C. P. Surendran
Biography of C. P. Surendran
C. P. Surendran (born 1956) is a poet, novelist and journalist from India.
Born to malayalam writer and rationalist Pavanan and Parvathy, C. P. Surendran received his M.A. in English Literature from Delhi University, Delhi and taught for short while at Calicut University before working as journalist in Mumbai for many English newspaper including the Times of India , Times Sunday Review , Bombay Times besides others. He was resident editor of the Times of India in Pune for three years. He is now senior editor with the Times of India in Delhi.
A selection of his poems was included in Gemini II in 1994 . He published an independent collection of poems Posthumous Poems in 2000.
His first novel An Iron Harvest, about the Naxalite uprising, was published by Indiaink. He has also published three collections of poetry. He currently lives in delhi.
C. P. Surendran's Works:
An Iron Harvest (Indiaink)
Lost And Found ( HarperCollins, 2010)
Gemini II (Penguin Viking)
Posthumous Poems (Penguin Viking)
Canaries On The Moon (Yeti Press)
Portraits Of The Space We Occupy (HarperCollins)
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C. P. Surendran Poems
It’s three in the morning. The house rings with alarms, There’s someone leaning On the doorbell. It’s her
I had just fought this war and come back, Minding my own business and drinking beer. Then I met this girl at Joe’s Who wrote poems on the back
First light on the kitchen table Breakfast for one. Beer and wine. Feline eyes kiss fallen tart.
For The Record
A hunt for the royal pun Took him around the room Which was not unlike a notebook Bursting with rough work.
The Family Court
At the Family Court The lift wouldn’t work. So they walked up Four flights
Or consider the way we twine our hands Under the wooded night air So tight as if they might be chopped at wrist By an up-sprung axe unshackled from the bleeding roots.
Milk Still Boils
He lies in bed, one hand Thrown across his eyes. This, he figures, is more like it.
A Friend In Need
He sits in a chair Whose fourth leg’s his. He loves this chair. They used to make love in it.
While you were sleeping A dog yawned in the sun And in the distance, A train, blindfolded by a tunnel,
For The Record
A hunt for the royal pun
Took him around the room
Which was not unlike a notebook
Bursting with rough work.
Led him under the table
Where he found her old letters
Explaining her love in detail
Two years before she set sail