The red and the blue,
the green one too,
and this pretty beige –
they all have to go
from my wardrobe
bursting at the seams
overflowing with clothes
new and old
and some over-worn,
for, when comes the time
to shed the garb
of fleshy yarn
and bloody weaves
in which I was born,
why leave a litter
of abandoned skins
like hollow shells
that, though once pretty,
would be empty
and mere debris?
©
[Image by pngtree.com]
[This poem was first published by Madras Courier.]
.jpg) |
| Hosny Salah - Pixabay |
A rumble of
terror
on the horizon,
A
fluttering of fear
in the air,
A
foreboding,
looming
sense of doom,
A dread of
loss
of what never was,
A colossal
outburst
of molten rage,
A drumbeat
of faith and fear
at war,
A shuffling
retreat
of peace
in defeat,
A crackling
meltdown
of hope
in its own embers,
A littering
of life
gasping for death
under the debris.
A year dies out
smothered
in its own ashes.
©
 |
| Phillip Island, Melbourne |
This
isolation that enwraps me in a crowd. Holding me captive. Exiling me from the
world. Or the world from me. An incarceration. That turns into an armour.
Occasionally.
This desolation that fills within me. Volatilizing and then raining down on me. Soaking me. Drenching me. Seeping into my depths, empty them as I may. Relentlessly.
These heaving surges that crash against my shores. Dissipating me. Into umpteen pieces. Drowning bits of me. Carrying them away. Far away from me. Irretrievably.
These thoughts that storm into me. Whirling my emotions. Dashing them on the ground. Filling all my spaces. At last dwindling down to a word. Just a word. Irreducibly.
This word that remains. Unread. Unheard. Uninterpreted. Glare and bare, scream and shout, decipher and decode as I may. This word that’s me. Quintessentially.
A word falls apart
Syllables stray unspoken
Sounds hang together.
©
 |
| PC: SUDEVAN |
തുന്നൽ
ഇരുട്ട് തുന്നി വന്ന
പച്ച ഞരമ്പിൻ
തുമ്പത്ത്
ഹൃദയം
പൂത്തു നിന്നു.
© Jayashree
Peringode
Stitch
Darkness
gathered
in a stitch
a raw nerve,
the heart blooming
at its tip.
© Sujatha
Warrier
[First published in http://indianperiodical.com/]
Swept by the wind
and borne by the breeze,
wherever they blow
on their wings carried,
dropped on the fence,
left by the street,
life rolls on
like the freed seed
of a milkweed,
though without the gentle flow
and the landing ease.
©
 |
| PC: POORNIMA |
The flower looks towards the sky, yet it belongs, by nature, to the earth. It merges back into the earth, yet it is divine, ethereal. This little bloom is but you and I. Reaching for the skies, we return to dust. Having turned into dust we - the essential 'you' or 'I' - cross all boundaries of the elements.
Unfeigned
Ensouled, you surge into the sky
in a sweep of petals,
the earth that you are,
you drop to the ground
in a posy of a sweet smile,
the heaven that you are.
© Sujatha Warrier
[The above poem and translation were first published on indianperiodical.com.]
Found and Lost is my search for myself which begins from emptiness and ends in emptiness, though I get lost somewhere in between.
Found and Lost
I search.
I search for myself
in crowded, clamorous places
while I am all adrift
somewhere in the void,
in the stillness
where creep in my thoughts
that gather in knots
only to free up
and find themselves lost,
in the silence
where I find my voice
that reverberates,
runs up and down the scales,
and then slowly fades,
in the speechlessness
where I choose my words
for that perfect eloquence
to eventually stutter
in utter meaninglessness,
in the emptiness
that fills and overflows me
until it’s replaced
by a fullness in the exact measure
of its nothingness.
©
This poem is in reply to Vineetha Mekkoth's poem "Shall I Console Myself" (from the collection 'Penpiravi - Birth of a Woman'), which is a translation of the Malayalam poem "Njan Ashwasichotte?" (from the collection 'Penpiravi') by Girija Pathekkara. The original poem is dedicated to the one-and-a-half-year-old vagabond child who was cruelly raped and abandoned some years back near the Kozhikode Medical College.
I Shall Console Myself
that
the pain in your shuttered eyes
will fog their vision so
they remain blinded
to the last light
on their shady life road,
that
the cries on your hushed lips
will split their ears so
they remain deafened
to the last rhythm
of their heart's highs and lows,
that
your body they twisted, tore apart
will haunt their limbs so
they are weighed down
till the last lap
toward their own dead-end goals,
that
the blood you drained
will drench and soak them so
no fire will ever rise
in their belly
to rouse what's left of their soul.
The translated poem by Vineetha Mekkoth is quoted below.
Shall I Console Myself
That child's
tiny feet
used to measure out
the burning roads -
sucking on her thumb
like a clay doll
lay her naked little body.
Her tiny lips
lisped 'Ammmma...'
