Thursday, December 09, 2010

Flood in my city

 It rains again!

A jittery bus ride was
my escape home,
roads were streams
with puddles,slush
and gutters that deceived
our sense of depth.
I saw nature at her worse,
as gullys and channels
inundated with the lava of
memories raining from her eyes.

The clouds burst into
the complacency of my city
yesterday night,
I pulled my sheets over
my head, wrapped
my children with the weft and warp
of  fearless sleep.

The morning news
showed a woman
rowing the floods
with two children to
safer lands,
huddled together,
they were wrapped in the
blanket of night
drenched in fear.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

സ്വപ്നചാരി

കണ്ണിനടിയില്‍
എന്നെച്ചുംബിച്ചുണര്‍ത്തിയ
കാലത്തിന്‍ കരുവാളിപ്പിനും
എന്നെ ശരീരം
മാത്രമായ് മാറ്റിയ
നിന്‍റെ  കണ്ണിന്‍
പ്രതിബിംബത്തിനും ,
ജീവിതമൊരു ചീന്തു
കടലാസ്സും മഷിപ്പാടുമല്ലെന്ന്
കാട്ടിയ തൂലികയ്ക്കും

നന്ദി

 എന്‍റെ മെയ്യിനും
മണ്ണിനും നിറവും
മണവുമൊന്നെന്നും,
എന്‍റെ ജീര്‍ണത
ഭോഗിച്ചു പുതു
ജീവനുണര്‍ ത്താനായ്  
ഈ ജാരഭൂമി
മാത്രമവലംബമെന്നും 

അറിഞ്ഞതായ് നടിക്കാതെ
നടന്നു നീങ്ങുന്ന
സ്വപ്നചാരികളുടെ
കൂട്ടത്തില്‍ ഇതാ ഞാനും


 

Thursday, November 18, 2010

A resignation letter to societal norms


I am tendering a resignation
letter to all societal norms
let it be official, this is personal,
let me leave, I had been under your
high voltage care for this long.
where I took  root under your wings
even your irate pecks were for
for my good  you would often
remind. As I can wobble now , I have a
perspective, indeed different from
the shadowy staff that you lent to guide, 
I can be on my own as I have writhed out
out of your doors and comforts
that you couched me in. The coziness
 of conventions  where matter
disintegrated often and specks  were
swept under carpet to bring in
the sparkle of false propriety.
I will not dive into your dreams again
My dreams are mine own, now that
The cord is cut, I will struggle
out as a new born into a strange land
unbound by your love and rules.
You may cast a stone with your crowd
mindlessly supporting, but I have
chosen my path, I stray into my
lover’s arms surrendering the thorns
surrounding me, normalcy is painful
as I long to break, blow and  blemish,
the brutal affection you blinded me with,
I saw not my terms, my love, my laws
Instead like a snake to a charmer
I swayed to your tunes, except in my sleep.
Thirty five years and five years of
Poetry , and that’s what I got, just
Five years of defying your gravity,
Five years of freedom
Five years will end
All that I lost for the last thirty years








Sunday, November 14, 2010

Your flowers are still red

For Suu Kyi

The flowers are still red
though you smile fades
with in the memoirs of
the prison bars,
your home was the
dream snaring the foetus
that you never give
birth, your thoughts
of freedom, like your own
children took roots, sprouted
in other lands, not your own.


Suu Kyi, your flowers are still red
though muted with the silent scream
they suffered for years, for generations,
From foreign hands to
the hands of your own Junta,
though wilted , flaming red,
they still adorn your hair.

In the Yangon twilight
you took your free steps
to the paths silhouetted by
the sun that remains
in your eyes even today

Saturday, November 13, 2010

ലോകം ചിരിച്ചോട്ടെ!

അവിടെയുമിവിടെയുമെല്ലാം
എനിക്ക് കവിതയെഴുതണം
ഇരുട്ടിലും വെളിച്ചത്തിലും
മരച്ചില്ലയിലും മനസ്സിന്‍റെ
പല ചേരികളിലുമെല്ലാം
വാക്കുകള്‍ കോറിയിടണം.
ലോകം ചിരിച്ചോട്ടെ!


പ്രകൃതിക്കെത്തിപ്പിടിക്കാവുന്നവ
എന്‍റെ വാക്കുകള്‍ക്കു വഴങ്ങണം,
വേദനകൊണ്ടെനിക്ക് വീണമീട്ടണം
വാക്കുകള്‍ വാചാലരാവണം
എന്‍റെ ആജ്ഞതയിലെ അറിവും
അറിവിലേ രാഷ്ട്രീയവും
രചിക്കുമ്പോള്‍
ലോകം ചിരിച്ചോട്ടെ!



ബാലിശമാണിത്,
എന്നാലും കവിത ഒഴുകണം
എന്‍റെ പഞ്ചിന്ദ്രിയങ്ങളില്‍ നിന്നും
സര്‍വകോശങ്ങളില്‍ നിന്നും
എന്നിലെ പ്രാക്തസംവദങ്ങളില്‍
നിന്നും കവിത വിരിയുമ്പോള്‍
അവിടെയുമിവിടെയുമെല്ലാം
എനിക്ക് കവിതയെഴുതണം

ലോകം ചിരിച്ചോട്ടെ!

Sunday, November 07, 2010

Naranathu Bhranthan*


Sisyphus of our land
your path prevails
your truth is the only
eternal one
you taught us  the hurting
 gravity of lives much before
the apple decided
to fall.
Pushing a rock uphill
all day,
you trudge, you toil and bleed
your sweat out,
telling us all labour is a just a
heavy pebble
pushed down to gorges
at the end of the day.:
telling us that days are
set ablaze to
usher in the silent night,
sun is just a cermonial
flame to welcome
lasting darkness;
but for the cicada songs
and mornful night birds
we exist only in sleep;
telling us that we breathe
to gasp our final breath;
nothing can stand time's
wings, even in the putrid
poems where we long to live
our letters fade with time;
life wilts with every green effort
it fizzles out and the legend of
love remains;
the love you showered
on men with every prophetic step;
the love you taught the world
in your lunatic laugh that
Gravity wins in the end.


* The character in Malayalam folklore, renowned  for his lunacy and prophecy. A self-styled Sisyphus, not doomed by any curse, he was one of those early philosophers who emphasised the futility of life.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

One Day

One day, the  bow string will snap
and the arrow will fly towards
its aim or off tangent,
the time will come,

Its either death or madness
God or demon
and choosing between
the two is not a human task.

One day, love will rush to
kiss  the sky or plunge
into the deep sea,
the time will come

It may survive it's ecstasies
or die shriveled in sadness
and fate will decide
not the lover's love

My bow spirit in the deep sea
slowly cracks, the deck leaks,
stern slowly breaks,
the time will come

One day, my journey will end either
in my discovered land or
in the sea, shrouded by the waves.

Black Madonna of Czestochowa

It was the gift my aunt got
Madonna of Czestochowa,
seated regally with her soot-
blackened face and her infant
no longer a cherubic, as the
term would define to this fullest.
Scars from wounds and lances
writ on her face, centuries of
tortured paint and her blackness.

It was my aunt who reacted first .

Her glum piety told it all:
"I am black as coal,
praying to mother Mary
I begged a bit of fairness from
her rose-petal skin to soothe
and whiten my own
Now, whom will I beg for
a whiter skin ? " She asked
looking at Black Madonna and her
skinny black lad, perched on her hip.
 
In the painting, Madonna's
her fleur-de-lis robes flowed down
as she signalled to infant Christ,
as the source of salvation,
in turn the infant blessed the world
with a Bible in his hand.

"Who's is the most powerful of all?
Christ or Mary? Man or woman?"
My son's query, I answered with a twist
that the mother attributes power to the Child.

I agreed to his point while proving my own.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

My world at night

My world at night
is a dark place
fluorescent
lights shine.
My world at night
is a lonely isle,
life stirs nearby.
My world at night
is static through
the roar of wind,
men and machines.
My world at night
is shallow without
shoals, though books
in racks sitby
gazing in the dark.
My world at night
is colourless
my palette has
all the bright
hues of my past.
My world at night
is odorless too,
the wild jasmines shine
in the ebony night
of experience.

