Biography of uday balakrishnan
So what do I say about myself?
That I write under my real name?
Or that I am a semi grounded wanderer
Who has tripped the world's wilder parts?
For over fifty years now?
Do I mention what I do -
Manage people, crippled inside
With fears and worries endless sympathy?
Can that be the bureaucrat I think I am?
uday balakrishnan Poems
Our Son Returns
Arrivals are always difficult The awkward greeting That tentative grimace unfurling into a smile A guffaw and then the hug
Gossamer Webs Of Memories
A culvert opens on your face But what if the face is a desert With no stream or river? Life merely an expression
Ruins and what are they? A mass of stones Shattered battlements Crumbling old temples
An old fort lies desolate and Lost in a village of Coconut trees and fisher folk.
And then when it comes to you A choke in the throat The world swimming around you Lucky indeed to lie down and not fall
Age finally catches up It is there with you like your skin It is your skin indeed And then there is tiredness
And When You Get Old
Suits worn untidily And that is if you wear suits but it can be any other dress Well let me return to the suit The trouser held up by a belt askew
I Want To Be There
I want to be there when the Sun comes To set, at the end of the ocean Watch the green waters blaze orange At the end of a day.
To Dream In Whispers
To dream in whispers You must be afloat On a paper boat Memories must wind
Not Far From Tonle Sap
A young girl in pajamas Lost and alone near a cafe Anxious Germans and some French and Italians too.. Rather lecherous old turtles of indeterminable age
An emotion creeps into the heart Like dawn in winter…. Hesitant hazy light Ready to blackout again.
Ah! There You Are
Ah! Caught you on the Messenger! There you are Distant yet close In cyberspace….
And When I Go
And when I go I wish it will never be said How sad that he went Rather it be felt
They say that he lived there for many years of his life Radha painted his world without seeing it at all. On a cold autumn morning Walking past a field she asked
They say that he lived there for many years of his life
Radha painted his world without seeing it at all.
On a cold autumn morning
Walking past a field she asked
‘Where are his flowers? ’
‘No daffodils in this season’
She was told.
But they are there in his words
Read by her a million times