TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY THE POET
INTRODUCTION
Me?
Call me Kela
ripe and luscious
light skin
but heart
dark with indignation
against the suffering of the world
Me?
Call me Aam
Sweet and fragrant
soft to the touch
yet solid inside
Happy women are mangoes
Me?
Call me Pyaz
layers of identity
taste, tang
tears
heartburn
I am the seasoning
of a migrant world
MAKING MINESTRONE
No melting pot,
merci
Where aloo becomes French fries
And baingan mutes into eggplant
to be Master chefed with cilantro and jalapeno peppers
No salad bowl
Dankeshon
The one-upmanship of cherry tomatoes
against a backdrop of baby corn
and iceberg lettuce
Each fighting the dressing
and sticking up for its lot
Give me minestrone,
Grazie
Where every ingredient
stays the same
yet shares
Offering love
not body
Like the wise Masters teach
I SPEAK PAV BHAJI
I speak pav bhaji,
grinding mincing blending
the tastes of India
on the streets of Bombay
I speak lasagna
Layering sauces dialects flavours of Italy
in the windy blind alleys
of Trieste
I speak shepherd’s pie
Fluffy English spuds
sandwiching masala mince
Creamy white English
cushioning
chilli red Hindi Marathi Gujarati
I speak the code of cooks
and seers
and musicians and lovers
which only the senses can translate, wordlessly
TRANSLATION
What language do you speak in,
they enquire.
If I talk to men
in English, French,
Marathi, Hindi, Gujarati
and Italian laced with dialect.
If I speak to God,
in the universal tongue of light.
In what language do you dream in,
they ask.
If I dream of a child,
the tired eyes of a working woman
the forlorn smile of a lonely pensioner,
in the universal language of love.
In what language do you think,
they wonder.
If I think of the sea, in seaish
if it’s the sun, in sunnish
wind calls for windish
But when I think of all the wrongdoings of the world
I curse
And translate
RICE MEMORIES
Rice toddy,
pungent
and creamy clear
nurturing oblivion
and harvesting recollection.
a bed of basmati
perfumed and polygamous
embracing a harem of pungent spices
stratifying desire.
Patna rice for pulao,
tinkling bangles
hard floor
soft bottoms
in a circle
cleaning, rinsing, softly crying
laughing and
singing of bridal love.
Kanji,
to make thalis glisten
and grandpa’s kurta shine.
Rice powder,
cheeks transformed
goddess Lakshmi-like.
Overexcitement
gives me a tummy ache;
Mummy intones a lullaby
spooning dahi and warm rice
into my wailing mouth.
The priest bestows fistfuls
over my sister’s bowed head
chanting blessings
to fill
her womb with happiness.
The guests satiated,
a handful is set aside
for every starving mouth that will show up at the door.
The day after
mynahs, peacocks and green parrots
will claim their ration too.
Sharing joy
Sharing memories
Sharing rice
NOSTALGIA
Nostalgia shrouds my senses
My eyes
crave
flamboyant tropical sunsets
My skin
misses the rough caress
of monsoon winds
My tongue
cries out for tamarind and coconut
I want to clad myself
in the silk embrace
of my motherland
My ears
shells expunged from loving seas
weep and retain the sweet melody
of distant youth
But then I see you
You fence me with
protective blue eyes
Whisper incantations against solitude
I taste
your honest lips
I smell
the freedom in your hair
And nostalgia melts
into you
Also, read I Left My Home & Other Poems by Rahma Nur, translated from the Italian by Pasquale Verdicchio and Loredana Di Martino, and published in The Antonym:
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