This may sound
sentimental,
but my world at night
is meaningless without you...

Wednesday, October 06, 2010

Sand Reckoner

A timebomb ticking
away till explosion,
counting sand to
fathom cosmos,
we saw tears in
every grain,
occasional smiles too.

We are sand reckoners
counting grains that
pile into a heap
to shroud us
after the grand finale!

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

In this small world

In this small world
some people sleep
when some are awake,
some cry when some
laugh, and some drink
while some are thirsty forever.

In this small world, seeking
love is a sin, when your
heart beats  another heart
seethes, when you long
for a touch, you are
slapped instead.
In the small world, the
dog barks in a lonely corner
of a cringing lane, a truck passes
flattening it to the molten tar.
Its a sin to be alive,
the night screams to you
in this small world.

In this small world
there are a million ways
to end, but
life sprouts after life
like mushrooms in the mist.

 This raucous intensity
of road rollers and cars
the twitter of women in a
corner, their chores
like the unending words
that flow from my pen,
the men who frown over
their work and egos,

In this small world
life reenacts its tablaeaux
despite its intrevals
and curtain falls

Friday, September 24, 2010

Rag Picker

My hunger donned a
strange aquamarine,
the sky before sunset.
My poetry had grown its
roots where I found it.
I gathered all the words
from the writings
that went before me
from cunei to calligraphs,
like a rag picker,
my fingers soiled
by the garbage of fame,
my peers excavated
they, the gold mine diggers,
unearthed ancient
wisdom from everywhere.
I, a  versifier in the
cubby holes of
middleclass well being,
painted my hunger
in an unrealistic horizon

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Darkness

Are your evenings
evenings too?
And mornings
mornings?
Mine have
ceased to be,
since you left
its darkness
once again!

Rain

It rains everyday
the raindrops are
my tears, these
crystal drops are
my parting gift
on your windscreen

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Rush

Sadness
danced on
my feet
tapping the rail,
rushing to
bang right on
the train of
happiness...

Sunday, August 29, 2010

ഫിസിക്കല്‍ ഇന്‍സട്രക്ടര്‍

Preacher man don't tell me, heaven is under the earth,
I know you don't know what life is really worth
Its not all that glitter is gold,
I got story aint never been told
So now you see the light
You stand up for your rights- Bob Marley



അയാള്‍ എന്നെ അടിമുടി
നോക്കികൊണ്ട്‌ പറഞ്ഞു.
സ്ത്രീ എന്നാല്‍ ശരീരം.
പണ്ട്  പെണ്ണുങ്ങള്‍ക്ക്‌
tread മില്‍ വേണ്ട, diet വേണ്ട
അരി ആട്ടിയും ഇടിച്ചും പൊടിച്ചും 
കടഞ്ഞെടുത്ത ഉടല്‍,
 ഇന്നോ?  ദുര്‍മേദസ്
കാര്‍ന്നുതിന്ന ശരീരങ്ങള്‍,
മിക്സിയും ഗ്യാസ്സുമൊക്കെ
നശിപ്പിച്ചല്ലോ  മോളെ  ശരീരം.
സ്വാതന്ത്ര്യം കിട്ടീട്ടും
നിങ്ങള്‍ക്കു സന്തോഷമുണ്ടോ ?
അതുമില്ല,  പണ്ടത്തെ അമ്മമാര്‍ക്ക്
മനസ്സ്  നിറയെ ഭര്‍ത്താവിനെ
 സേവിച്ച   സംതൃപ്തിയായിരിക്കാം

താലിബാനും  അഫ്ഗാനിസ്ത്രീയുടെ
സംതൃപ്തി  പ്രചരിപ്പിക്കും,
പണിയെടുത്തു എല്ല് നുറുങ്ങിയ
സന്തോഷം തത്കാലം സ്ത്രീകള്‍
വേണ്ടാന്ന് വെച്ചാലോ?
ഞാന്‍ തറുതല പറഞ്ഞില്ല
പേ വാക്കിനു പൊട്ടന്‍ ചെവി

Saturday, August 28, 2010

The coconut tree in our yard

The tree was a sapling when
we moved to our new house,
my brother and I played in the
tank below, healed our bruises
with its magical dust scrapped
with our nails from its fronds,
I dont know if we were happy
then, as he worried about his
job and I, my husband;
passports to our dreams; when
I plucked out petals from a flower 
to see if I'd marry my neighbor,
 I cried near the sapling
when the last petal was a 'no'


The tree grew up with us
bears fruits every month,
though not enough for home
it is still our sole provider of
dessicated coconut, though we
have outlived our need for its
leaves which were once
shelter and firewood
My brother moved out of the
house to far away towns
and I moved in to the house
from far away towns.


I see the bruises the tree bears
unable to heal itself with its magical dust,
the sickles, insects and toddy-tappers
have left their marks,the stretch marks
have worn down its once- elegant trunk

Every night, I see the silhouette
of the lonely tree, it peeps in,
to hear my lonely gasp and the wisps
of my pasts that tears into my sleep.

The tree is witness to my movement
As I, witness to its stasis,
right now, in our middle life
we bear fruits still, though
not enough for everyone's needs!

Thursday, August 05, 2010

He who hath not sinned

Sakineh Ashtiani!
our generation's
Mariam Magdalene,
When your fate was
sealed, did
you wait for your
Christ yet gain?

We watch you with
our television eyes,
voyeurism is the stone
we have kept aside to
pelt on you, your
illicitness titillating us,
all we can think of
are the medieval laws
that have handcuffed you,
or the body that you are
with all its specialty,
thus called a woman!

Knowing little that
our gaze on you is sinful,
we feel the pinch of
injustice. We call the press
to stress on the "barbaric,
abhorrent" in your fate,
we cry foul while you
were scourged at first
before exposing your dirt.

An explosive that may burst
or die away with a damp miff,
you're a sensation to the news-
starved youth, you die or not!
yet you need no Christ to save
you scrawling on the sand,
we have already sinned,
you are absolved now !

Monday, August 02, 2010

Day's Rites

It never dawned
so easily for us
our nights were long
as we always heard the
sea trash and knock on
our lids, then
the purest cicadas
in their effervescence
with the forest rain
hemmed into our desire

Everyday we turned
on our orbits
the chill reluctance of
mornings
the sizzling noons
the voluptuous evenings
clouded by the
darkness of our
sleep-heavy lids

Tranquility
reigned when
we slept sated
like angels
balming our
eyes for the
next day's rites

Fables

I am the song that
flows out of your flute
your senses nurture me
with their joy, lust
anger and lethargy

I started dreaming for you
when I met you after many lives,
I wove a rainbow to your
eyes, your nightmares
were mine too,
they kept me awake
and drenched in tears

I learned to curse you
like a Caliban
learned your
language to love you,
caress and wither
with words

If you remember, the
dewdrops tasted the honey
of my kisses, when love opened
the door, we flinched
and rushed out feeling
the distance of our bodies.

we loved with a love that
men often feared
we were Mephistophelean too
bargaining for each other's soul
swapping them for
the fatal kiss of love

We lived in these fables
the myriad emotions of tear,
longing and vengeance
we knew that the moon climbs the sky
fades in its frontiers
only to creep into the
tulip clouds to shine once again

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

ചിത്രങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് കടപ്പാട്

തീന്മേശക്ക് ചുറ്റും
കുടുംബത്തിനോടോപ്പമാണ്
ഒരതിഥിയുടെ മൊബൈലില്‍
ആ MMS കണ്ടത്

രംഗം: ഒരുത്സവപറമ്പ്.
മദംപൊട്ടിയ കൊമ്പന്‍
അവന്റെ പാപ്പാനെ ഒരു
ചുള്ളികമ്പ് പോലെ ചുരുട്ടി,
ഒടിച്ചു, ചവിട്ടി കൊന്നിട്ടും,
കലി തീരാതെ കുത്തിയും
ഞെരിച്ചും പകയടക്കുന്നു.
കൊമ്പന്റെ തുമ്പിക്കയ്യില്‍
കൊടുംകാറ്റില്‍ ആലില.
ഉയിരിയിന്റെയും മരണത്തിന്റെയും
താഴ്‌വരയില്‍ നിന്നും പാപ്പാന്റെ
നിലവിളി ഉയര്‍ന്നു താണു.

