वेळ मिळालाच आहे अनायसे, तर संपवूया
कितीतरी वाचायची राहिलेली पुस्तकं,
अर्धवट लिहिलेल्या कविता, काही लेख.
असंच खूप काही, मनापासून ठरवलं.
धावपळीत रोजच्या, बरंच राहून गेलं.
डायरीच्या पानांनी मग हक्काने खडसावलं,
क्या उखाड़ लिया?
अपूरी स्वप्नं दूरुनच खुणावत राहिली
दिवस उलटले, कॅलेंडरची पानं बदलली
वसंत सरला, ग्रीष्मधग माथ्यावर आली
झाडांची पानं गळून गेली,
धुंदावणारी स्वप्नगंधा कोमेजून गेली.
निष्पर्ण पळस, रक्तवर्णी जिव्हांनी फुत्कारला,
क्या उखाड़ लिया?
ज्यांच्या अंगा-खांद्यांवर खेळलो,
त्यांनाच खांदा देऊन आलो.
सरणावर थोडा, मीही जळून गेलो.
पोरकेपण नि पोक्तपण सोबत राहिले.
नकळत अशीच कित्येक वर्षं सरली.
थोडीफार उरलेली वर्षं आता खिजवतात,
क्या उखाड़ लिया?
I had not read any of Charles Bukowski’s work until yesterday. Someone posted his quote yesterday on Facebook and I got quite curious about this guy. Asked Google to help me and found a new treasure…some really beautiful poems and some amazing art-work inspired by his writings.
His ‘Bluebird’ poem struck a chord deep down somewhere. I don’t get ruffled easily these days while reading, so it seemed quite weird; but I really had goosebumps when I read it. And there is an interesting story here….. we had this pair of kingfishers living happily in the nearby water-body close to my home. We’d often sight them and they’d occasionally sit on our terrace railing and we loved their graceful presence; especially since it is not so common to see these birds near urban houses here. I quite loved the beautiful blue sky that they carried on their back. Sometime last year, I wrote few lines for these bluebirds… and like most of my other recent attempts at writing, this one also died a premature death. Recently some construction work started in the neighbourhood and I haven’t seen those birds since last few months. And naturally, I forgot all about those birds and that half-done, crude attempts at poetry as well.
Bukowski’s poem brought it all back…the wound opens and blood rushes through! I couldn’t locate the notebook where I wrote those few lines, but they were something like this –
पाठीवर सारे निळे आभाळ घेऊन,
माझ्या खिडकीत बसलेला निळा पक्षी
गाणे स्वच्छंदी आकाशाचे गातो
खुर्चीतुनच पाहणारा मी,
एक मोठा उसासा टाकून
माझा कोड लिहीत बसतो
माझ्या आतले निळे आभाळ,
आणि चिवचिवणारा निळा पक्षी
आतल्या आतच हिरमुसतो
For me that blue bird was freedom, singing his own songs happily….Well, absolutely nothing happened after that! It was too insignificant to remember! But our mind is a scary, infinite abyss…it can throw things back at you when you think that you’ve long forgotten them. Bukowski’s Bluebird did that….it was that strange déjà vu experience. I could resonate with that poem so much….I know exactly what it is to smother that bluebird, I know precisely what it means to hide the bluebird from the grocers & likes! (Yes, I have been a closet poet myself). I know in my heart what it is to let out the bluebird only at night and I know the struggle not to let it die. And then dying bit-by-bit yourself when you know you can’t nourish the bluebird as well as you’d have loved. And I know why ‘End of innocence‘ can bring tears…but like Bukowski, I don’t weep either!
I knew in my heart that I had not read any of his Bukowski’s poems before I conceived my poem and attempted few lines and I know I am definitely not a patch on him. It is indeed a frightening resonance. It’s strange – you could feel that intense, mysterious & exclusive connection between your soul and poet’s spirit somewhere there. And then, it is not Bukowski’s poem anymore – it’s my bluebird!
Charles Bukowski – Bluebird
Few lines from Bukowski’s bluebird –
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?
(1) Not sure if I’d ever finish the poem I had started, but if I do – it would be a huge struggle to keep it away from what I am after experiencing Bukowski’s bluebird.
(2) Why this whole stuff is in English though my piece-of-poem is in Marathi? Well, I can think & type faster in English! 🙂
Ramblings & reflections 