நன்றாக குடி -பாதலேர் (மொ.பெ : நகுலன்) Be Drunk - Charles Baudelaire.

Be Drunk (http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/be-drunk)
Charles Baudelaire, 1821 - 1867

You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.


But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.



And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”

From Modern Poets of France: A Bilingual Anthology, translated and edited by Louis Simpson, published by Story Line Press, Inc. Copyright © 1997 by Louis Simpson. Reprinted by permission of the author and Story Line Press, Inc. All rights reserved.


Get Drunk
Charles Baudelaire.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/get-drunk/

Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.

On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.

And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"

The Red Wheelbarrow

William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell by Marty McConnell https://www.facebook.com/photo.php? fbid=10152835868567645 leaving is not enough; you must stay gone. train your heart like a dog. change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. you lucky, lucky girl. you have an apartment just your size. a bathtub full of tea. a heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. you had to have him. and you did. and now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. don’t lose too much weight. stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. and you are not stupid. you loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. heart like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas. heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street. 18 hrs

நன்றாக குடி -பாதலேர் (மொ.பெ : நகுலன்)

 1. எப்பொழுதும் நல்ல போதையி
     லிருக்க வேண்டும் எல்லாம்இருக்கிறது,
     அதுதான் பிரச்சனை. காலத்தின் கொடிய
     சுமை உன் தோள்களை முறித்து உன்னை
     நிலத்தில் குனியும்படிச் செய்வதை நீ
     உணராமல் இருக்கவேண்டுமென்றால் நீ
     நல்ல போதையில் இடையீடில்லாமல்                            இருக்க வேண்டும் 
                                                    .

2. எதன் மூலம்? மது, கவிதை, அல்லது
    நீதி போத உணர்வு உன் வகையில். ஆனால்
    போதையில் இருக்கவேண்டும்.

3. சில சமயம் – ஒரு அரண்மனையின்
    வாசற்படிகளில், ஒரு ஓடையின் பச்சைப்புல்
    பரப்பில், உன் சொந்த அறையின் சலித்துப்
    போன தனிமையில், நீ போதையிலிருந்து
    விடுபடுகையில், உன்னுடைய போதை
    அதற்குள் தணிந்திருக்கலாம்.   அப்பொழுது
    கேள். காற்றை. அலையை. நக்ஷத்ரத்தை.
    பக்ஷியை, கடிகாரத்தை. எது எது பறக்கிறதோ.
    எது எது உருண்டு செல்கிறதோ அதை. எது  
    எது  பாடுகிறதோ அதை. எது எது பேசுகிறதோ
    அதை கேள். இப்பொழுது சமயம் என்ன
     என்று; காற்றுச் சொல்லும்; போதையில்
    ஆழ்வதற்கு சரியான சமயம். காலத்தின்          
     ஹிம்சைக்கு அடிமைகளாக இல்லாமல்                          இருக்க
     விடாமல். நிறுத்தாமல் போதையில் இரு …          மதுவில். கவிதையில். அல்லது நீதிபோத              உணர்வில். உன் வகையில்

பாதலேரின் பிரஞ்சு கவிதையின் ஆங்கில மொழிபெயர்ப்பிலிருந்து:

தமிழில் : நகுலன்

Diving into the Wreck

Adrienne Rich, 1929 - 2012

First having read the book of myths,
and loaded the camera,
and checked the edge of the knife-blade,
I put on
the body-armor of black rubber
the absurd flippers
the grave and awkward mask.
I am having to do this
not like Cousteau with his
assiduous team
aboard the sun-flooded schooner
but here alone.

There is a ladder.
The ladder is always there
hanging innocently
close to the side of the schooner.
We know what it is for,
we who have used it.
Otherwise
it is a piece of maritime floss
some sundry equipment.

I go down.
Rung after rung and still
the oxygen immerses me
the blue light
the clear atoms
of our human air.
I go down.
My flippers cripple me,
I crawl like an insect down the ladder
and there is no one
to tell me when the ocean
will begin.

First the air is blue and then
it is bluer and then green and then
black I am blacking out and yet
my mask is powerful
it pumps my blood with power
the sea is another story
the sea is not a question of power
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

And now: it is easy to forget
what I came for
among so many who have always
lived here
swaying their crenellated fans
between the reefs
and besides
you breathe differently down here.

I came to explore the wreck.
The words are purposes.
The words are maps.
I came to see the damage that was done
and the treasures that prevail.
I stroke the beam of my lamp
slowly along the flank
of something more permanent
than fish or weed

the thing I came for:
the wreck and not the story of the wreck
the thing itself and not the myth
the drowned face always staring
toward the sun
the evidence of damage
worn by salt and sway into this threadbare beauty
the ribs of the disaster
curving their assertion
among the tentative haunters.

This is the place.
And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair
streams black, the merman in his armored body.
We circle silently
about the wreck
we dive into the hold.
I am she: I am he

whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes
whose breasts still bear the stress
whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies
obscurely inside barrels
half-wedged and left to rot
we are the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course
the water-eaten log
the fouled compass

We are, I am, you are
by cowardice or courage
the one who find our way
back to this scene
carrying a knife, a camera
a book of myths
in which
our names do not appear.