A letter from a jail cell

 

Dear Father,
the River, whose stomach
was cut open,
has declared war
on our tiny house on the bank, hasn’t she?
Right in front of the house
you must be looking out for someone
who will help you with
embankment poles
to straighten the river,
to fill her holes with
sandbags.
In the murky water,
which rises like a bamboo lance,
you must be gazing at
the sesame plantation —
laden with fruits
ready for harvest.
You must be thinking
a fistful of rice in your mouth
is about to be fingered out.
Maybe you will find solace
in religion, contemplating
our five foes.
Maybe you will
think of the void
a son’s labor can fill.
One son, two daughters and one son;
The eldest is a poet in prison,
the first daughter, a school teacher,
the second, a graduate in the kitchen,
the youngest, a student.
Your poet son,
is he even employable
as the dah you use to clear weed?
Forgive nothing, Father.
Nothing!
“Son, Pho Chan,
why do I hear noises behind you?”,
you asked on the phone.
“I am at the bus stop
to post a manuscript to a journal,” I lied.
From your liar son in the dock
to thugs who sweeten you
with the tips of their tongues,
“To our benefactor peasants …”,
because they want to have you from behind,
hate them all, Father.
Hate them all.
A thief is
unarmed.
A thug is
armed to the teeth.
If thieves are ungovernable,
if thugs are ungovernable,
what’s the point of government?
Whatever happens to the jungles
whatever happens to the mountains
whatever happens to the rivers
they don’t care.
They love the country
just the way they love to grate a coconut,
from inside out,
for coconut milk.
Plinth by plinth, to make their throne taller,
they will point their guns at the urna
on the Lord Buddha’s forehead.
Their class is that crass.
To cuss at that class
if your religion forbids you
allow me to lose that religion.
I will turn the air blue
on your behalf.
Maybe you don’t know yet.
Your son was
set up
for demanding the so-called police
not to harm ordinary citizens.
Someday
your son, who is not a thief
nor a thug
will become employable,
good as your dah that clears weed.
For now, Father,
keep gazing at the plantation
you’d ploughed with your naked shoulders.
Keep singing
the anthem of
The Peasant Union.

 

Yours ever,
K Za Win
Cell 1, Section 10
Thayawaddy Prison

 

 

 

 

Skulls

 

Revolution will be in bloom
only when air, water, and earth—
all the nutrients are in agreement.

Before the Revolution opened out,
a bullet blew someone’s brains out,
out on the street.
Did that skull have a message for you?

Faced with the devil
is this or that statement relevant?

In the dharma of dha
you can’t just wave the sword.
Step forward and cut them down!

The Revolution won’t materialize
out of your mere thoughts.
Like blood, one must rise.

Don’t ever waver again!
The fuse of the Revolution
is either you or myself!

 

Translated by ko ko thett

 

Translator’s note: “Skulls” is about the headshot that killed twenty-year-old Mya Thwe Thwe Khiang at a protest in Naypyitaw in February 2021, the very first fatality of the “Myanmar Spring Revolution.” 

 

For much of his young adult life, K Za Win was a Buddhist monk, until he left the order, arguing that being recognized as a learned monk by the Myanmar military state was pointless. In 2015, he marched with students along the 350 mile route from Mandalay to Yangon for education reforms until the rally was shut down near Yangon and he along with most of the student leaders were arrested and jailed. He spent a year and one month in prison, after which he published his best-known work, a collection of long-form poems, My Reply to Ramon. K Za Win was a land rights activist and a Burmese language teacher in addition to a poet. In the 2020 election, he said he didn’t vote for the National League for Democracy, whose policies he was very critical of, but when the NLD won by a landslide and an election fraud was alleged as an excuse for the 2021 military coup, he was on the frontlines of the anti-coup protests. He was shot dead by Myanmar security forces at a protest in Monywa on 3/3/2021.

 

ko ko thett (translator) is a Burma-born poet, poetry editor, translator, and anthologist of contemporary Burmese poetry. After a whirlwind tour of Asia, Europe, and North America for two decades, thett happily resettled in Sagaing in his native Burma-Myanmar in 2017. Monywa, where many poets have passed prematurely, is a hotbed for political and poetical dissent, and is the capital city of Sagaing Division in Myanmar. As of 2021 thett lives in Norwich, UK. He writes in both Burmese and English. 

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taken from here:

Tripwire 18
ADI magazine