All posts tagged: Dispatches

Dispatches from Mullai Nilam, Marutha Nilam, and Neithal Nilam

Poems by S. VIJAYALAKSHMI, KUTTI REVATHI, and PUTHIYAMAADHAVI

Translated by THILA VARGHESE 

A farm in Tamil Nadu, India

A farm in Tamil Nadu, India. Photo by Flickr user Emily Abrams.

 

Mullai Nilam (The forest and pastoral region)

Forest Fire
By Vijayalakshmi

My forest is on fire,
and a solar sphere explodes within.
There is fire everywhere,
both inside and outside.
Unaware of the intensity of the fire,
they maintain silence
like the serenity of a corpse.
From the burning fire
bursts out a waterfall tainted in red.
All over the shores have bloomed
the flaming lilies of motherhood.
Even when they smell blood
in those flowers,
they feign ignorance
and dig out the root
roasted in the forest fire embers.
Of the tiny birds that have fallen dead,
their tongues relish the taste of meat
of those cooked to perfection.
They are searching for animals
to turn them into meals,
pretending as if they didn’t hear
their lamentations
in the burning forest.
They raise their cups
filled with dark crimson fluid
from the river
that flows like a red streak
and say ‘cheers’ to one another.
The voices
of the lover,
husband,
grandfather,
father,
great-grandfather,
brother,
friend and comrade,
are all heard
in the second round of ‘cheers.’

 

Neithal Nilam (The seashore and coastal region)

Salty Tears
By Kutti Revathi

She who has turned into a sea
is totally oblivious
to her longings and sobbing
rising up as thousands of waves
in her tears.
Even in saltwater,
she cultivates immortal plants.
In her silent world,
she lets the life forms that are unaware
of the exterior world roam freely.
Crashing against the rocks
and pounding on them,
her hands drag into the sea
her offspring,
who yearn to reach the shoreline,
and send them to play in its depths.
Denying all her treasures and colours, 
she spreads out her hands
and claims she has nothing.
She keeps going tirelessly
with no sleep or rest.
She, who has become intensely salty,
gives birth, day after day,
to the sun that rises
turning her into blood,
horses, and all eight directions.

 

Marutha Nilam (The agricultural and plains region) 

Marutham*
By Puthiyamaadhavi

You are meditating;
I close the door
and sprinkle peace
all over the room.

You are exercising;
I wait with a towel
to wipe off your sweat.

You apply cologne on you
after showering;
I wait by the door
until you come down the stairs
wearing wrinkle-free clothes.

The light fragrance
that grazes you
wafts in the air
and gives me goosebumps.

The smell of the child’s diarrhea,
the vomited milk,
the curry that smears on me
as I hastily scoop up the gravy,
and the odour of sweat,
all of them dissolve on my body
in a split second.

As I stack up the periodicals
you’ve read and left untidy,
the pictures of smiling women
with beautiful, trim bodies
disappear inside their folds,
little by little.

*Marutham is one of the ancient land divisions described in Tamil Sangam literature that is said to date back between the 1st to 4th centuries. Marutham refers to the agricultural and plains region, in which the drive for ownership of land and property is reported to have played a major role in advancing the dominant role of men, thereby creating a power imbalance between partners back then. Gender inequality continues in modern days as well.

 

These translations were done with the support of the 2024 ALTA Emerging Translator Mentorship Program.

 

Vijayalakshmi, a teacher by profession, is actively engaged in the Tamil literary field, penning poetry and articles on literary, social, and environmental issues. An ardent feminist, Vijayalakshmi continues to contribute poems, short stories, and essays to Tamil publications, and has to her credit four published books of poetry, one book of short stories, and two collections of essays. A recipient of literary awards, Vijayalakshmi has also compiled and translated Afghan Landai poems into Tamil (through English). 

Kutti Revathi, a Siddha doctor (Indigenous Tamil Medicine) by profession, is the author of 21 books of poetry, 6 short story collections and 3 essay collections and a novel in Tamil. A former editor of the feminist magazine Panikudam, Kutti Revathi is also a documentary and feature film director. With a focus on body politics, Kutti Revathi’s poetry challenges the traditional norms related to women’s identity and autonomy within the Indian context. A recipient of literary awards, Kutti Revathi continues to engage in discourse on power imbalance and resistance in a patriarchal social setup. She is also currently spearheading the website on the history of Tamil Music, “Karunamirthasagaram”, for the Oscar winning composer A.R. Rahman.

