SHARMA, Seshendra
Hyderabad , India
Born 20th of October 1927 - Died 30th of May 2007
Aged: 79
Visionary Poet of the Millennium
An Indian poet Prophet
Seshendra Sharma
October 20th, 1927 - May 30th, 2007
http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com/
https://seshen.tributes.in/
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GunturuSeshendraSarma: an extraordinary poet-scholar
One of the ironies in literature is that
he came to be known more as a critic than a poet
HYDERABAD: An era of scholastic excellence and poetic grandeur has come to an end in the passing away of GunturuSeshendraSarma, one of the foremost poets and critics in Telugu literature. His mastery over western literature and Indian `AlankaraSastra' gave his works a stunning imagery, unparalleled in modern Indian works. One of the ironies in literature is that he came to be known more as a critic than a poet. The Central SahityaAkademi award was conferred on him for his work `KaalaRekha' and not for his poetic excellence. The genius in him made him explore `Kundalini Yoga' in his treatise on Ramayana in `Shodasi' convincingly. His intellectual quest further made him probe `NaishadhaKaavya' in the backdrop of `LalitaSahasraNaamavali', `SoundaryaLahari' and `Kama Kala Vilasam' in `SwarnaHamsa', Seshendra saw the entire universe as a storehouse of images and signs to which imagination was to make value-addition. Like Stephene Mallarme who was considered a prophet of symbolism in French literature, SeshendraSarma too believed that art alone would survive in the universe along with poetry. He believed that the main vocation of human beings was to be artists and poets. His `Kavisena Manifesto' gave a new direction to modern criticism making it a landmark work in poetics. Telugus would rue the intellectual impoverishment they suffered in maintaining a `distance' from him. Seshendra could have given us more, but we did not deserve it! The denial of the Jnanpeeth Award to him proves it
The Hindu
India's National Newspaper
Friday, Jun 01, 2007
Service:
Bagh Amberpet Burrial Ground
Bagh Amberpet Hyderabad
Tuesday 31st of May 2005 at 03:45 AM
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Rain
Rain is knocking at my door
With a thousand hands,
In the hands of the rowdy winds
Braches are wriggling in the streets-
From what distance the rain has come
Carrying what messages for me;
I cannot hear across the tumult of
Wars of armies of frogs in the mud-
The rain left
On the chariots of clouds
With a plough on the shoulders
Sun is ascending to the peaks of hills
To the clouds that distributed gifts of water
The whole world of created things
Is paying homage-
The little seed in the earth
Projected her neck and
With the first two shoots of green leaves
Folded like hands
expressed gratefulness –
Seshendra Sharma
http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com
Flowers and Silences
The dim darkness-the diffused light-dimness of one merging into the other-imparting more length to the long trees that are standing like stretched out shadows wearing stars in their hair-
silence is imparting more depth to the darkness
in this advaita where darkness is merged into silence, my mind wakes up, now not only sound but even a ray of light is a violent disturbance to the profoundness of peace-
in such moments deep truths unveil themselves-now I realize it is not sound but in silence melody lives-
I am born out of flowers and silences- while passing my hand brushed against a flower,
I asked ‘are you bruised? ‘‘Me or you’ smiling, the flower questioned back-
the heart of my pen broke and split blood; – I do not know which paper can bear this pen-
In the gigantic silences of forests, which touch the blue skies, the carpenter bird pecks at the trunks of great trees which echo, far reaching sounds-what can he do among the tiny crotons?
I ate days like fruits-now I eat drops of tears like grapes-
frightened by the sun took refuge under shades-
sitting on the pavement eating dreams from eyes like ice cream with spoons-
measuring my life with dark evenings- I distributed my wealth once with meters,
now I scatter with handfuls my future letting it fly in all directions-
I washed my heart in tears and dried it over poetry-
walked past wearing people on my body like shawls-
in the assemblies of flames; in countries abroad I raised my gypsy voice and sang mixing earth and sky-
this country is the graveyard of my genius-
however fast I walk the distance remains the same.
This land is thirsty for my blood,
it is snoring in the little shades of pigmy trees-
I picked my pen and dipped it in the sun to write a summer song for my nation-
– Seshendra Sharma
http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com
Note :
Seshendra with Mrs Janaki , wife and Children : 1962
SPINE OF MY COUNTRY
Dreams are travelling
In paper boats,
Passing ports of time
Towards the horizons
Of dawn
Pregnant with sun ,
Waving flags
On the highways of oceans ;
Singing epics
Of human power
Which turns the silly earth
Into grain and fruit;
Spins civilizations
Out of mere smoke
They drive into mines
To return ,
As brigades of iron
Rush into woods
To emerge as rising axes ,
Set aside mountains
To make their way
It is not blood
That flows in their veins ;
It is the life breath
Of those
Who gave up themselves
For the children of tomorrow –
Masses of them are moving
To join the great festival
Of building sky – high – column – of – spine
For the drooping country
They are marching to stand as muscles
And to become the swarthy hands
Of the nation;
As the children in the cradles
Whose hearts they rocked
On their pathetic graves to drop
As flowers of homage
They are journeying with the wing
Dreams are travelling in paper boats –
THE BURNING SUN
I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun
Rising from the hills of human sinews,
Hearts are my friends
I live in the city of sufferings
Although in my fist, I hold an ocean of history
I sculptured man silently –
Wings that carried birds
Did not bring them back;
I am drinking thick darkness
In the haunts of those forests
Which cry out in agony for the birds
That did not return;
Clutching at the garment woven of memories
I twine myself to the feet of my country.
