Rosie Speaks to Me

You broke me into sounds.
I’ll run away, go underground
fade from that page
disappear.

I’m Rosie now.
My cracked heels will hold
this river, this rage, all nouns--proper ones and
improper.

Don’t follow me with your words.
Mad, the lies you wrote.
Don’t follow me.
Let me pick my flowers, my lice.
Let me be, whore.
I’ll hide here. Hide my cunt from view
Hide from you.
You can’t smell me. I’m Rosie.
Sweet are my secrets. They glisten with you.

You broke me into sobs.
Exposed me
beneath a microscope.
I had to change my name.
I had to spin a flame-loop, freak.
You know who is to blame
for the footfalls and this game
of hide-and-seek.

You broke me into syllables
tongue against the roof-tongue against the teeth-tongue
Your lines only sprawl and stall.
You bury me as you grumble and mutter
and fall.

But I can forgive too.
I can forgive you your laughter
your shy grammar.
I’m sweet now, bitch.

I collect pebbles in my thoughts
sharpen them with the cries of hawks
and throw them like metaphors.
~
~

Doiboki now calls herself Rose. This is a very drafty first draft and is in need of severe editing, but I felt like putting it up. Suggestions for changes are welcome.
~
~

Translation

Kuffir has translated two of my “Poetry of Everyday Life” things (“Umbrella” and “Pencil”) into Telugu. I can’t read/understand Telugu, but I’m flattered. Thank you, Kuffir.

I tried reading these out loud, but couldn’t hear the meanings in the sounds of the words.

I feel a strange disjointing (is this a word?) between my poems and their translated versions. This happens because of a lack in me. My inability to read Telugu renders me dumb. Usually, it’s the source text that is unknown, not the target text. This reversal works in an interesting way for me, the ‘creator’ of the text. At first, I am curious, then detached, then search frantically for a moment of recognition, look for epiphany in words like balyam and rekhani--words that I can dimly identify. I feel locked out of the poems, severed from them.

However, I am happy. I think my poems have replicated themselves and become something new. They are transformed, yet fervently alive. They have taken on lives beyond me and my imperfect understanding of things.

~

Umbrella

I am a flower eroded
with tears and the sun.

A steel skeleton
gives me wings.

Look for me
when you need a veil.
-
goDugu

kanneeTilO yenDalO
vaaDina puvvunu nEnu.

oka ukku asti panjaram
nAku rekkalu istundi,

nA kOsam vetuku
musugu avasaramainappuDu.
~
~
Pencil

I am thin.
Leaden, yet light.
I am that fine line on white.
I am zigzag flowering wood that smells of childhood.
Use me, blunt me and make me grow again.
My death in pointed perfection repeated until your fingers can
hold me no more.

Chew on me and suck when you think
I taste good.
-
pensilu

sannagA vunTA.
bhArangA, kAni tElikE.
nEnu telupu pai aa sannani rEkhani.
nEnu bAlyam vAsanalu vedajallutU vankaraTinkaragA pUsE koyyani.
nannu vADukO, mona araga teesi maLLee penchu.
nA maraNam paripUrNa rachana nee vELLalo imiDEnta varaku punarAvrutamavutundi.

nannu namulu cheeku AlOchanalO
ruchigA vunTA.

~
PS: I wonder if there is any word in the Indian languages for ‘pencil’.
~