Puthiyamaadhavi, a retired bank officer, is the author of seven poetry books, six short story collections, three novels and six non-fiction books. A recipient of literary awards, Puthiyamaadhavi brings attention to contemporary sociopolitical issues and women’s place in society through her writings. Committed to feminist ideologies, Puthiyamaadhavi actively participates in literary forums to raise awareness of social issues arising from gender imbalance.

Thila Varghese is a writer and translator in London, Ontario, where she works part-time as a writing advisor at Western University in Canada. Her translations of Tamil literary works have been published in international journals and magazines. Thila’s translation entry was a finalist in the inaugural 2023 Armory Square Prize for South Asian Literature in Translation. Her translation of Khaled Hosseini’s Sea Prayer into Tamil was published in India in 2023. Thila was awarded a Mentorship in Poetry from a South Asian language with Khairani Barokka as part of ALTA’s 2024 Emerging Translator Mentorship Program in partnership with the SALT Project. Her translation entry received a First-Time Entrant Commendation in the 2024 Stephen Spender Prize for translation of poetry.

Dispatches from Mullai Nilam, Marutha Nilam, and Neithal Nilam
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When I Go to Chicago

By SHELLEY STENHOUSE

A small table set for breakfast: mashed grapefruit, berries, a Raisin Bran box, two spoons, and a short glass of dark liquid. To the right of the place setting is a stack of newspapers, including the Chicago Sun Times.

Chicago, Illinois

things break. The last time, on the last day, the pipes in the kitchen burst and flooded my parents’ blonde wood floor. When I’m up in that 87th floor apartment, I look at the sky’s blank expression. I keep the little square office window open for the sliver of nature. It’s hard to read with Fox News blaring, so I drift from room to room.

Each time before I fly to Chicago, I lose my debit card. This time it leapt out of my raincoat pocket on my way to the grocery store and refused to reappear. I had the new one shipped straight to the Hancock.

When I Go to Chicago
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Dispatch from Marutha Nilam

Poems by SUKIRTHARANI, ILAMPIRAI, and SAKTHI ARULANANDHAM

Translated from the Tamil by THILA VARGHESE

 

Table of Contents:

  • Sukirtharani, “For the sake of living”
  • Ilampirai, “Loot”
  • Sakthi Arulanandham, “Land Grabbing Bird” 

 

Black and white image of a bird with a long neck

Drawing by Sakthi Arulanandham for her poem “Land Grabbing Bird.”

 

Marutha Nilam (The agricultural and plains region)

For the sake of living
By Sukirtharani

In the courtyard filled with
bubbling water flowing from
the palm-leaf thatched roof
during monsoons,
grew a golden shower tree.
On that tree, yellow flowers
bloomed in clusters.
There was a nest on the tree
where sparrows with short beaks
would be chirping incessantly.
Sitting under the shade of the tree,
I would be studying passers-by.

Dispatch from Marutha Nilam
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Dispatch from Camelback Mountain

By CHRISTOPHER AYALA

A mountainous terrain in Arizona with a cloudy blue sky in the backgroundPhoenix, AZ

Camelback’s faces wither in the sun. I used to hate Arizona and coming here and then I moved here and hated it and left and now all I think about is a good summer day and the lazy way a person can be themselves sifting through the desert, eating pizza, all that kind of stuff anyone does anywhere else, except then this mountain Camelback is available to burn off all those cheese calories. And that’s not the same everywhere. There is a part of me who everyday thinks of being back in Arizona walking around blistering days, laughing how when I had them to myself, I had thought this was the end of the line, that there had never been a worse place on earth. That’s mid-thirties type clarity.

Dispatch from Camelback Mountain
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In fall, the persimmon trees light their lanterns

By CHRISTY TENDING 

Beppu-shi, Oita Prefecture, Japan

From beyond the waves, looking back at the shore, civilization betrays itself. The aging amusement park—its sign hasnt been illuminated in years and the ferris wheel creaks under the weight of a glance—still perches on the hill. There are hotels, a communications tower, a shopping mall: each bows its head to the context of an environment that cannot wait to overtake it. The wooden faces of homes have settled themselves in intimate relationship: in or among the bamboo, against the mountain, above the valley, over the sea.