Now I see her
on the TV screen.
Tired, dark body
smattered with
drops of blood.
Wide eyes
unwilling to cry,
silent.
A one-legged doll
clasped to her chest.
As you grow
may the dark memories
of that roaring lustful night
be erased from you,
my child.
Thus, may I console myself?
And here's the original poem in Malayalam by Girija Pathekkara.
ഞാൻ ആശ്വസിച്ചോട്ടെ?
പിഞ്ചു കാലടികളാൽ
ചുട്ടുപൊള്ളുന്ന പാതകൾ
എന്നും പിച്ചവെച്ചളക്കാറുണ്ടായിരുന്നു
ആ കൂഞ്ഞ്-
തള്ളവിരൽ ചുരത്തുന്ന പാൽ
ഈമ്പി വലിച്ചുകൊണ്ട്
കളിമണ്ണിൽ മെനഞ്ഞപോൽ
നഗ്നമായ, കുഞ്ഞുടൽ.
'അമ്...മ്...മ്മ' എന്നവ്യക്തമായ് മൊഴിയുന്ന
പാൽച്ചുണ്ടുകൾ.
ഇപ്പോൾ ഞാനവളെക്കാണുന്നത്
ടി.വി. സ്ക്രീനിൽ
തളർന്നു കരുവാളിച്ച മെയ്യിൽ
നിറയെചോരപ്പൊടിപ്പുകൾ
കരയാൻ കൂട്ടാക്കാത്ത കുഞ്ഞുമിഴികളിൽ
കൊടുംശൂന്യത
കാലറ്റ കളിപ്പാവയെ
നെഞ്ചോടു ചേർത്ത ഇളംകൈകൾ
വളരുമ്പോൾ നിൻ്റെയോർമ്മകൾക്ക്
തൊടാനാവാത്തത്രയും
പിറകിലായിരിക്കും
അലറുന്ന കാമത്തിൻ്റെ
ആ ഇരുണ്ട രാത്രിയെന്ന്
മകളേ,
ഞാൻ ആശ്വസിച്ചോട്ടെ?
 |
| Jayashree Peringode |
തിരുവാതിര is a Malayalam poem by Jayashree Peringode. The poem is so beautiful that one wants to re-versify it in English. In the process of re-versification, one munched on the poem for so long that it dyed one's thoughts in a flush of emotions. And the heart knew what it meant to leap and dance in joy.
തിരുവാതിര
കാറ്റു തേയ്ക്കും
തണുത്ത ചുണ്ണാമ്പ്
നീറ്റിയേറ്റും നിലാവിനെ
തിന്നു ചോപ്പിച്ചൊ-
രാതിരേ വരൂ
എന്നിലാടിക്കുതിച്ചിടൂ..
© Jayashree
Peringode
Thiruvathira
Come,
Athiré,
munch on the moonlight
singed, laden
with limey chill
smeared by the wind,
Come reddened,
leap a dance in me!
© Sujatha Warrier
 |
| PC: RIA |
മഞ്ഞ
ചുഴിഞ്ഞിറങ്ങി-
ക്കലരുന്നതോ
വെയിൽ
നിൻ്റെ
വെൺനിലാപാട്ടിൽ?
നിന്നിൽ
നിന്നൂറി-
പ്പരക്കുന്നതോ
മഞ്ഞ
എൻ്റെ
ശൂന്യമാം വാനിൽ?
© ജയശ്രീ പെരിങ്ങോട്
Amber
Whether it
be the sun
seeping down
melting into
the fair moonlight of your song
or the yellow hue
oozing from you
diffusing
in my sky of nothingness?
© Sujatha Warrier
 |
| PC: Manikantan Mundakkal |
Knowledge and ignorance. One chases and the other flees. It's like a chasing game between light and darkness. The darkness of ignorance has to be driven away by the light of knowledge. While darkness can always creep in on its own, light has to be kindled.
Translation is a delightful experience as you delve into each line and the lines in between.
അറിവ്
ഇരുളു ചുറ്റി-
വരിയും വെളിച്ചമേ
കുതറി മാറുക -
പിന്നെയുമിഴ-
ഞ്ഞെത്തുമിരുട്ടിനെ
ഒറ്റനോക്കാൽ
തുരത്തുക -
നീയാണു സത്യമെന്നു
നിറഞ്ഞു പടരുക -
© ജയശ്രീ പെരിങ്ങോട്
Caged
I am the
boundless sky
I am the infinite space
I am the changing hues
in the cloud waves
yet, my soul is caged.
I am the burning
sun
I am the roaring wind
I am the endless horizon
that can never be chained
yet, my soul is caged.
I am the rising
flight
I am the soaring heights
I am the swelling sea
and the surfing waves
yet, my soul is caged.
I am the seamless
spirit
the being of being
I have no boundary
nor a bondage
yet, I am, oh, so caged!