ഉത്സവപ്പറമ്പ്
ശവപ്പറമ്പ് ആയതു
ഞൊടിയിടയിലാണ്

കലിയടങ്ങതെ കൊമ്പന്‍
പിന്നെ വീഴ്ത്തിയത്
മറ്റൊരു പിടിയാനയെ
കുത്തി മലര്‍ത്തിയിട്ടും
അടങ്ങാത്ത രോഷത്തില്‍
അവന്‍ ലോകത്തെ വെല്ലുവിളിച്ചു
അമ്പലത്തില്‍ കുടിയിരുത്തിയ
ഈശ്വരന്മാരെയും!

പാപ്പാന്റെ മരണവും
ആനയുടെ കലിയും,
സഹതാപതരംഗവും
തീന്മേശ വികാരങ്ങളാല്‍
വെന്തിളകി

മൊബൈല്‍ അവസാന രംഗത്തില്‍
pause ചെയ്തു കിടന്നു,
ക്യാമറമാന്റെ പേര് ക്ലിപ്പിന്റെ താഴെ
പ്രൌഡിയോടെ ചുവന്ന ലിപികളില്‍
നിറഞ്ഞു നിന്നു.

ചിത്രങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് കടപ്പാട്
വിശ്വംഭരന്‍, ഗുരുവായൂര്‍ !

Monday, July 26, 2010


I grew up in a place where shades of brown mattered and there were yawning chasms between them: from sepia to dark brown, we distinguished ourselves. In the school bus we measured our skin tones against each other’s knuckles holding the rails and the paler brown triumphed as she was the most accosted one. My mother told me that black is beauty ad nauseum, which I am sure, she herself did not believe and I bore the burden of having a deep brown skin, which I scrubbed and scrubbed till it bled.
That was how beauty was measured in my country, and the revolution of fairness creams occurred. Posters of dark women ‘miraculously turning  white’ happened all over the bill boards that hung over the vast expanse of fields which were leveled with truck loads of sand for concrete jungles, there were also beautiful, lissome, ‘fair girls’ wearing chunks of gold on their wedding day. Those dainty necks any burglar would be glad to slit.  (On my wedding day, I too remember being weighed down by my saree, gold and body, I do not know if I withstood the ordeal still.)
I travelled to the capital where the majority of sepia shades, unbeknownst to them, they too had a Khakhi blanket that  wrapped them and us together, creating a country of browns, thickened and pared down by shades. To escape from our self made traps, we rather not talk about our politics of colour, and follow the rule that silence is golden in such matters, or probably we like to pouch our skins with Botox or layers of anti-wrinkle creams to hold that silence to our skins without a wrinkle….

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Ransacking old shelves

Ransacking old shelves
uncovers secrets
That's how I found
playboy posters among
my uncle's ascetic books,
That's  how I found my
brother's love trapped
in lenses and envelopes
hidden in the battery port
of our old tape-recorder.
My blackmail beat him,
though he succumbed
no longer than two days.

Its the same way Brod
preserved Kafka, who
wished to seal his Pandora's
box with his death,
 in the manuscripts
shuffled from west to east
in the flat infested with cats,
death proved it cannot be
silent with secrets for long.


When I found my poetry
in me, not long ago, I knew
I was not good with secrets too.
I hemmed them to my words,
chiselled them with pain,
made an artefact of my
limited life; then when
I look back I hear:

Seek and thou shalt find,
learn from what you find!

Friends and mirrors

Recently, I saw in my friends
what I wanted to see,
some from my past
stabbed hard and left,
some in the present
saw in me a difficult poet,
probably, a child abused,
some in future may hold
a grudge as deadly
as hemlock in their tongue
that would sting and kill.


I was a lonely woman
I saw them in the mirror,
watching friends change
from past to present
to future as a charade
in front of me, there clung
pieces of my childhood,
youth and old age,
They remembered me
in their trial version,
In trial, for being me,
I watched them skim past
in their many forms
and my past,present
and future unfurled
as in celluloid
in the mirror I gazed

കിണര്‍

അവനൊരു വേഴാമ്പലായതു
മുതലാണ്
കിണറുകള്‍ അവന്റെ
ദൌര്‍ബല്യമായത്.
പിന്നെ മരുഭൂമിയില്‍
കിണറു കുഴിക്കലായി
അവന്റെ പണി.
ഒരിറ്റു വെള്ളത്തിന്‌ വേണ്ടി
മൈലുകളോളം
തുരങ്കമുണ്ടാക്കി,
മണ്ണിനടിയില്‍ നിന്നും
അവന്‍ കുഴിച്ചെടുത്തത്
വൈരം  വൈഡൂര്യം
പ്രാക്ത മ ണ്‍പാത്രങ്ങള്‍,
നദിയുടെ ഓര്‍മ്മ
പേറും വെള്ളാരം
കല്ലുകളുമാണ് .
അവന്‍ ധനികനായെങ്കിലും
വെള്ളം കണ്ടെത്തിയില്ല
ഒരിക്കലവന്‍ ശ്രോതസ്സിന്റെ
അരികിലെത്തിയെങ്കിലും
പ്രാണവായു കിട്ടാതെ
തിരികെ വരികയാണുണ്ടായത്.

മരുഭൂമിയിലെ ചില്ല്
കൊട്ടാരത്തിലിരുന്നവന്‍
മരീചിക തേടിയപ്പോള്‍
അവന്റെ നിര്‍ജ്ജീവമായ
മനസ്സിലൊരു
ചൂട് മണല്‍ കാറ്റ് വീശി
     

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

ഹെന്തു ചെയ്യാന്‍!

ഒരു കുമ്പസാരം:
ബുജികളെ ഭയന്നാണ്
ഞാനെന്റെ മാതൃഭാഷ
വെടിഞ്ഞത്

എന്റെ ' ഭീകര' മലയാളവും
'മൂഡ' മലയാളവും
'കാല്പനികതയും'  വായിച്ചു
ആത്മ വിരേചന
ചെയ്യും പോലെ,
ദുരന്തങ്ങളെഴുതിയ
ഈസ്ക്കിലസിന്റെ
ജീവിതാന്തം 
തലനാഴിഴയായി
വലിച്ചു കീറാം .

ഇന്നു അംഗലേയത്തില്‍
കടുവറുക്കുന്നത്
വീണ്ടും  ബുജികളെ
ഭയന്നാണ് ,
ഇരു തോണിയില്‍
കാലു വെച്ചാലോ
ഭയക്കേണ്ടത്
bilingual  ബുജികളെ

എന്റെ മാത്രം പിഴ !

ഈ മഴയ്ക്ക്‌
കടലിന്റെ മണമാണ്, കടലോ നിന്റെയുടലിന്റെ
ദാഹം പേറി
ആഴങ്ങളില്‍നിന്നാഴങ്ങളിലേക്ക്
ഊളയിടുന്നു

മരിയാനാ ട്രെഞ്ചുകളുടെ
ശൈത്യത്തില്‍, നിന്റെ ശരീര താപം
തേടിയ ഞാന്‍
മഴയുടെ കുളിരില്‍ ചൂടും,  സൂര്യകിരണത്തില്‍
നനവും തൊട്ടറിഞ്ഞു.

വൈരുദ്ധ്യങ്ങള്‍
പ്രണയിച്ചപ്പോള്‍
അതെന്നെന്നെക്കുമെന്നു
കരുതിയതെന്റെ പിഴ
എന്റെ മാത്രം പിഴ !

