“Fafnir the dragon lives in Norse mythology; his tale was written around the 13th century but possibly existed in earlier oral versions. Like all dragons he breathes fire and guards hoarded treasure; he is greedy. But he holds a secret. A taste of his large heart grants the eater an understanding of the languages of birds, beasts and nature, even the hidden thoughts of people. Further, human language would evermore dance on the taster’s tongue, fashioning song and discourse.
This story goes that blue-eyed Sigurd, hero of the Völsunga Saga, killed Fafnir and accidentally tasted the dragon’s heart-blood […] That drop of burning blood transformed Sigurd; he became both champion and cheat, courageous and a coward. For true heroes are never easy to decipher. Dragons are more difficult. I ultimately read Fafnir’s story as an invocation against loss. At his death, alien languages bequeath their secrets as his avaricious heart becomes bountiful. Fafnir’s is a tale of possibilities and potentials ripped out of death’s dark tow. And wisdom could be the epiphenomenon of the dragon’s demise.
[…] Fafnir’s myth takes on urgency and added significance today as the world grows increasingly intolerant of diversity. We know too that market imperatives and cultural imperialism create a more homogenised landscape of the mind. But to be true to ourselves, that is, acknowledge that we are vibrantly multiple, we draw from the imagination and aesthetics of others. Poetry in translation enables this. It condenses, clarifies and gifts us contrastive cultures often in thrilling new literary forms; it clears a space for attentiveness and rumination which helps us build a shared humanity. Thus, the theme of tasting Fafnir’s heart runs through this anthology of world poetry in translation.”
— Priya Sarukkai Chabria
Laurel
Fadwa Suleiman, translated from the Arabic by Marilyn Hacker
I’m sitting alone in my room
my clothes scattered around me,
and the suitcase that took to the road with me when I fled
I keep telling it about our return, soon
When we go back, you’ll carry my clothes that crossed the border inside you
We’ll pass through the cities, walk on their streets once more
We’ll write in the dust with our own ink
and our ink to us will be attar and laurel
Poems by Amit Dutta, translated from the Dogri by Ayswarya S Dutta
Mother’s advice:
Do not erase words
that have already come out
Cross them
So that you can see them
peeking through the lines.
* When I think
Nothing happens
In the cusps between thoughts,
Metre
Weaves itself
I write it down
And it vanishes again.
*
Green leaves, blue flash
A shining bird shot up
A water drop, like mercury
Trembles upon the leaf.
From the subtle rhythm of thoughts,
a flower has bloomed on this courtyard,
A rose in four measures.
Words and Meanings
Mangalesh Dabral, translated from the Hindi by Daisy Rockwell
Whenever I write a word
it lacks the meaning I intended
I write tree on a sheet of paper
but have no faith it will be considered a tree
or perhaps some tree will appear inside it covered in leaves
I wish to give form to a scream that gathers inside me
I take refuge in dictionaries seeking synonyms
But whatever word I find
is filled with a dark landscape
or else it is an empty façade
its interior already destroyed
I wish to call out to someone
but the words have already begun to fall like ash
Over and over I repeat
This is not the word that held that meaning
This is not the meaning that went with that word
Most meanings have parted ways with their words
Some have gone in the opposite direction
The tyrants of our time have driven them away
and built settlements in the space between object and verb
Only a few words have retained their meanings
Fear is even more fearful now and terror more terrifying
We no longer find lovers within love
Words of anguish
Are replaced with announcements for heartless celebrations
When someone powerful mentions a new dawn
it could mean darkness draws nigh
It is possible someone known for his humanity
has long since ceased to be humane
And when I screw up my courage and call a persecutor a persecutor
he does not appear angry, but rather smiles in self-congratulation
One day I mentioned humanity in front of a mighty man
but he got annoyed and responded
Everyone’s busy doing their own thing
but here you are, still harping on about humanity
Untitled
Kanhopatra, translated from the Marathi by Anjali Purohit
Your golden voice was a curse
beauty for you was fatal
then your insistence to submit
only to one who surpassed your beauty
and you fell in love with the dark one
Chandrabhaga was witness
you returned the royal gifts that came from Bidar
then the Badshah sent in his soldiers
you asked for one last meeting with your lord
who stands on a brick as Chandrabhaga is witness
no, my lord, no, don’t put me to this test
life seeks to flow away from me
the tiger has the deer’s child
in his teeth so is my state
even in the three worlds
there is no place for me save at your feet
hurry, mother Vithabai, hurry
I lose hope, I grieve
shelter Kanhopatra within your heart
there at his feet
as Chandrabhaga is witness
you became a tree
in another temple by the Ujh river
in the high mountains another fawn
– the eight-year-old daughter of a nomad –
in the fiendish jaws of predators
a child who went searching
for her pony that hadn’t come home
as river Ujh is witness
as Chandrabhaga is witness
rivers flow dark
rivers flow deep
they witness
as do we
Migraine
Vitaly Pukhanov, translated from the Russian by Philip Nikolayev
According to eyewitness accounts,
Migraines are much like artillery shelling.
The aura is the warning alarm.
Citizens descend into the basement in an orderly fashion,
Listening in the head to the remote reverberations,
Telling apart the respective grumbles of
Grad interceptor rockets, mortar launchers, TBMs, and howitzers.
Stifle the persistent desire
To exit the basement and be hit by the explosion wave, so it’s over.
No use. The missiles are exploding in the head,
So the barrage will find you anywhere: on the resort beach,
Next to the Eiffel Tower, or at a theatre premiere.
All you’ve time to say is, “Sorry, afraid I must excuse myself briefly,”
And you descend in evening dress into the bomb shelter,
To grasp your head with your hands and bow down,
To listen to the bombardment and tell apart the explosions,
Until the migraine lets up.
The Dragon’s Heart, an anthology of world poetry in translation is culled from the online journal, Poetry at Sangam, which features 11 guest editors, and almost 150 poets and translators from numerous countries. It pays homage to some of our literary predecessors, and the evolving tongue of languages, but essential to the world we know. The anthology has been published by Jadavpur University Press.