©
 |
| K. Krishna Das |
The smile on the periwinkle
is the joy of the entire spring.
What fills the drop of rain,
fills the entire ocean.
And that little breath
that gasped through me
was the wind that toppled the tree.
©
An era lingers,
at times hides,
at time reveals
in the long corridors
of light and shade
between earthen walls
of grit and gravel
bound through time
by ethereal nostalgia;
history breezes
through the passageways,
spirals up the domes,
falls back in echoes,
clings to the arches
in an eternal scroll;
memories sparkle
in jewel-like hues
amid the rubbles
of a recalled bazaar –
an era caught and trapped
by layered ramparts
wanders at ease
in the labyrinth
unhurried, unworried
of the fleeting centuries.
*Golconda
Fort, originally built in mud and later expanded using granite, is an over-500-year-old
fort in Hyderabad, Telangana, India. The fortress city, during its golden era, used to be a centre for diamond
trade.
 |
| Bharati Varrier |
The room next to my room
is a wee too perfect.
Bed is made,
pillows fluffed
to good shape,
everything well in place.
No clothes are in disarray
nor books lolling open
or closed,
no bags half unpacked
or packed
in happy repose.
Wardrobes are a surprise,
all in perfect order,
tidy too,
curtains are quite drawn,
no laundry overdue.
The gadgets are amiss
and their crazy complexity
of cords –
a network on their own,
a tangled web of sorts.
The room next to my room
is flawless,
or almost,
like a nest
of small chirruping birds
that grew their wings and left.
©
 |
| Krishna Raj Warrier |
Backpack
Wayfaring
from place to place,
gathering stuff
from here and there,
discarding some
on the wayside,
my backpack
is loaded, heavy
and stretching
at its seams,
my journey begins
as I pick it up
and stops over
as I put it down,
the road speeds on
slipping
off my feet
as I tote around
my
belongings
from one place
to another
and yet another
until my bag
flops flat, deflated
…and empty.
©
Yercaud Poetry Festival 2021, the fourth edition of the series, was themed on "Air". The title of the event was "Breathe Poetry – Reclaim Life". "Breath" is one of my poems contributed to the anthology of the same title. This video is a souvenir of the event.
Breath
The world is equal, you said. Like all blood runs red. But that’s truth distorted. For some, it’s red. And for some, it’s red black. Like a binary tree, it gradates from red to black. For, they have bled. They have bled for long, and their wounds have clotted.
The world is equal, you said. Like the sun shines on all. A tale nothing
short of tall. On some, it shines light. And on some, bright. So bright, now
there are dark skins and black lives. So black, not a ray of hope can pass.
The world is equal, you said. Like all are made of elements. With
dimensions. Of time, space and substance. Well, that’s naïve, if not dense.
For, the world looks through some. As if they are empty spaces. They might as
well be fragments.
The world is equal, you said. Like the air is for all to breathe. Now,
if that isn’t falsity! Air breathes white lies into some. And then black lives
cease to be.
Your law kneels
Way too hard on me
I can’t breathe!
©
The book
appeared
almost sinister
like a ledger,
a little weird,
out of place and awkward
in my cupboard,
propped up on its binder
in the farthest corner,
standing upright there
for years together,
treasured as it were,
and utterly obscure
in the darkest innards
of the cupboard.
Among souvenirs
whose memories had expired,
the journal, a tad peculiar,
and barely dog-eared
was rediscovered
amidst its tattered peers,
falling well open as per
its habit of years
at a leaf much pored over,
with scrawling words
in scatters.
The mind
turned pages
back through the ages
of small surprises,
our meeting each other
to forever blather
in rhymes and meters,
every verse ventured
countered with another,
losing track of the junctures
and the conjunctures.
In flashes as
I conjured
images of yesteryears,
I gently laid the ledger
propped up on its binder
in the farthest corner
obscure as it were
and utterly treasured
in the deepest innards
of my cupboard.
©
 |
| PC: Public Domain |
These liquid
jewels
of joy
peeping through
the petals of my life,
These limpid
beads
of sorrow
hidden below
the canopy of my eyes,
These
gentle sprays
of crashing waves
draining the sand
from under my feet,
This drizzling
bliss
of existence
seeping slowly
into my entire being,
These tiny blobs
of life
let me savour
...little by little
...drop by drop.
[Inspired by the song Katra katra milti hai in the movie, Ijaazat]
I take the
road
that takes me along
wherever it goes,
turning wherever it bends
stopping wherever it ends.
The rivers
flow by me
when my feet blister
with burning sores,
they nurse my wounds
and soothe my bleeding sole.
The wind
blows by me
when I decelerate,
short of breath,
picks me up on its wings
drops me at the next turning.
My journey
rolls
around the earth
like a ball of thread
searching for my own end
arriving at and departing
from
strange destinations,
forever in transit,
until my road and I
slip at once
and fall over the horizon.
©