Monday, July 12, 2010

City's Seasons

marriages are like migrations to
cities, the unfamiliarity and
the task of getting used to them;
my weathered feathers in new city,
combating heat and cold
when the first summer climbed
the greens stems to dry its
succulence to twigs, a snap
of the finger,the tension
of the thumb and index finger,
it cracks no matter who wins.

winter, with its creeping
chill, froze every frill
at home, hardened knuckles
refused to move, seasoning life's
spices well, warm inside
covers, cold when the day broke,
room heaters sustained the dull
gray city clouds that let not a
speckle of sun ray filter to the ground,
portholes of windows let in the chill
of an unfamiliar blizzard that grew
colder as the day progressed

city crept on me by inches,
wrapped the chill, the
discourse of familiarity was not
hateful but comforting, it's roads
intersecting at cross-roads,
circles and traffic, grew on
in degrees till I learned its
maps clumsily like my veins, its
arterial alleys waited to be

venipunctured,
tread on,
explored,
trundled by
feet and dust,
their whispers
abrasions,
when heels click
and kiss
the ground


I learned how to love hate
the lost cities of the self,
nostrils echoed my
breath like tunnels,
my tongue tasted the forbidden
in the visceral depths of floating
hunger that worsened day by day,
my eyes were the alert sensors
to my mind's needs, the red lights
flashed to say I have to stop
and proceed at green,

I touched the muck of the city
and loved it too, there I saw a
piece of my sky mirrored
in its murky brown...

A piece of Sky and my Gray hair

Goo in childhood,acne in teens;
gray hair has become an obsession
in my middle age:religiously plucking
them out like a Jain nun, one by one,
not withstanding the pain and scowl,
I ask this philosophic question:
If I pluck them out, iron all
creases on my skin,
can I rewind my childhood
replay it like a tape
I like to listen again and again?

When I look up to see
the sky look down on
my history, a silent
witness to the days
and nights of my being;
passion, desire and tears,
cumulus took up shapes
my eyes wanted to see,
elephants, Christ in pain
and those phantasms printed
on the clouds by my fancy.

I looked at the mirror,
saw gray hair in the parting
standout in a mane of jet black
hair, like in the shapes of clouds
I saw only what I wanted to see.

Monday, July 05, 2010

her story in prose-verse

She was shown her place, that's what the world conspired for long , when she began to sing the song, whispering her dreams to seashells and the cowries she beaded to her hair, she was more than a mermaid in her unrealities, but tongueless in her world, where she could not speak about her love that overwhelmed her like the seas.

In the wild, she not only collected dried up fungi from the trees which she thought were cleft heels, she picked up dried leaves, brown, yellow and red, and stored them as ideas as how life would progress from succulence to dryness. That was then when she though and wrote about death in random, thinking that her youth's anti-hero lurks behind silently, endless musings on death gave her the political freedom to live, first as a woman and then with all counter identities strung together as a garland. when people urged her, she knew hat she has to live a politically wrong life to be politically right.

There she lived in verses, stringing them to her life again, in the virtual diaglossia of languages that met, copulated, where nights turned diagnosable as the clear light of day, and heaped in these epiphanies, she was tongue-tied with thoughts.Thoughts defeated , then triumphed her senses and all she could do was stare at the forbidden or laugh at her clumsy flight of the bumble bee, or lets say she ran her metaphors too much and too far and milked them dry!

She lives on the lone valley now, with dried up teats for muse, and in the sundry heat, she talks not of rain now, nor her aspirations, just that she knows the sweet-bitter pain of waiting, that stings and comforts in a way. Like they say in the Ecclesiastes, she dared to hope and dream, and she was the only hopeful atheist you could see, living lonely on a hill, with eyes entreating to Nature, hopeful of a future, love or just harboring the dreadful desire to live. Exclaiming: "Qu'est-ce qu'un beau jeu!"

Friday, June 25, 2010

Years after Peruman: the Bridge, lake, sunset and all

When death remained, a chill
tapped the windows, we crossed
the bridge the umpteenth time,
water still tempted and gazed
at us mirrored like Narcissus
with his deadly lure

chill disappeared, we passed
the bridge, it's waters rippled
to devour our frowns, tears,
politics, theories of knowledge
swelled us up with a smugness.

the lake pontificates
this uneasy anomaly of life
and we inch towards death,
before our brows cloud with
this knowledge, it rains over
the lake, mourning the souls
lost in its welcoming depths

Experience

Here is my struggle to find
moths in stark daylight
or rap like a gangsta
stray into verses, stalk
the streets at nights,
the familiar darkness
and the dampness of the
pathways in my soul;
my mother takes to writing again
in her sixties, her stories
are sugar-coated, men have
halos and women are chaste;
my realities are bare
with the fan whirring above
no philosophy to deliver,
no rhetoric to proclaim;
I have no gunshots
to ambush my sleep,
no revolutions or wars;
I can only see my mirror
watch my woman swell, dilute
and go old day by day, the frowns
and worries that burrow deep
remain the same: existential!

Do I get the right pitch, falls
the staccato beats?
my scribbles try to 'connect
nothing with nothing'
it hardwires my memory to
oblivion or I try to get
some music canned into myself.

My pencil traces this charade
unemotionally, not questioning
its logic or anything,
with no philosophic condiments,
my tongue is barbed in
its own prison house of fear,
fear; that executioner's catheter,
honed in by shackles of EXPERIENCE

Friday, June 04, 2010

നിന്റെ വഴിയെ ...

നിന്റെ നുണമെയ്ത
ചില്ലുകൊട്ടാരം
വീണുടഞ്ഞു,
നിന്‍ വഴി
ഞാന്‍ നടന്നു
ഒരു തേങ്ങലായ്
പാദത്തില്‍
റോസാദളങ്ങള്‍
തഴുകി;

കഥ തുടരുന്നു
എന്റെയും നിന്റെയും

Friday, May 28, 2010

Sea of Love

I trace your steps
on the sand washed by
the sea, searching
for a language to say
"I love you",
knowing that words
cannot fill in the
distance between thoughts,
feelings and spoken words;
I walk behind you
like a shadow, do you
realize my love follows
every wave you step
to cause a ripple?

Thursday, May 13, 2010

സൈക്കിള്‍

ബാല്യകാലത്തിന് നഷ്ട്ടപ്പെട്ടത്‌
സൈക്കിളുകളാണ്.
ആദ്യത്തെ സവാരിയുടെ
ഭയവും ഉത്സാഹവും
കൈകളില്‍ തറഞ്ഞ
കള്ളിമുള്ളുകളായി
നീരുകെട്ടി, പഴുത്തുപ്പോള്‍
ഒറ്റക്കൈയ്യിലായി
സൈക്കിള്‍ സവാരി.

വിലക്കിയപ്പോള്‍
ചെറിയ വാടക സൈക്കിള്‍
തേടി, ഒരുമണിക്കൂറിന
ഞ്ചു രൂപാ; അനുസരണ
യില്ലാത്ത മുടി മാടിയൊതുക്കു
ന്ന കാറ്റിനെ വെല്ലി
കൗമാരസ്വപ്നങ്ങളി
ലേക്കുള്ള യാത്ര.
ഹിപ്പിയെന്നു നാട്ടാര്‍,
ഉള്ളിലെ ഋതുമതി
തേടിയത് നിന്നേ.

ഇന്ന് വിമാനത്തിലും
കാറിലും, ഓട്ടോയിലും
തിരയുന്നത് പണ്ട്
തലോടിയ കൗമാര
കാറ്റിനെ, നടന്നാലോ
വിയര്‍പ്പു പൊടിയും
മണ്ണിടിയുന്ന അഭിമാനവും!
കൗമാരം മറഞ്ഞിട്ടും
സൈക്കിള്‍ നഷ്ട്ടപെട്ട
മധ്യവയസ്കയുടെ
കാല്പനികത തേടുന്നത്
നിന്നെ, നിന്നേ മാത്രം.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Hyacinth Poets





Hyacinths in the
brackish pond
wilted in the breeze,
they told me my future

The future my ancestors
suffered in my past,
life wilting in the gentle
breeze of poetry
They were all poets before me
donning many human forms
of farmers, mad lovers
merchants and curators
of ancient medicines.


