In his celebrated Nature-poems “Telugu Rituvulu,” Viswanatha displayed keen observation, original approach and picturesque portrayal of the beauties of rural Andhra during the different seasons of the year. Unmistakable stamp of genius is imprinted on every verse which glows with delightful freshness and delicate charm. Only a poet of Viswanatha’s caliber could have steedred clear of Kalidasa’s “Ritusamhaara” composed an off-beat poem of unexcelled glory. His “Telugu Rituvulu” presents colourful pictures of villages in the coastal region, before the process of industrialization and urbanization deprived them of their serene beauty. He draws attention to the beauty of several objects which we overlook because they are too familiar; Viswanatha “plucks from the dusty wayside of life” the delights that are scattered all over. He is one of those gifted poets who look with a child’s undoubted wisdom “upon the living pages of god’s book” which contains the open secret.

His Andhra Prashasti, a collection of poems in praise of the Glory of Andhra the song of the seasons. Maa Swami—a Satka, hundred poems in praise of Lord Visweswara Ramayana Kalpa vriksham, the story of Rama in poems written in his own inimitable style and interpretation and Viwanatha Madhyakkaralu, a collection of Satakas on various Gods and Goddesses all composed in a peculiar and intricate but high standard meter called Madhyakkara, which incidentally got him the Central Sahitya Akademy Award, are but a few examples of his masterly craftsmanship and imagination of a very high order.

Some of his famous poetical work

Some Poems by Vishwantha

The Blind Beggar

Every time I go by the train
he boards it at some place.
His daughter follows him, helping
him walk.

He always sings the same poem from
the Hundred for Rama.

His voice is the same
as in a previous life.
He was dying in an abandoned 
well
there was no one around,
he called and called
for help.
His voice grew weaker 
and weaker,
caught between breath and throat.
It must have found him again in 
this life
after a long search.

His eyes are the same colry sockets. 
He was peering out from the well 
hoping someone would come to 
save him.
He stood, a last glimmer of life in 
his eyes.
Those eyes found him again
in this life.

As I listen to his song
and look at his eyes,
my mind rushes to save him
from drowning in that well.
He stops his song,
asks the passengers for coins 
and leaves 
his daughter leading him.

And I'm 
left there.

Your Chariot

Lord,
your chariot sped along
given to reckless speed, and my 
body
was crushed under it-blood gushed 
out in rivulets.

Dazzling, luminous, your chariot 
didn't stop
to see what this bump was. 
Didn't even look back
at my sudden dying cry.

Tomorrow
your charioteer will clean
my blood off the wheels. But, lord,
from the millions of bloodstains 
marking the wheels,
how will you know
which was mine?

You and I

For those born with happiness 
written all over their face,
let spring be the season of choice. 
but for me, rain cloud,
you're the one who makes my 
body
tremble with pleasure.
I put you in my words
and they speak
the sounds of Shiva's anklet
as he dances at twilight.
You are the poet of the sky, and 
I, of the earth.
We both sing the heart's sorrow.

You spread darkness on the earth. 
I crawl into the corners of my 
house
where light doesn't enter
and cover myself with a blanket 
to find peace.
If you want to write,
write the story of Rama.
What do you get but needless 
trouble
from made-up stories? They're 
good neither
for this world nor the next.
My father's command and my own 
anguish
became one. I will write the story 
of Rama, the one story equal to 
the wonder of thought.

If you ask, why yet another 
Ramayana?
my answer is: In this world, 
everyone eats the same rice every 
day,
but the taste of your life is your 
own.
People make love, over and over, 
but only you
know how it feels. I write about 
the same Rama
everyone else has known, but my 
feelings of love
are mine. Ninety per cent of what 
makes a poem
is the genius of the poet. Poets in 
India know
that the way you tell the tale 
weighs a thousand times more
. than some novel theme.

Nannaya did not have such luck. 
Neither did Tikkana.
Only Chellapilla Venkana has had 
the good fortune
of having someone like me
as his student, who has taken in

the Goddess of Speech in all her 
wisdom
and inner strength and newness. 
I'll fill the skies
with the soft light of his fame.
Mine is the language people use. 
My style
is deep. I aim at delight and meaning.
To create delight, you have to 
know the world.
There's no poetry without the 
world.

(Translated by Velcheru Narayana Rao (Courtesy. Oxford University Press) From Twentieth Century Telugu . Poetry An Anthology)


THE FALLEN YOGI


From the heights of divine ecstasy 
Which is beyond words
I jumped into the world of words
Tempted by the delicacy of the soft word
And–here I am–poet !

From the heights of divine ecstasy
Ruled by the Lord of inaction
I jumped into the world of words
With an insatiable thirst for beauty
And–here I am–a poet !

From the heights of divine ecstasy
Where I ought to think of God alone
I equated Him with the spoken word
And fell into the world of words
Taking the form of a poet !

From the heights of divine ecstasy
Which is far beyond the mundane world
I feel down and became a poet
As I went on thinking about this world.

Translated from Telugu by
Dr. Sankara Sreerama Rao 



THE COMING OF ‘ASHADHA’ 


(A beautiful description from his drama – the Nartanasala)
kalaparapurna
VISWANATHA SATYANARAYANA

Through clustering coluds the Lightning-Damsel 
Doth peep to find,
If the Kadimi has blossomed quite or merely
Put from leaf;
The lovely Mandara blooms and chants its
Welcome to the advancing bee;
Down the crested rocks, the lotus-eyed amorous
Stream runs swift
Into the arms of her Ocean-Lord
The shyness of the ecstatic Earth-Maiden thrills
Through meadows of emerald-green;
Behold ! the fifty music of the stringed clouds 
The peacock’s joyous dance;
Verily, this festive grove is like upto the
Dance-Academy
Of the Master of Dance ! 

Translated from Telugu by 
M. Visveswars Rao



THE BLIND MENDICATE
VISWANATHA SATYANARAYANA


Everytime I travel by train
he gets into it 
at some place or another
led by the helping hand
of his daughter.

He recites’
that same old verse,
from the Daasarathi Satakam
always.

That same voice
when in his previous life
he probably
fell into a deep well
and died
with no one to hear
his pathetic cry
for help.

That same cry
becoming more and more faint
in his throat,
found him
at last 
in this life
and came to him.

Those eyes
are the same
looking
for a saviour
he waited and waited
with his gaze fixed
like his whole life
stood
there
in those eyes,
found him
at last
in this life,
and come to him.

Everytime I hear him sing
and see his eyes
my heart
urges me
to rescue him
from drowning
in the well.

He stops singing,
Begs for money
From the people,
And led by his daughter
Gets off.

I remain
in the train. 



Translated by 
B V L NARAYANAROW 




(source: Triveni April-June 1977)