Its touch so sensuous
Its eyes drawing me into itself
Its body snuggling in mine
Rousing a passion yet unknown
He was as old as my grandfather and I, just twelve.
Marriage meant nothing to me, not even a new cheeram.
He lived in penance and I, just a little child, tended the aashram,
Never cared for, not even acknowledged of my existence.
(This is a small poem written years back for my daughter, when she was still a kid.)
'Why Sunday? '
My daughter asked.
'Vinaa dainyena Jeevitam
what the ascetics of the yore
In India dreamt of, always.
When you see a silver lining in the sky
just look for the dark cloud
that it encircles, ready to break
into a thunderous shower.
The goddess of the longest nights
Of the netherworld Hades
My days she invades!
A little boy of fourteen
A little black boy of fourteen!
Now on his mutilated head
Was an old picture
Of a few mothers
Grieving over two coffins.
The secrets of your heart
I try to read by my amorous eyes;
the touch of my loving fingers
leaves my message
THE WORM AND THE ANGLER
They (the fish) are not as intelligent as we who kill them; although they are more noble and more able.- Earnest Hemingway in 'Old Man and the Sea'.
When you picked me up from the dirt
I am fortunate to have been born into a family with keen literary interest. My father taught Malayalam (the language that people of Kerala speak) literature in the High Schools. My mother, though a home-maker, has excellent knowledge in literary works in Malayalam, English and Hindi. Both of them took keen interest in our education. There was a good collection of books at home, which served as our introduction to serious literature. Poetry, fiction, biographies everything was available to sate our hunger. Moreover, at home we subscribed Mathrubhoomi (Mother Land) , a weekly in Malayalam, that used to dwell on serious literature. This shaped our interests and promoted our talent. I still read whatever I can lay my hands upon.Very keen on poetry. Malayalam, English, Hindi, translated. Fiction too. A true fan of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Umberto Eco. I write both in Malayalam and English. Especially, poetry.Some fiction, book reviews, sometimes about banking, literature. A book of my poems in Malayalam has been published recently by " Green Books" , by name " OZHINJA KOOTUKAL" (Nests vacated) . The book is available in Amazon, the online book store. I am a banker by profession. Married. We are blessed with one daughter.)
Expression Of Soul
is the true
of one's soul.
and a meter
of the poet.
The choicest ornaments to a man's house are his friends.
'The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a hell of Heaven, a heaven of Hell.'
You can't expect that after a poor fellow has written a book he should also understand it.
Whatever God has given every human being, like knowledge, power, wealth etc, is for sharing with the deprived.
Selfishness is doing what we like, without considering how it would affect the feelings of others, especially those who love you.
Styx drained Enough to drown The Universe And the infernal fire under it.
This journey I have started on my own A journey with no company.
Whatever I have is his; nothing Mine. His was everything.
When you see a silver lining in the sky just look for the dark cloud that it encircles
Would my pen bring the spring on this paper!
No one is innocent until proved guilty.
In the fag end of one's life Time surely renders one Ugly, abjectly miserable.
Winter, As she waxes in Light wanes, days wane.
I am an unfinished story that He has omitted to complete.
How do I, friend, put the angst of separation in words
Many may come who may hold your hands But not one like me who'd share your pains
Poetry Cures you of all ill, what cold!
Son of God will be born Then shall deliverance bless us
Life is just a drop of tears That still burns And tastes blood
Life does not acknowledge your existence, until you prove it.
Darkness is the only truth
Truth unpalatable to the uncouth
Dreams, amorphous water
Soul is the sole identity of the body
Autumn, the Evil Spell of the Hades
Flower is the offspring Of Goddess of Spring.
Love's so intoxicating like wine That once you taste it The joy never comes down.
Who says, distance smothers memories?
silence kills my words.
My poems are the pages of my life Some are frayed, some folded;
Life freezes in tents Outside grey skies weep.
Life is a river You cannot enter twice. Love is another.
It is when your silence starts to speak That your love feels deprived
We may not be able sate hunger of everyone But may we feed at least one hungry soul.
Black skin is NOT a sin.
Tiananmen Marx turned in his grave with eyes moist And his heart bleeding red
The sin of killing a fowl Is washed away, as we eat its flesh.
They were the poison fangs And the hood, the hiss And the venom That dyed me black
Dwelling on vengeance causes A wound that never heals.
Never get Carried away by anger, Anger brings disaster.
Everything comes to an end, Some day.
Eschew greed, lust and violence
It is November The Fall has just fallen by the wayside.
Our eyes betray our sorrow, distrust, diffidence and extreme contempt for ourselves.
The Authorities fear the tearful voice of a few Thousand young quivering lips
The sin of killing the bird Is washed away, as we eat its flesh.'
I wish I could drink from Lethe and forget everything, even my forgetfulness.
Like Prometheus's liver, Moon wanes in a fortnight and waxes to her fullest in the next!
Music is the language which everyone understands, not just human beings, but plants and animals too.
You earn only what you give unto others!