Women wrote in the kitchen
clinking utensils, face
misted with soot.
I was not the only one.

There were romantics before me
sadness sifted to nestle
them closer to God, spirits
or the illnesses that chained
them to their beds.
They never woke up from
cynicism, when meanings died
poetry dried up in their soul.

Hyacinths wilted in this
brackish water,
roots don't nurture life
but destiny.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Shelter

Shelter is in your arms
your clouds spread wide
to guide my
vagrant flocks

Shelter is in your eyes
that watch me; the eyelash
waves lap against the land,
hungrily

Shelter is in your love
that nestles my pupal
self to your cocoon

Monday, April 12, 2010

Glue

My broken pieces
were glued by
your love

My torn soul
darned by words
I garnered in love

My life has
just mirrored
how well

fragments make
a whole

video

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Tit for Tat

In my sleep is your waking desire
that is tit for tat
my intuition counters your crafts,
these gender wars,
aren't they tit for tat?
My idols are shattered by your
iconoclast;
my dreams by your nightmares and
they turn around
you call them tit for tat.

My world is round,
the rim of the well
you roll them up
like your cuff sleeves
and you call it tit for tat.

your world is the globe
in which you trot around
the difference is,
you say, tit for tat.

I live in books,
you, in mind's
conspiratorial alleys
you call it tit for tat

My woman's glance bites your stares,
when my heart bleeds your ego swells,
in my forgetting is your remembrance,
in my virtual is your real,
in my weakness is your strength
in my annihilation is your existence,
in my follies are your vengeance,
in my silence your eloquence
in my calm your turbulence
in your nights my days ....
would you still call them tits for tats?

Friday, April 09, 2010

Anaesthetic Limen

Before each surgery,
the catharsis of an
enemata rebirth,
between the ward and
the operation table,
one life to life,
between breath and
the oxygen mask, is the
euphoria of anesthesia.
I go for surgeries with
a touche of a subconscious
fear of ranting my past,
my future-present with
no tense attached to
the conscious tongue;
equating sedation
to hypnosis

The anesthetist is always
a kind man, asking if this
is the first incision,
or if my first born is a boy
even a cryptic observation
of the persistence of lipstick
on the patient's lips, traces
the nurses wipe away with
a quick disdain, I count
on my God's and blessings,
the convent litanies that
my rebellion has not erased;
with my Hail Marys, I wait for
the mask to descend with many
uniformed arms assisting
in diminishing my pain.

As a murky life plummets
into darkness, first I inhale easily ,
then with the dryness choking
to sense a weightlessness
lifts me up like a feather,
I can see my heavy self
laid flat on the surgeon's table.
I float about like a detached
soul, Ariel in flight to see
my Caliban chained to morphine
and various surgical tools,
gazed on by a scissor happy
surgeon and his bevvy of
nurses, an attender and the
kind anesthetist. I sink
after a brief flight,
wake up groaning in a pain
that hurts not just the body,
but my once-feather-weight soul
in the post-operative ward,
I am alive once again!

Friday, March 26, 2010

നമ്മുടെ പാപബോധവും അവരുടെ പലായനങ്ങളും

കുന്നില്‍ നിന്നും
ചേക്കേറിയവരിവര്‍
താഴ്വാരങ്ങളിലെ
വെയ്റ്റര്‍, കൂലികള്‍
മേസ്തിരികളിവര്‍

നേപ്പാളിയെന്നോമന
പ്പേരിലെ സൂര്യതാപ
മെറ്റിരുണ്ടവരവര്‍,
ഒരിരപ്പാളിയെന്നവ
ഹേളിക്കുംബോഴു
മെന്‍ വളര്‍ച്ചതന്‍
ധമനികളുഴുന്നോരിവര്‍

ത്സാങ്ങ്പോ പദ്മ
ബ്രഹ്മപുത്രാ നദിയിലും
കണ്ണീരിനുരുള്‍
പൊട്ടലിലും സിയോന്‍
തീരം തേടുന്നവരിവര്‍
'നേപ്പാളികള്‍ '


പരിഷ്ക്കരഹുങ്കയില്‍
നമുക്ക് കാട്ടാളരിവര്‍;
അവരുടെ സ്ത്രീലാവണ്യം
പുരുഷസ്ത്രൈണത
പിന്നെയോ, സത്യസന്ധത
അവരുടെ ആഴങ്ങളും
തേടുന്നവര്‍ നമ്മള്‍.

ത്സാങ്ങ്പോ പദ്മ
ബ്രഹ്മപുത്രാ നദിയിലും
കണ്ണീരിനുരുള്‍
പൊട്ടലിലും സിയോന്‍
തീരം തേടുന്നവരിവര്‍
'നേപ്പാളികള്‍ '


ചിന്തകള്‍ പെന്‍ഡുലം പോലെ
യിളകിയാടുമ്പോള്‍, യുദ്ധങ്ങളും
ഗ്രനേഡും ദുസ്വപ്നങ്ങളാകുമ്പോള്‍
അവരുടെ പുഞ്ചിരി പിന്നിലെ
ഓര്‍മ്മതന്‍ ഭൂപടം, കുന്നിന്‍ ചെരുവും
ബന്ധുവര്‍ഗ്ഗവും വംശനാശമില്ലാതെ
ജീവിച്ചിരിക്കുന്നോ എന്നവര്‍ ശങ്കിച്ചിരിക്കാം

ത്സാങ്ങ്പോ പദ്മ
ബ്രഹ്മപുത്രാ നദിയിലും
കണ്ണീരിനുരുള്‍
പൊട്ടലിലും സിയോന്‍
തീരം തേടുന്നവരിവര്‍
'നേപ്പാളികള്‍ '


പുലര്‍കാല മാലഖമാരിവര്‍
വേനലില്‍ മടങ്ങുബോള്‍
കോവര്‍ കഴുതയുടെ
വാരിയെല്ലുള്ളവര്‍,
ഒരു ദേശ ചര്‍മ്മത്തിനി
ത്തിള്‍ക്കണ്ണിയായ്കിടക്കും
പാപഭാരമേറാനും
മിറക്കാനും പ്രാപ്തിയുള്ളോരിവര്‍

ത്സാങ്ങ്പോ പദ്മ
ബ്രഹ്മപുത്രാ നദിയിലും
കണ്ണീരിനുരുള്‍
പൊട്ടലിലും സിയോന്‍
തീരം തേടുന്നവരിവര്‍
'നേപ്പാളികള്‍ '


കടലിന്‍ എണ്ണപ്പാട
പോലോര്‍മ്മയില്‍
മായത്തവരിവര്‍
മറയാത്തവരിവര്‍.
ഒരു ദേശത്തിന്‍
പാപബോധമത്രെയും
ഒരു കുടന്ന പരിലാളനമായി
മഥിച്ചു മതിയായോ നമുക്ക് ?

Monday, March 22, 2010

Train to Kannur




Thalasserry

This morning saw a green
tumble down to pick a stone
from the river, then the
brackish green stepped
up towards a red hillock;
wedged between weedy green
women came slow-stepped
holding loofahs and lingerie
wrapped in neat white towels,
ceremoniously waded
ripples with a dhothi
covering their breasts
hitched up at the ankles;
the wet-cloth-thud on every
wash stone rang, the gentle
inner arch of a bathing woman
sent ripples shivering to the
the rocky bank, the morning
played out a sensual song

Mahe

The train stopped at a station
without pretensions, a canopy
of rubber trees spread behind
its fence to hide cornucopial tales.
Mahe was still, spewing silent
stories of its river, love and people
once sandwiched between cultures and
two countries alien to each other.
River Mayyazhi flowed on with
a serene calm, making no mistakes
it rested on the mangroves and
man-made islets where cicadas
chirped out of her silence that
spoke of pebbles turning to
boiled sweets in the magical air.