In fall, the persimmon trees light their lanterns
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The Laws of Time and Physics

By JESSICA PETROW-COHEN

A sunny, cobblestone street framed by buildings with flat, golden-yellow facades. Ivy creeps between the buildings, hanging above the path.

Rome, Italy

I am tangled up in time. My body is the fine silver of my necklace, tying knots through curls of hair. I am the feeling of trying to untangle its spindled chain with too thick fingers, tips all pink, reaching for a dexterity they just don’t have. I’m caught up like that. Strangled.

The Laws of Time and Physics
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Dispatches from Ellesmere

By BRANDON KILBOURNE

A rocky landscape with yellow tents in the distance.

Photos courtesy of the author.

Ellesmere Island, Nunavut, Canada

Ellesmere Elegy

This land dreams up marvels:

a meteorite shower of clumpy
snow streaking under midnight’s sun.

This land embodies ruses:

broad valley floors and nondescript
slopes distorting scale and distance.

Dispatches from Ellesmere
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Brace Cove

By JOEANN HART

The ocean's waves hitting rocks on a shoreline.

Photos courtesy of author.

Gloucester, Massachusetts

It was mid-winter, so I timed my afternoon walk to end before the early night. Heading to the beach, I crossed a sea-battered causeway that dropped off to the salty Atlantic on one side, and the fresh water of Niles Pond on the other, ending at Brace Cove. Formed by two boat-breaking arms of intertidal granite, waves were still crashing into the cove from a recent storm. Migratory seabirds struggled to fly in the crosswinds. Added to the elemental roar of water was the steady screech of stones grinding in the surf, too rough a day even for the resident seals. As I stepped down from the causeway and onto the beach, I saw a man with binoculars around his neck. He was talking on the phone and there was a large, motionless shape at his feet. 

Brace Cove
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Genealogies

By LILY LUCAS HODGES

A golden object, shaped like a window with open shutters, sits atop a reddish wood table. The object is busy with delicate engravings: a cross; simple human forms, some adorning heart icons on their chests; water droplets; and palpitating lines. To the right is a container of prayer candles.

Photo courtesy of author.

San Francisco, CA

Gold is all you notice at first. A triptych dressed in shiny monochrome. The center of it is just above eyesight, so you’re left looking up at of Keith Haring’s altar, Life of Christ, an imposing piece, big enough to hold most of your gaze and envelop your mind. Haring made the original cast in 1990 and it’s considered his final work. Grace Cathedral in San Francisco acquired this edition in 1995 for its Interfaith AIDS Memorial Chapel.

Grace Cathedral is an imposing, Gothic-styled church presiding over Nob Hill. Even though I call San Francisco home, I sauntered in after Sunday mass like a tourist, and made my way to the chapel, a corner carved out of the back of the church. I started visiting this chapel after my Uncle Barry died. Barry wasn’t my blood uncle, but I only knew him as Uncle Barry, our babysitter, the artist, a gay man. Growing up queer myself, Uncle Barry was more my uncle than my mom’s brother—straight, conservative, 2,000 miles away—queerness lending itself to question family ties.

My Uncle Barry told me once that a university hospital wanted him to join a study of gay men who were exposed to HIV but never contracted it. How had he survived the epidemic? I chalked it up to the vaguely mystical powers that surrounded him. He was a dog whisperer. He said watches stopped on his wrist. He was born on St. Patrick’s Day. These quirks were enough for my sister and me to believe he was a leprechaun.

Since I was a kid, I’d known about Uncle Barry’s time in New York City. I’d heard the name John Paul. But it wasn’t until I was older and had read Randy Shilts’ And the Band Played On that I realized what it meant that John Paul had died from AIDS, just as Shilts had, and Haring had, and so many others.

I came to Haring’s altar not for a memory, but to chase a ghost. When Uncle Barry died, I inherited his stuff, where I found John Paul, a Greek American from Nebraska with kind eyes, in a photo, staring back at me. Ancestors, one generation removed, flung through the storm. I came for a man I never knew but who meant the world to a person I loved.

