Dharmpal Mahendra Jain: Poetry (Western Voices 2021)

 Bio: Born (1952) and raised in tribal reserve of Jhabua, India, Dharmpal Mahendra Jain is a Toronto based Author. He writes in Hindi and has five published books- three collections of satirical essays and two collections of Poetry. He is a columnist for two prestigious journals: Chankya Varta and Setu. His works have appeared in prestigious Hindi journals across the world.

 

With Maple Tree

This spring is so different –

I want to hug the tree,

trying to feel

the roughness of its chest

while strapping the bucket to its trunk.

I wish to collect the sweet sap

descending into me.

 

In remote valleys, ditches,

and everywhere on the dunes,

maple is painted here on the land.

In children’s notebooks,

dated blank pages

decorated with green leaves

record the changing color

of the pigments

every week,

from light green

to dark and darker still.

Gradually, the leaves begin to ripen

into the color of the rising sun.

 

I have found myself lost

many a time in the

reddish-saffron maple leaves,

and while singing O Canada

I see Tricolor in the background.

Through maple trees

I am connected to the land here,

while my soul travels far away

to the vista of the Himalayas

and greets with a respecting bow

the vast mother earth.

 

 

Lake Ontario

 

When the sun paints

a rainbow in the sky

I keep looking your way,

Lake Ontario.

You always stir the same feelings:

     You are the sea.

     The sea is there since you are there.

Who needs another sea now?

 

In that corner of the south

this sky is also descending

into you.

The water shining like silver here

turns there into sky blue.

You change yourself

as per the desires of others,

I know.

In the same way

that you reside

very deep

in my body.

More than my blood even.

 

What a thrill

that you accommodate Niagara Falls

within you

and carry it

to the Atlantic Ocean

where it is released,

and when I am there

on your beach

I can hold you

in my folded hands.

 

 

Near the Edge of the Sea

 

The sea, bottomless,

seems endless too

at the dusk,

so meditative otherwise.

At the edge of the land

it knocks and strikes

to break the shoreline.

 

I saw

the blue body

of a gigantic sea

dancing,

tutting fingers,

creating full tides.

 

With the deepening night,

the sea became sluggish.

It is not happy being immortal;

giant vessels

slept on its surface.

 

The sea is wailing in distress.

While young men and women

kept blowing eroticism,

it continued coughing

like a centenarian.

I did not see

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Western Voices 2021 :: Setu, February 2021