Kannur

The dusty streets snaked to
broader roads that hoarded
mannequins in showrooms, mute
spectators to class wars on the streets,
the jails were overwhelmed with
karsevaks and comrades who watered
and tilled jail soil with a calm
camaraderie, the hidden venom of
someone hacking his political rival
with a machete and hoe could only be seen
in the red hibiscus which bloomed in abandon.
My sindoor blazed on my forehead
as I was a new bride in Kannur
wearing jasmines of innocence and the
red kanakambaroms of blood filled yesterdays

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Sculpted words




Time has a soul that heals
and my soul's bruises are
the gulmohars flaming the sky.

Days are refrigerators;
memories are stacked,
used or thrown away when old.
You can even defrost
your life there.

Its all there, newspaper
scraps, grotesque obituaries,
accidents, molestations,
helicopter crashes, politics
fades into the personal spaces
of living, while you
rue over your lover's car not
picking you up like yesterday,
or the notes that you compare
with colleagues, over promotions
and a figure changed here
or there in your salaries,
daily routines, bickering,
tea breaks, the sun
and the sea breeze that blows
hot-hotter every day.

we also long for the yesterday
fearfully loathed just the previous day,
zodiacs in the sky that
keep changing, when archers
appear, we desire the scale
to measure our hearts
or the conch shell from a crab
or the snail to resurrect like
your love after a treble trail
of the sea scraping the wall.
That was madness
breaking its head on
the thought of death.


I am the Pygmalion in love
with my sculpted words,
tomorrow my Galatia shall be
desired by the world
word by word...

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

വിരോധാഭാസം

പരസ്പരം നശിക്കാതെ
നമുക്ക് സ്നേഹിച്ചുകൂടെ?
കര പുഴയോടും
ഇലകള്‍ കാറ്റിനോടും
സൂര്യന്‍ ചക്രവാളത്തിനോടും
ചോദിച്ചു.
പുഴ കവിഞ്ഞൊഴുകി
കാറ്റ് ആഞ്ഞു വീശി
ചക്രവാളം പറുദയാല്‍
സ്വയം മൂടി.


കരയുടെ
നഖക്ഷതങ്ങള്‍
കരിയില
മര്‍മ്മരങ്ങള്‍
ഇരുളിന്റെ ഈറന്‍
കണ്മഷി
എന്നിവ ചാലിച്ച്
പ്രകൃതി
പ്രണയകാവ്യമെഴുതി.

ഒരു വിരോധാഭാസം പോലെ

Monday, March 15, 2010

മരീചിക

എന്റെ വാക്കുകള്‍ക്ക്
പ്രസക്തിയില്ല
കവിതയ്ക്ക് ഭാവമില്ല
ചിന്തക്ക് ഭാവനയില്ല
സ്വപ്നങ്ങള്‍ക്ക് വര്‍ണ്ണമില്ല;
ഞാന്‍ നിന്നിലൂടെ
സ്വയം തേടിയത്
നിന്നില്‍ നിന്നും
ഒളിക്കുവാനല്ല
സ്വയം ഒളിപ്പിക്കാനുമല്ല
എന്റെ വാക്കുകള്‍
വീണ്ടെടുത്തതും
കവിതയ്ക്ക് ചിറകുവച്ചതും
സ്വപ്‌നങ്ങള്‍
വര്‍ണ്ണ വാതായനങ്ങള്‍
തേടിയതും നിന്നിലൂടെയാണ്,
നിന്റെ നെടുവീപ്പുകളില്‍
ഇന്ന് ഞാനുണ്ടോ എന്ന്
സംശയിക്കുമ്പോഴും,
എന്റെ സ്വപ്‌നങ്ങള്‍
നീല ചിറകു വിടര്‍ത്തി
പറന്നടുക്കുന്നത് നീ എന്ന
മരീചികയിലെക്കാണ്

Over the phone


Your voice tastes
like honey, its
enough I live in
its banks gazing
into its myriad forms,
your laughter, anger
and love. I miss them
only in my life,
they are green
and alive in memory.


ആദ്യം നിന്റെ
വചനത്തെ അറിഞ്ഞു,
പിന്നെ നിന്നെയും.
നിന്റെ ശബ്ദം തേനാണ്,
അതിന്റെ തീരത്ത്
പല ഭാവങ്ങളുടെ
ധ്വനി;
രോഷം, സ്നേഹം,
ഈര്‍ഷ്യ, കാമം...
ജീവിതത്തില്‍ അവ
മറഞ്ഞെങ്കിലും,
ഓര്‍മ്മയുടെ വാടാമുല്ലകളില്‍
അവക്ക് മരണമില്ല

Thursday, March 11, 2010

To the unknown reader

If lost wedding rings
can be the think-tanks
of our generation,
their snake finger
venom can leave you
deserted all of a
sudden with
a vengeance

they ask you where
your thali is, you can
show the glitter of emerald,
pearl and semi-precious stones
on your empty neck,
which indicates an openness
to choices , that's dangerous,
like open doors to strangers.

when you hear the rattle inside
your sternum and an unflinching
pain that eats your chest, remember
that you are too selfish to die.
you need your lipsticks, rouge and
collirium carried in your make up
kit wherever you go, death can only
disfigure. you need courage to die.

In this soap operatic life
I take the role of a vamp,
no tragic heroine or heroic slot
will be ever mine, then to
struggle with destiny and
triumph is my forte. I will
survive a million suicides
in which I kill my selves.

My reader, let me tell you
you are not responsible
for those murders

വിവാഹമോതിരങ്ങള്‍
ഈ തലമുറയുടെ
ചിന്താശ്രോതസ്സുകളാണ്;
അവയുടെ വിഷദംഷ്ട്രം
ഒരു വൈരാഗ്യത്തോടെ
നിങ്ങളെ ഒറ്റപ്പെടുത്തും
താലി ചോദിച്ചവരോട്
ഒഴിഞ്ഞ കഴുത്തിലെ
സാധ്യതകളെ,
മുത്ത്‌, മരതകം,
ഒരു ഗ്രാം സ്വര്‍ണം,
പറ്റി പറഞ്ഞാല്‍,
അതൊരു ക്ഷണമാകും ,
കള്ളനു കഞ്ഞി വെക്കുന്നത്
പോലെ പുകിലാകും.

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

Remembering Toru Dutt


Toru, your season
was a flicker of
the sun snuffed
by the whirlwinds
of consumption.

you sang of your home
your Casurinas under
the chilled frames
of a foreign land,
you had heard their
branches sigh from
an alien land where
you learned their poets,
your tongue spun
those tales later,
you conquered
with your will
like a leaf gathering
a storm before its
fall.

when you fell young,
you spoke those words
to inspire many who
came after you.

Toru, you bloomed not to
wilt, but to stay green
in your verses and our dreams.

Monday, March 01, 2010

Tactile Sighs

A sigh
licked
like a
whiplash,
snapped,
then cut
furrows
on my
flesh.

I was
Christ
in his
cross
reliving
your
pathos,
memories,
infidel joys!

തൊട്ടുണര്‍ത്തിയ നെടുവീര്‍പ്പ്

ഒരു നെടുവീര്‍പ്പിന്റെ
ചാട്ടവാര്‍ ഞൊടി
ഉഴുവ് കീറിയത്
മാംസത്തെ
മാത്രമല്ല...
നിന്റെ ആര്‍ദ്രതയും
ഓര്‍മകളും
വഞ്ചനയുടെ
തൃപ്തിയുമെല്ലാം
ക്രിസ്തുവിനെപ്പോലെ
അനുഭവിച്ചു നീറിയവള്‍
ഞാന്‍!!!

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Emptiness

As a poet writing about
wounds and tears in her
poems, its time to speak
about emptiness that
trickles down one's soul.

a fanatic losing her God
whom she rediscovers
as a stone unearthed
from bowels of earth will
understand what I am taking
about .

or a beggar's tarpaulin
sheet blown away by a whirl
wind, one stormy night
will also explain the condition.