A dark, mushroom-shaped sculpture sits in a church nave, elevated on a short pedestal. A vertical banner is partially visible behind it. The banner is royal blue and quilted with a shield-shaped patch, with two rectangular patches nested inside and brandished with names: "David" and "Ricky"

Photo courtesy of author.

The altar is cast in bronze but finished with gold leaf. It absorbs light and reflects it back with a glow. There’s no foreground or background to the piece. It’s not about depth, but energy, seeped in Haring’s characteristic style—outlined figures and expressive lines. At the top of the center panel is the Christ figure, a multiarmed body with a cross over its head. Drops fall from the body onto a crowd of outlined figures clamoring below, shouting, pleading. Angels circulate above, but they could be falling or rising or both, the duality of giving and taking, of life and death.

As Keith Haring’s friend Sam Havadtoy, who was present at the altar’s creation, remembers: “When Keith finished, as he stepped back and gazed at this work, he said, ‘Man, this is really heavy.’ When he stopped, he was exhausted, and it was the first time I realized how frail he had become. He was completely out of breath. He said, ‘When I’m working, I’m fine, but as soon as I stop, it hits me.’” Haring would pass away from complications from AIDS a few weeks later.

How do we deal with heaviness? It’s the gesticulating crowd that holds my attention. The sum of their frenetic energy, captured by a plethora of lines, almost frantic, all packed together from the left-most edge to the right. They demand your gaze. There are so many figures in the crowd, there were so many who lost their lives, and so many more who lost their friends, lovers, siblings, coworkers. I feel my own tears grow thinking about the sheer volume of loss.

#

There are donation stands in the room with rows of votives on them. I count eleven flames before stepping back to take a seat on the bench. Eleven souls remembered so far this morning. I realize I am no longer alone. A woman hovers over the stand. The chapel is small, and I feel self-conscious in the presence of her intimate moment. I look down at my cusped hands. Through the corner of my eye, I see she’s moved to the other side of the triptych. She spends a second there and then leaves. When I look up, I notice there’s a new light. Another soul remembered. Then, no, I see another, there’s two. How many light just one candle? If you lost one friend to AIDS, one loved one, would it be rare if there weren’t more?

A memorial quilt hanging vertically on a wall, made up of patches running two wide and four long. Some are minimally decorated, like a tombstone, while others are adorned with photo collages. One patch memorializes 21 lives alone, each represented by a candle labeled with initials and birth and death dates.

Photo courtesy of author.

Sitting in an interfaith chapel puts you into a spiritual sea of beliefs. I turn to death. A common one is that the soul doesn’t die. I was raised to believe in a finality to time on this world. The soul moves on elsewhere. But that’s just one view. Another is reincarnation. John Paul died about a month after I was born. Close timing. Had I missed the chance to inherit John Paul’s soul? Did another queer person born after me get it? What if many of my generation are living out a second chance for all those who passed away from AIDS—the artists, the churchgoers, the hustlers, the teachers, the partiers, the business owners, the actors, the designers, the activists and non-activists alike. A whole vibrant, textually complex force gone within a decade, inherited by another.
 

An organ bellows and fills the entire cathedral with a thick presence. It’s a familiar and uplifting tune, but I can’t quite put my finger on the name of it. I don’t attend mass. I only know the Christmas standards. But the sound is pleasant, and I don’t mind it. I look at my watch and realize the fifteen minutes I thought I’d spend had turned into an hour. As I walk out, I pass the baptismal font and peer in at the copper basin. I was baptized here in 1989, the year John Paul died, the year that AIDS cases in the United States surpassed 100,000. I don’t know if Uncle Barry was there at my baptism, if he had returned to San Francisco by then or if he was still trying to make sense of his life after John Paul’s death. At the height of an epidemic, how many others had to attend baptisms after a funeral?

I take one last look at the chapel, at Haring’s altar. Two women have just entered. It’s around 1:00 p.m. on a Sunday and if they look closely, they’ll see fourteen candles lit.

 

Lily Lucas Hodges (they/all) is a historian who’s written at the intersection of queerness and Catholicism for The Washington Post, TIME, and elsewhere. This is their first published piece of creative nonfiction. They are currently finishing a memoir on their gay uncles that questions LGBTQ+ generational archives.

Genealogies
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