three poems | sharmila seyyid

poems written by Sharmila Seyyid and translated by Gita Supramaniam

"I Am Composing a Song"

I am composing a song
I am writing these lyrics to tell the world
Why this contrarian path I tread.
This is my testimony.

I am a fallen woman, they say,
A prostitute...

One can be a slave of love
But to talk about sex is wrong
Bearing a child is alright, they say,
But to talk about the orifice from
Where the child comes is wrong...

Ultimately –
To state it unequivocally
The death sentence has been pronounced on me.

But till the last millisecond
Before my head is severed from my shoulders
I will live.

This is my body
My make-up
My jewellery
My clothes
My foot-wear
My odour
My language
My religion
My love
This house where I live
This road I walk on
This book I read
All these
Will remain mine
And will be what I want
Only thus will I live!

Till the last millisecond
I will live.

"Incompatible"

They were talking about my body,
My body, that lies there
Where I had cast it away.

They don’t accept me as one of them
Because they do not want to accept that I too
Can have solid views and not budge from them.
The night and the moon do not attract me, I'm not like them,
They are angry with me because I refuse
To be subjected to their black magic
And dwell in caves of inky darkness,
And become a genie - corked inside a bottle.

They do not accept
My determination to not let their strictures
Make me stray from my chosen path.
I want to confront them face to face
When they challenge me and ask,
How will you grow without any sustenance,
Without any help from the world outside you?

Those who have seen my magic wings are amazed.
My simple and plain words
Encircle them like an endless snake;
Unable to free themselves, they struggle
And stumble...

I again reinvent myself,
An even sharper me I see.
There my body still lies
There, where I cast it off.
Once more, I curb my intense urge
To embrace my body again,
Because...
Because I do not wish to become
A genie corked inside a bottle...

"That Ancient Village"

In those sandy lanes
Lined dense with Portia trees,
In those bright houses from where
Light spills out and spreads,
In the evenings filled with the fragrance of incense-sticks,
In the sound of the muezzin’s call
And in the sound of the foot-steps of the early morning
There, that ancient village still exists.

There, where I was not loved,
Where my pleas were never given ear to,
Where I was made to shed copious tears,
There, that ancient village
Still continues to exist.

Oh Eravur, my land, my soil,
Remind me again of the evidence that I left behind.
The palm-fronds I swung on,
The papaya leaves I used against the drizzling skies
The areca nut palm-spathes we pulled along as chariots
The fragrance of the fresh ginger growing under the banana trees
The flavour of the juicy Willard mangoes running between the fingers
The aroma of the jackfruit pulp that pervades the entire street
Alas! How great is my loss!

My beloved village
I was not tired of you
I did not move away.
When the time for harvesting comes
This crazy state will change
The time will come when you will again
Weave the cloth that’s mine by right.

There is nothing more to be said
For, my footwear I’ve left behind,
There, to stay
For eternity!

Read our full feature on Artist Protection Fund recipient Sharmila Seyyid ➔