Let me try something better;
a teacher becoming amnesiac
in the middle of a lecture
or the river mouth scorched
dry by an unexpected sun lick,
or love strangling lovers with
its lies and delusions.
or waking up in the morning
drained of all the blood,
that you wish you are dead!

The essence is sucked dry
The kernel is crushed
when the sun closes its
eyes never to open again,
Do you call these emptiness?

കണ്ണുനീരും വേദനയും
മഷിയില്‍ ചാലിച്ചതിനു
പുറമേ
ആത്മാവിലേക്ക് ഇറ്റി-
റ്റു വീഴുന്ന ശൂന്യതെയെപറ്റി
എഴുതട്ടെ

താന്‍ ആരാധിച്ചിരുന്നത്
ഭൂഗര്‍ഭത്തില്‍ നിന്നെടുത്ത
വെറും കല്ലാണെന്നറിഞ്ഞ
മതഭ്രാന്തിക്ക് ഞാന്‍ പറയുന്ന
തിന്‍ ധ്വനി മനസ്സിലാവും

കൊടുംകാറ്റില്‍
അത്താണി നഷ്ടപെട്ട
ഭിക്ഷക്കാരനു എന്റെയീ
അവസ്ഥ ഗദ്ഗദത്താല്‍ വര്‍ണ്ണിക്കാം


ക്ലാസ്സിനിടയില്‍
അമ്നേഷ്യ ബാധിച്ച
അദ്ധ്യപികയെപോലെ
അല്ലെങ്കില്‍ സൂര്യ
ചുംബനത്താല്‍
ഉണങ്ങി വരണ്ട
നദീമുഖംപോലെ,
പ്രേമത്തിന്റെ നീരാളി
പിടുത്തത്തിലമര്‍ന്ന
കമിതാക്കളെ പോലെ,
രക്തംവാര്‍ന്ന പോയ
ശരീരം പോലെ
നഷപ്പെട്ട അന്തസത്ത,
അടഞ്ഞ കണ്ണ്
ഒരിക്കലും തുറക്കാത്ത
സൂര്യന്‍...
ഉപമകള്‍ക്ക് പഞ്ഞമില്ല
ശൂന്യതയെ വര്‍ണ്ണിക്കാന്‍...

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Wounds

once an enlightened poet said,
to know the depth of wounds
delve into them, feel them,
sores and pain, and the fresh
trickle of blood that spurts
from their volcanic spouts,
with a warm coagulant foam,
and the way it says with
many words that it hurts.

Know the feel of wounds,
do not take my wrists to slash
to show what pain is all about.
when your wounds heal, you should
know that my wounds hurt too
and some wounds never heal...


ജ്ഞാനിയായ കവി
പണ്ടൊരിക്കല്‍ പറഞ്ഞത്രെ:
മുറിവിന്‍ വ്യപ്തിയറിയാന്‍
മുറിവേല്‍ക്കണം ,
അതിലേക്കു ഊളയിടണം
സ്പര്‍ശിക്കണം, വൃണത്തിന്‍റെ
ഓവുചാലില്‍ രക്തത്തിന്‍
ചൂടറിയണം, പതനുകരണം,
വേദനയുടെ സ്പന്ദനങ്ങള്‍ക്ക്
കാതോര്‍ക്കണം.

വേദനയെ തൊട്ടറിയാന്‍
വേദനയെന്തെന്നറിയിക്കുവാന്‍
വൃണപ്പെടുത്തേണ്ടെന്നെ നീ,
നിന്‍റെ മുറിവുങ്ങുമ്പോള്‍
എന്‍റെ വേദനനീയറിയുക,
വൃണങ്ങള്‍ ഉണങ്ങില്ലെന്നും

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

My Magical boat

My buoyant body
bobs up and down,
winking at the
depths of life,
frenzied by
the promises,
hopes that make
it float.

Up and down
up and down
and here I go
in my magical
boat.

snorkeling
into questions to
tease out answers
I divorce their
union
with no guilt
but with mischief
and with trite.

Up and down
up and down
and here I go
in my magical
boat.

penning nonsense,
on punchlines,
lingering
philosophies
that no one reads,
see this web-morgue
heaped with words.

Up and down
up and down
and here I go
in my magical
boat.

Wednesday, February 03, 2010

The Point of no Return

There is a point of no return
as the bee hums in your ears,
we are led into the trance
of a dervish sighting his lover.

When we smell the blood of life
outside us, we leave our homes
for hunting our heart beats down
darting to the corridors of death.

Back home only pasts and memories
wait, our future smells of blood,
sweat and tears that excite us more,
swatting our pasts behind screens.

Home also smells of myrrh, frankincense,
a house thatched with palm fronds by
gossipy bidi-puffing women, black as
kohl in their shrivelled pea-pods.

Their work clothes smelt of sweat and
betel juices, their freshness smelt of
frangipani flowers, lifebuoy , incense
and sex in their daily evening talkies.

one might wonder at the transition of
poverty from sweat and body juices to
face powder and cheap perfumes, and snobs
keep away from the stuff of the masses

The thatched roof housed riotous history
of the king's concubine hidden in the attic
the public memory of the Rapunzel hair wound
on her arm that hid three men in its fold,

I thought my hair was also thatched with
its curls and nits, that I tidied the
fringes and went scissor happy, till I got
them straightened out with chemicals

but sprouting thoughts of the pasts which still
knits a cornice on my head are smoothed
to crown my momentary amnesia. Fresh foliage
shoots out of my seediness to pleach the branches

There was a point of no return when I crucified
the Messiah, looked for the silenced scrolls,
and testaments fastened to the scold's bridle,
I buried my single God for a skeptic's pantheon.

There is a point of no return when life
parades its colours in glory in day light
blindens its hues at night, just to dole
hope as soul syrups to those living,
inching the vale of death day by day.


ഒരു പൂവിതളും പിന്നെ വണ്ടിന്റെ
മുരള്‍ച്ചയും നിന്നെ നിന്റെ
നാഥനിലേക്ക് നയിക്കുന്നത് പോലെ,
ഒരിക്കലും തിരികെ വരാന്‍ പറ്റാത്ത
ഭാവിയിലേക്ക് നാം നടന്നു കഴിഞ്ഞു

ഹൃദ്യത്തുടിപ്പിനെ വേട്ടയാടി
രക്തത്തിന്റെ മണം പിടിച്ചു
മുന്നോട്ടു പായുമ്പോള്‍,
ഓര്‍മയുടെ ഭൂതം മാത്രം.
പഴമയുടെ തിരശ്ശീല നീക്കി,
രക്തശോണിമയിലേക്ക്
ഒരു കിതപ്പോടെ നടന്നടുക്കുമ്പോള്‍,
അത് മരണത്തിന്റെ ഇടനാഴിയിലെ
ക്കുള്ള കുതിപ്പാകാമെന്നറിഞ്ഞോ നീ ?

ചന്ദനത്തിരിയും കുന്തിരിക്കവും
മണക്കുന്ന വീട്ടുമുറ്റം ,
ഓലമെടയുന്ന സ്ത്രീകളുടെ
കറുത്തുണങ്ങിയ നുണകള്‍ക്ക്
ബീഡിയുടെയും വിയര്‍പ്പിന്റെയും മണം,

വസ്ത്രങ്ങളില്‍
എണ്ണയും വെറ്റിലക്കറയും;
കുളിച്ചൊരിങ്ങിയ സായാഹ്നങ്ങള്‍ക്ക്‌
ലൈഫ്ബോയുടെയും,
കനകാംബരത്തിന്റെയും, രതിയുടെയും
സിനിമാ കൊട്ടകകളുടെയും ഗന്ധവും .

അവരുടെ ശരീരസ്രവങ്ങളും
വില കുറഞ്ഞ പൌടെറിന്റെ
ഗന്ധവ്യതിയാനങ്ങളും ഞങ്ങളെ
ചിന്തിപ്പിച്ചു.

