PoetryFarm

An old family album

2004-06-24T15:49:00.000+04:00

Pieces of memories, in small snaps
or on substantive lengths of bromide
pasted inextricably onto black parchments
contained between thick covers
that read: "Sweet Memories".

Photographs that overtook a
mandatory 'cheese' by seconds,
or caught someone blinking
as the flash went off,
bear testimony to the fact of
getting used to.

An amateur's hand had pushed
my grandpa to the periphery
inadvertently capturing a secret reality.
The trepidation of an unpractised hand
had converted my obese aunt
into a sailing dervish.

And then there was myself,
an infant, with nothing but a black string
around the waist. The string sports
a gold coin with an embossed dog,
to ward off evil. I scan it keenly,
locate estranged likeness,
and smile a smile of tenuous mirth.

A wedding here, a picnic there,
a few smiling faces of the dead and the dying,
strangers in fleeting conviviality
now steeped in irrelevance.

A chemical promise of immortality
by shadows in captivity.

The album reeks of naphthalene balls
and discarded memories.

I thumb it fondly
nostalgia rising in a thin veneer
and put it irretrievably into
the chest that carries aging knick-knacks
which everyone wants disposed
but none ever disposes.

ooOoo

Father, son and the gunny bag

2004-06-16T10:25:00.000+04:00

A ponderous gunny bag my father carried.
His father bequeathed it to him, he said.

In the beginning it was small.
He also remembers having carried it
ever since he was a toddler.

In his youth, before he plunged headlong
into the business of life, he said,
he used to sift the bag's contents.
That was the time when the sieve had
all its eyes open, but would not sift
matter beyond its measure.

When he came with different heaps
of facts, truths, half truths, untruths
and pure lies, it was not to his
father's liking, he remembers.

In the ennui of middle age
he mixed them all up, what a surprise!
There were two bags full now.
Well, that was not a problem, I was there,
though just a toddler, to share the burden.

He wobbled alongside me, teaching me
how glorious it was to carry around
such a hoary burden.
His bent back was humility and
mine was called obedience.

By and by my biceps bulged and
shoulders rounded up in full manhood.
I could carry my father's weighty legacy
with ease; nonetheless, I chose to
walk with a slouch in pretended obedience.

Attempting a cosmetic change to suit the times,
I transferred the contents to a synthetic bag.
"Am I carrying dead weight? What if I
drop the burden and stand erect?",
a question sprouted.
Scandalized, I chided my suspicious little intellect
and took refuge in my noted obedience.

All along the way people threw their refuse
in our beloved bag, which was ever growing.
Somewhere along the seams
thing started trickling down.
In the leakage, I was startled to discover
some truths, some facts,
some half truths, some untruths
and, well, some sparkling lies.

It was time for me to embark upon
the despicable job of sifting.
A job fit for heretics, infidels and the gutsy.
A job, it appears, that would
take the rest of my life
only to leave it unfinished.

I would bequeath my little son
not a gunny bag
not a synthetic one
but a velvet pouch
nursing in its bowels
gold nuggets, raw diamonds,
corals and moonstone.

Let him find out
what do with them.

ooOoo

St. Mary's Island

2004-06-14T08:50:00.000+04:00

Fishy silence of
pensive herons
in one legged penance.

Crystalline
rocks of
frozen lava
antiquated
in dark majesty.

Clusters of
dishevelled
palm trees
gesturing to
the beating sun.

An unscheduled
trawler
reeking of
fish and diesel
evokes
a non-marine
impression.

Sea gulls
after
tentative take off
and thrifty
circles
are back
amidst the
rock crystals
like my
thoughts of you.

Just hang on..

2004-06-11T20:02:00.000+04:00

Just hang on, I'll be with you
in a moment.
I must be finishing any time;
all that is required are the
final touches. I won't delay you.

This yellow here is looks dirty,
the tree could have been more vigorous,
but the sunshine is natural and
so is the freckled fore-ground.
Give me a moment,
let me set a few things right.

