P.P. Ramachandran Poems

(1)

Pathumma's Goat has taken
The place of Ramanan.
The Birds of Kerala has nested
Where Chemmeen used to be.
Masters and Servants has replaced
The Poor Folk. If you look for
Marthandavarma, you will be
Ambushed by Dracula.

After the librarian's death,
The library is in a state of anarchy.
Numbers no more stick to their series.
Contents break through torn covers.


(2)

Characters wander about
Through the pages that come off
From unhinged volumes.

Bhim of The Second Turn
Has befriended the Karamazov brothers.
Satya, a Bengali from Pratham Pratisruti
Has entered Kovilan's village.
The Appukkili of Khasak is
Amazed to meet the hunchback
Of Notre Dame. Appukkuttan
Stubbornly cries to gain access
To EMS' Autobiography.
Das Kapital is no more to be seen.
Kamasutra is back on the rack.
Doubling with laughter,
VKN's Payyan comes off the pages.

(3)

Since the librarian died,
The readers' reactions have changed.
On the last page of The Caste System
In Kerala someone has scribbled:
"What a fine novel!"
Azhikode's book on Indian
Philosophy is now with
Children's books. A dictionary
Of Malayalam has become
An encyclopaedia on sex.
Catalogues on curious things
Like the short story, poetry,
Essays and drama have gone missing.


(4)


After the librarian's death,
The library no more keeps its timings.
No one knows when it opens
Or closes. Once returning from
A late night film, around midnight,
I peeped into the library, seeing
Its windows dimly lit.
God! There was a great feast
In process, in candle light.
Chairs were filled with authors
And their characters.
There was Dostoevsky clad in
Yellow, smoking a cigar.
Thakazhi Siva Sankara Pillai
Leaned on a curved walking stick.
Pablo Neruda was looking
Through the window, hat in hand.
Below the staircase, M. Govindan
Engaged a group of youngsters
In a spirited talk.
English, Malayalam
French, Russian.
They spoke in many tongues
Loudly, but nothing could be heard.
A young man with round glasses
Shouted something, glass in hand.
At once, someone from behind the cupboards,
Went towards him, with a filled wine glass.
I recognised that face in a second.
Yes, it was him. Our dead librarian.
...

It kept on moaning.
No one took notice,
In the festival revelry.

The poor creature
Had no idea
Its curious, curved
Body was an instrument
Of music and its wail
A musical performance.

Still, its master
Came running,
As a shepherd to the lost
One of the herd.

A horned God
With no human touch.
...

Nothing more than a sweet cry
To say, I am here.

A dropped feather is all that
Says, I was here.

The warmth of brooding
Says, I will be here.

How do birds tell
Their lives with such brevity?
...

A train derailed
By a wrong signal
Halted at a country lane
Leading to a paddy field,
At daybreak.

Dogs began to bark
At the unfamiliar screams
Of braking iron wheels.

Cats arched their
Hairy bow of alertness.

The village raised its head,
Hiding its keeyo-keeyo-curiosities,
Under its wings.

The outer surface of AC sleepers
Had got bruised,
Scratching against the thorny
Fence and tree branches.

A squirrel read out names
Loudly from the reservation
Chart of the compartment.

A foul smell came to the door,
Yawning, to enquire
Which station it was,
With the listlessness of a long journey.

Tired of waiting for the signal,
The driver jumped
To the next compound,
Took a ripe areca-nut
And opened the betel box.

As we saw
The scene became stale,
Familiar.

Dogs made a verandah
Of the train,
Smelling and pissing.

Cats turned the berths
Into hearths, curling
And curving.

‘Keeyo-keeyo' could be heard
From under the bogies.

It is not clear
When the train was signalled
To move. It was seen moving,
At a distance, along the ridge
Of the canal.

With no steam,
Smoke or sound.

A group of ants was
Dragging it along.
...

An expansive continent
Lies in the word ‘ocean'.

The ‘cow' conceals
A prowling leopard.

Some words come
Sounding hooves.
Some claw into you.

Like the rocks that rise
From the sea
As waves recede,

Silence is the sense
That some words pronounce.
...

Ant lions
Turning ears to the dead ones
Relayed the news of the day:
The number of martyrs has risen
To six.

An uproarious laughter
That resounded beneath the earth
Like lightning
Erupted in mushrooms.

A calf grazing in the yard
Smelt one of them;

but, being herbivorous,
Left them alone.
...

Girls wait for the bus,
At the school bus stop.

However hard they try
Umbrellas, bags, footwear
And uniforms cannot contain
Their bodies that spill over.

Nor can they conceal
In their words and looks,
Postures and steps,
Their racing hearts
That come out in the open.

Lined with anxiety,
Their eyes turn away
From the buses that
Speed past them.

One of them will become a
Bureaucrat, another a housewife,
Yet another will lose her way.

Sitting in a bus with an infant
On her lap, one will tell her
Husband, while going past
The school, this is where
I studied.

There
One will be waiting for
The bus. Still.
...