ഓലമേഞ്ഞ വീട്ടുമച്ചിലെ
ചരിത്രം ഓര്‍മയുടെ ചെപ്പില്‍ നിന്നും
വീണ്ടെടുത്തപ്പോള്‍, അവളുടെ മുടിയഴകിന്
ആറുമുഴം നീളം.കുളക്കടവില്‍
ഈറനുടുത്തവരെ കണ്ടു മോഹിച്ച
രാജാവിന്റെ ചരിത്രം വേറെ.

ആ ഓലമേഞ്ഞ മച്ചില്‍
എന്റെ ഈരുള്ള ചുരുള്‍മുടി,
നാളേറെ കഴിഞ്ഞു
രാസവസ്തുക്കളിട്ടിട്ടും
മാറാത്ത ചുരുള്‍ച്ച,
കയ്യാലയിലെ തളിരില പോലെ,
തഴമ്പിച്ചു നിന്ന എന്‍ ഓര്‍മകള്‍.

ഗൈരികത്താല്‍ മൂടി ഞാന്‍
എന്ന്‍ ഏക ദൈവത്തെ..
പുതിയ സുവിശേഷങ്ങള്‍ തേടി,
പല ദൈവങ്ങളെ കുടിയിരുത്തി
ദിനങ്ങളുടെ വര്‍ണ്ണപ്പകിട്ടു
കണ്ടു രാത്രിയില്‍
അന്ധരായി പരതുമ്പോഴും ,
മടങ്ങി വരാനാവാത്ത
മരണകെണിയിലെക്കെന്നു
നാം വിസ്മരിക്കുന്നുവോ?

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Mummy memories

"Selfish, unwanted!"
I have heard it
even when I was
roe in the womb;
ma ejected me
with a Caesearian.

They said that,I was
fished out from
a garbage bin,
I was dark and
my sweat smelled.


Now, its time for you
to shut me in a grave
in your mind's corner,
bury all promises like spices
and incense with the mummy,
and unearth me once a while
like a strand of memory:
sweet and bitter
at the same time.



സിസേരിയനു മുന്‍പ്
ഒരു പരിന്ജീലായി
ഉദരത്തിലുള്ളപ്പോഴേ
"സ്വാര്‍ത്ഥ, വേണ്ടാത്തവള്‍"
എന്ന് കേട്ടിട്ടുണ്ടാവണം

ചവറ്റു കുട്ടയില്‍ നിന്നും
എടുത്തതുകൊണ്ടാവണം
ഈ കറുപ്പും ദുര്‍ഗന്ധവും,
അവര്‍ ചിരിച്ചു

നിനക്കും നിന്റെ മനസ്സിന്റെ
കല്ലറയില്‍, വാഗ്ദാനങ്ങളും
സുഗന്ധദ്രവ്യങ്ങളുമായി എന്നെ
അടക്കം ചെയ്യാം .
പിന്നെ, ഒരു കയ്പ്പും-
മധുരവുമുള്ള ഓര്‍മയായി
ഉയര്‍ത്തെഴുന്നെല്‍പ്പിക്കാം

Friday, January 29, 2010

Autopsy: See for your self

Sometimes
postmortems are done
even before burying
ourselves, laying bare
a memory or a strand
of our past, wash it
clean, dissect to thin
strips to see failures,
re-read disappointments,
past is a cadaver
pickled in its
most deformed form
in formaldehyde and
rectified spirits
to read our future

Postmortems of our loves,
failed and successful ones
show why
a sniffle sounded remote or
a smile did not touch the
arterial routes to the soul.
We realise that before death
love was beautiful
had we only let it grow
in its natural course,
before we leashed it with
sentiments, possessions,
lust and hurts, in the
prison-house of love
we suffered to reap
its ephemeral joys.

Then we postmortem
our days, nights, lives,
ambitions. We even rake
open our neighbour's
head with a Stryker saw
for the mysteries of his life.

The worst we do again is
we cut open our sores,
to see unhealed wounds
and the fresh feel of blood.
When we postmortem our souls,
there's rigor-mortis of
a soul stiffened beyond our
scissors' sharpness.

And by the time we finish
dissection and stitching up
stuff back again, we find
our paltry, ordinary lives
not worth for an autopsy per se !

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Its only words?

If there's a gap between
the word and the deed...
I can show you words
can be deeds as well
when you spell them out
hollering out your heart.

Its time to forget those
adages that you have grown
with up, for example the
biological making of a woman
and man, that pooh poohs
conditioning, can be proved
wrong from your own life,
for example, how rituals are
actions acted out that do
not necessarily cleanse is
also known to you, one can
stay hungry for you and eat
you from within, dont you know
the dynamics of old sayings have
been studied and toppled by us
effectively? We need effective
Machiavellis and Chanakyas
to map our brains , understand
its contours and folds.

For example, my words may just
remain words for you, but they
have their resonances beyond the
clanging of a bell or a bucket
plummeting deep down one's well.
But you know better that in the
beginning there was the Word
which transformed to life
of all forms and matter.

My love, my words are my actions
I know only my heart speaking
through my tongue and through my
pen, may be a fantasy or truth
as you may choose to call them,
but remember
words while spoken, though they
disappear hold the key those actions
which I may survive to do or fail....

Friday, January 22, 2010

Just for while...

It is not just the chord that
ties us intricately down,
but instances right from
our birth,born with teeth,
cradled in darkness, or souls
sought each other since our
births, generations ago,

Some times,simple instances
as water drops tapping on an
empty bucket, or the gentle
ruffle of a bed sheet on
skin, or the gentle
brush of a comb on
my hair, the truth dawns
as rhythmically as these
that you and I are tied
inextricably as leaves to a wind,
or as clouds to the sky.

In the mornings too as we
wake up missing the heat
of each other sheathing our
skin, like husk to a kernel, or
sword to its leather pouch,
we know that we dont need
castles to shelter our
bodies, but each other;
as you are my body's soul

what parted us first
were the clock hands
that combed our
forest depths
into two distant
terrains in time,
they drew a vast
ocean between our lands,
destiny, when
distances distanced
like wanton boys.

Today, I may travel far,
my body may never be back
but my soul in you will remain
the light that our lamps
shall set alite, the flame
that dances, flickers, but
never dies, remains
for ages, till we
shed our bodies, egos and
merge with that Oneness,
brightness akin to Divine
where we shine bright
exuding only warmth and joy
in spreading the final
truth that you and I
are one.

Only we know that
we have transformed
beyond ourselves
to be the sun
that can only be kind
to the spheres it warms
and sets to alight
whole day till night sets
in , to continue
the cycle again

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

Show me how to love

Show me how to love.
I cannot excuse myself,
mumble I do not know,
and forget pollen dust
lingering on a petal
like your touch

I cannot mutter in
the darkness and ignore
moon's love-merger
with a distant sun,
blinding him with a
silent kiss

I cannot pretend I do
not see the wind's caress
on the ribbed sand
spine, to arouse her from
her stupor

I cannot be as naive
as a child to cry when
hungry, smile when happy,
then frown disappointed
at life's surprises

I cannot sulk like a cloud
I see even the tress
swish and twirl in the
storm only to be erect
with its new found strength

I need not seek a shoulder to
cry as the rain just
rains over the land,
trees and brims over the
rivers, never to be dammed
by a comforting arm



Every night I go home crying because I'll have to wait until tomorrow to see you again.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Train Dreams

The train rocked
its way into night's
sleepy tunnels;
we couldn't shutter
the eyes reflecting
our corona of longing...

Thursday, January 07, 2010

Twinkle of the Unknown

Lunacy is nothing new
but a familiar mould
of fungus basking in
the sun to destroy
itself

Normalcy is the easy
parade of days and
nights through mind's
kaleidoscopic
eyes

Death awaits all, we flit
from sanity to insanity
from life to lifelessness;
we glide like ghosts
from material to immaterial
Then we become clouds
leaving this blue earth
to merge with stardust
smudged all over the
milky way
or to be a drop of rain
cupped on a leaf's palm
reflecting the twinkle
of the Unknown

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