Heads that were hanging to the trees
Smile as flowers today in the branches
Hearts that received the bullets
Ring in temples of our land like bells;
Blood of theirs nights squeezed and offered
By how many to bring forth this day;
They are hanging like icicles
On the ridges of our roofs;
Look, it is an iron fist I have;
I shall excavate the flame of light
From the rocks of time –
I will set fire to the sleep of resisting centuries –
To the rivers that run in passion after the sea
I cry halt, command them
To paint the colourless arid lands in green,
Invite back the smile which fled away
In terror from this land,
To the butterfly trudging hungrily for a flower
I shall give a garden –
Come children, eat
Bits of nights dipping them in moonlight,
I shall not allow the sun to cheat this sacred day;
If he wakes not on the horizon of this land
I shall tear my burning heart
And put it in its place
With the scarlet of my living flesh
Illuminate the earth
I am the drop of sweat, I am the sun
Rising from the hills of human sinews –
– Seshendra Sharma http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com
https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/
-This is the 1st poem in Seshendra Sharma’s second anthology of prose poems titled “The Burning Sun “
– In his intro to The Burning Sun Seshendra says there has been an uninterrupted undercurrent in his life as a poet , that is his life nerve and that has assumed total expression in this poem
Flowers and Silences
The dim darkness-the diffused light-dimness of one merging into the other-imparting more length to the long trees that are standing like stretched out shadows wearing stars in their hair- silence is imparting more depth to the darkness
In this advaita where darkness is merged into silence, my mind wakes up, Now not only sound but even a ray of light is a violent disturbance to the profoundness of peace- in such moments deep truths unveil themselves-now I realize it is not sound but in silence melody lives-
I am born out of flowers and silences- while passing my hand brushed against a flower, I asked ‘are you bruised? ‘‘Me or you’ smiling, the flower questioned back- the heart of my pen broke and split blood; – I do not know which paper can bear this pen-
In the gigantic silences of forests, which touch the blue skies, the carpenter bird pecks at the trunks of great trees which echo, far reaching sounds-what can he do among the tiny crotons? I ate days like fruits-now I eat drops of tears like grapes-frightened by the sun took refuge under shades-sitting on the pavement eating dreams from eyes like ice cream with spoons- measuring my life with dark evenings-
I distributed my wealth once with meters, now I scatter with handfuls my future letting it fly in all directions-I washed my heart in tears and dried it over poetry- walked past wearing people on my body like shawls-in the assemblies of flames; in countries abroad I raised my gypsy voice and sang mixing earth and sky-this country is the graveyard of my genius- however fast I walk the distance remains the same. This land is thirsty for my blood, it is snoring in the little shades of pigmy trees-I picked my pen and dipped it in the sun to write a summer song for my nation-
– Seshendra Sharma
October 20th, 1927 – May 30th, 2007
http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com/
Flowers and Silences
The dim darkness-the diffused light-dimness of one merging into the other-imparting more length to the long trees that are standing like stretched out shadows wearing stars in their hair- silence is imparting more depth to the darkness
In this advaita where darkness is merged into silence, my mind wakes up, Now not only sound but even a ray of light is a violent disturbance to the profoundness of peace- in such moments deep truths unveil themselves-now I realize it is not sound but in silence melody lives-
I am born out of flowers and silences- while passing my hand brushed against a flower, I asked ‘are you bruised? ‘‘Me or you’ smiling, the flower questioned back- the heart of my pen broke and split blood; – I do not know which paper can bear this pen-
In the gigantic silences of forests, which touch the blue skies, the carpenter bird pecks at the trunks of great trees which echo, far reaching sounds-what can he do among the tiny crotons? I ate days like fruits-now I eat drops of tears like grapes-frightened by the sun took refuge under shades-sitting on the pavement eating dreams from eyes like ice cream with spoons- measuring my life with dark evenings-
I distributed my wealth once with meters, now I scatter with handfuls my future letting it fly in all directions-I washed my heart in tears and dried it over poetry- walked past wearing people on my body like shawls-in the assemblies of flames; in countries abroad I raised my gypsy voice and sang mixing earth and sky-this country is the graveyard of my genius- however fast I walk the distance remains the same. This land is thirsty for my blood, it is snoring in the little shades of pigmy trees-I picked my pen and dipped it in the sun to write a summer song for my nation-
– Seshendra Sharma
October 20th, 1927 – May 30th, 2007
http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com/
https://seshen.tributes.in/
https://www.facebook.com/GunturuSeshendraSharma/
:http://kinige.com/author/Gunturu+Seshendra+Sharma
Gorilla -4
(journey Of The Conscience)
The vicissitudes of conscience’s journey on this planet-earth is the only true history of countries; conscience inhales the truth as oxygen- that truth which is a great ocean.
The ocean does not sit at anybody’s feet and bark, the voice of a storm does not know to say yes sir, The Mountain does not kneel down before any body.
I, maybe after all a fistful of earth, but when I lift my pen I have the arrogance of the flag of a nation. I dip my travails in tears and munch them like biscuits.
And unveil the great truth
that a man, who is stronger than life, alone,
can sculpture from word to century.
Cut off my hands, still they will return and join me. In my storms the entire sky is blown away like a scrap of paper. So, now, of what value are those crowds of stars on my path? I only know this much, that human life is an exhibition of beastly forces.
Today my memories are visiting me, filling my journey with breathless winds. I am one who runs in search of storms, wounds and drunkards.
But at the sight of the peaks of people, I melt into a poem and flow onto the paper. An earthquake is born in my language. In the fiery blood flowing in floods from broken hearts of words, human tongues are floating. Sweep off all this rubbish of verbiage of words. Then will appear on the page clearly, my pearl white voice.
– Seshendra Sharma
http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com
I send my sympathies, Abbey