asleep
To dream it over and again.
Just because you sow the seeds of words
In a very expansive field of memory
You can’t expect to beget a harvest
Of poems, like tender and ripe fruits.
This long poem
I write at this odd hour
Chasing myself through
The narrow confines of this paper
Stands but like a running commentary
To the wonderful discourse Life delivers.
No matter how fast I write
Nor how crooked my hand is…
Once the word spills onto the paper
It exists there forever as it is.
Perhaps, it’s the reason why
Whenever I peep into my poems
Written in my adolescent days
I could feel the whiskers on those words.
Words are just like people!
They just can’t keep quiet
Whenever they assemble at one place.
A poem is but me
Playing hiding seek
With the hiding self within.
.
Virinchi
Dear Doctor
Here is the translation of your lovely poem.
Please check if it reflects what you exactly mean.
Phonemes and The poems
.
What if a lone faceless idea
Gets lost like a homeless child
In the spectacle of words?
Enough if one has an enduring faith
That it would come back as a poem
Should it survive somewhere, somehow.
If it were a dream
To be able to pen a good poem,
Well, at dawn, I close my eyes
And pretend asleep
To dream it over and again.
Just because you sow the seeds of words
In a very expansive field of memory
You can’t expect to beget a harvest
Of poems, like tender and ripe fruits.
This long poem
I write at this odd hour
Chasing myself through
The narrow confines of this paper
Stands but like a running commentary
To the wonderful discourse Life delivers.
No matter how fast I write
Nor how crooked my hand is…
Once the word spills onto the paper
It exists there forever as it is.
Perhaps, it’s the reason why
Whenever I peep into my poems
Written in my adolescent days
I could feel the whiskers on those words.
Words are just like people!
They just can’t keep quiet
Whenever they assemble at one place.
A poem is but me
Playing hiding seek
With the hiding self within.
.
Virinchi
regards
Here is the translation of your lovely poem.
Please check if it reflects what you exactly mean.
Phonemes and The poems
.
What if a lone faceless idea
Gets lost like a homeless child
In the spectacle of words?
Enough if one has an enduring faith
That it would come back as a poem
Should it survive somewhere, somehow.
If it were a dream
To be able to pen a good poem,
Well, at dawn, I close my eyes
And pretend asleep
To dream it over and again.
Just because you sow the seeds of words
In a very expansive field of memory
You can’t expect to beget a harvest
Of poems, like tender and ripe fruits.
This long poem
I write at this odd hour
Chasing myself through
The narrow confines of this paper
Stands but like a running commentary
To the wonderful discourse Life delivers.
No matter how fast I write
Nor how crooked my hand is…
Once the word spills onto the paper
It exists there forever as it is.
Perhaps, it’s the reason why
Whenever I peep into my poems
Written in my adolescent days
I could feel the whiskers on those words.
Words are just like people!
They just can’t keep quiet
Whenever they assemble at one place.
A poem is but me
Playing hiding seek
With the hiding self within.
.
Virinchi
regards
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