Elizabeth Kurian

Like a benign king, for ages past,
I sheltered all who came to me
-Children, elders, travelers, lovers;
Homes I gave to birds and squirrels,
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Every writer hopes
That his words will outlive him
How many succeed?
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Ask me not, my beloved, for the love long past
I thought your presence filled life with radiance

If I have your grief, why struggle with the world's woes?
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A whiff of fragrance blows
From the vale of memories,
Bringing with it visions
Of buoyant childhood, happy-go-lucky youth,
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In this country,
Poetry is an aged mother.
She can support you with maternal love,
But cannot put
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Once an expert of the Jewish law
To test Lord Jesus, a fine chance saw,
And said 'Laws are many, big and small,
Which is the greatest of them all? '
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The unwary heart,
Caught in a whirlpool of desires,
Loath to drown in the sea of sorrow,
Clutches desperately at straws of hope,
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Dream if you must, but only while asleep!
When you awake from your disturbed slumber
You'll realize that what you thought you saw
Was only a figment of your imagination,
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Diverse are the pathways
In the journey of life,
At times rough and tortuous
With slippery roads
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I broke my heart at your feet
But you did not deign
To glance at my offering.
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It may be true that
Beggars can't be choosers,
But how unfortunate
Are those mortals,
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In the inner chambers of the house of glass
Innumerable glass pieces shimmer;
Peeping from these fragments of glass
Are images in various shades;
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As a creeper was I born,
Meant by nature to be supported,
But fate willed otherwise!
Weaker ones clung to me for survival;
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Thus said a dewdropp to a rose:
"As the jealous wind pushes me down
From your soft fragrant petals,
I visualize a heartless woman
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As I put my pen to paper
To write a poem, a story,
I see a multitude of words
In my mind’s eye.
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Many a secret it hides, life's like that
In nobody it confides, life's like that

Often it makes mortals cry, sometimes laugh,
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Each heart holds a book of memories,
Whose pages are filled haphazardly
By a whimsical writer
Whose name is Time.
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When I was a little girl,
My wishes were fanciful…
To be a butterfly fluttering in the garden,
A fluffy cloud sailing in the sky,
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Wistfulness….A withered rose
Bereft of colour and fragrance,
Whose thorns still retain
Their painful sting.
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Faces, a sea of faces,
Does one come across,
Apparently with common features,
-Then why do they seem
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