Sarita Jenamani

BIO

Sarita Jenamani (India/Austria) was born in Cuttack, Orissa and studied Economics and Management Studies in India and Austria. She writes in English, Hindi as well as in her mother tongue, Odia. Having three books of poetry, she has been published in a number of anthologies and international literary journal including the prestigious PEN international and many of them were translated into several languages. Sarita translated Rose Ausländer, the leading Austrian poet, from German into Hindi under a scholarship received by The Arts and Culture Division of the Federal Chancellery of Austria. She has also translated contemporary Austrian Poetry into Odia. She received many literary fellowships in Germany and in Austria including those from the prestigious organization of ‘Heinrich Böll Foundation and ‘Künstlerdorf Schöppingen. In 2006, she was awarded the literary prize of Kulturverein Inzing, Austria. She has taken part in various literary festivals both at home and abroad. Sarita, the general secretary of Austrian chapter of PEN international, lives and works in Vienna. She is the co-editor and publisher of the bilingual magazine Words and Worlds.

 

First Rain in Vienna

Here the soil seldom exudes
the aroma
of earth refreshed
But in time
when the scents of the city rise
twiglets of memory shoot up
And somewhere deep down
loss strikes root

 

In scriptures on Sand Dunes

Eternity reflects itself
in my eyes
full of stars
The world beyond
is chopped off
in days and hours
Time writes my name
on sand dunes
and its footsteps
echo in the womb
of my nebulous existence

 

Gift

I hold the hours in my hand
they metamorphose
into the lines of my palms
they manifest in the paths
which are longer than the years
those my mother had gifted me at my birth

 

Exile

All through life
an unending journey
accompanies you
And in the absence of
a destination
much of what’s inside gets lost
And the warp and weft of being
keeps on breaking

 

In Search of the Lost Time

Past carries away so much with it
Like cliffs collapsing
in some violent rainstorm
All that was there
a moment before
vanishes
with the earthfall
and we remain
chasing their imprints
in your last dream
and in my dry eyes
Silence
keeps on spreading
perpetually
like moss
on my memory
and in your heart
And we are left
like a defeated gust of wind
that strains to clasp
for a while
a leaf
just fallen from the tree

 

The Immigrant

The birds swash from the trees
Stones are as cold as the dead
We are losing the horizon
The sun is only a fresh wound
Should I sit here longer
on this godforsaken beach
beside the flames
that scorch my leftover soul
My estranged name is still visible
in the afterglow of the ashes
I have to stay here
to vomit my frazzled life
as home exists
only in a dictionary

 

Mother Tongue

It runs
like a mystic river
through my arteries
Voice of my mother
the primordial voice
holds my nascent being
As I flow away
keeping intact
its fragile frame
into the ocean of light

 

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