Move a little to your right, carefully,
don't step on the paint tubes.
This yesterday's canvass was done
in a hurry; it is short on time and
long on passion.

Care to sit on the stool? There,
in that corner, right.
Don't lean back, that canvass done last year
is still fresh, let it not
smudge your back.

Let me put things in order,
not a small feat that, in my
cluttered cubicle of creativity.
If you have patience, I should be
able to bring some semblance of
civilization here. At the risk
of becoming a misfit, though!

Getting late? Never mind, move on.
I seem stuck up between then and now.

This cubicle which bears my finger prints, paw prints,
and soul prints, seems to grow on me.
If you are sure you want me to go
with you, accept me with the cubicle too.

In case your hide-bound book of etiquettes
forbids such a presence,
please leave me alone to my
art and artefacts.

How cheap is the song?

2004-06-07T19:18:00.000+04:00

In this part of the world,
a world boastful of its past,
life goes cheap.

When cops are bored with
'fake encounter' games,
when trains choose to keep to the rails,
when quakes, draughts and floods fail to batter,
we have help coming in the form of
food and drinks laced with killer chemicals.

Then there are the curious devout
who chant their prayers through
the perforated barrel of the Automatic.

In this part of the world
life goes for a song.

Sometimes, just for a discordant note,
not even a full-throated song.

ooOoo

Apocalypse

2004-06-06T17:44:00.000+04:00

And you thought you could get away from it all
by the mere act of waking up,
like from a nightmare.
It stayed along as reality
grotesquely mimicking horror movie.

You had clear portents, not slight suggestion,
of what was to come. And a gut feeling.
It came not as a surprise,
the trickle having started long before the torrent.
The visceral fear now is whether the avalanche
itself was only a trickle; catastrophe yet to follow.

Evidently it is there, you would know
even if you were half-dead.
Here, the symptom is the malady.
And you dismiss them as aberrations.

Don't look elsewhere when
it stares straight into your eyes.
Scratch the Gucci and the pinstripe,
you will find hobnailed boots and olive uniform.
Cops protect peace by breaking open skulls.
peaceful co-existence is the silence of the lambs.

You are dying to ask a question
and, make a pronouncement.
Let them wait. Find your voice
to register a loud protest.

That way we might give ourselves
one more chance.

ooOoo

A cat is not a cat

2004-06-05T17:28:00.000+04:00

A cat is a fallen piece of cloud
curled up in wakeful sleep.

A mixed metaphor descending the stairs
with a questioning tail.

A nimble poem on four feet
arching in lascivious laziness.

A bonsai-tiger
illuding the window bars.

A pair of burnt sienna petals
startling the night.

A cat is a lewd tongue, virile whiskers,
cunning paw and friendly deceit.

A defiant meek ball of cotton wool
programmed to freeze and flow.

The Language of Rain

2004-06-03T20:30:00.000+04:00

It rains outside.
Thunder cackles boisterously,
ventilator rattles and blinks
like a cyclop in pain.

I know, the sky has a message for me.

That is a parlance
between me and what spreads
up there in the name of sky.

In secretive symbols of light and sound
we exchange eternal truths.

No need to go looking for an umbrella
riddled with pinpoints of disuse.
Umbrellas are for oldmen,
pet dogs and spoilt children.

Not for an elemental man.

The revelry of street urchins excite the clouds.
The kids, afraid of their sharp tongued mothers
rush home with laughter rasping in their throat.

I, lost in communion with
wondrous Nature,
dissolve in its cosmic drama.

It is Poetry Time folks!

2004-06-03T13:09:00.000+04:00

Well, Madhurabharathi is here with his irrepressible English poems too! (For the uninitiated: he writes equally insufferable poems in tamil too)

It is time someone dinned into his ears the importance of being non-creative. But then, some people neither listen nor know themselves.

All right! Poetry doesn't come any better. Suffer it if you can. The count down starts now...