Thursday, 30 April 2009

In rains and pains

Guitaring for Sonorita


Rain and pain
Sonorita….

Treat us same
Sonorita….

Song and tune
Sonorita

Meet us same
Sonorita..

Kiss and miss
Sonorita…

Mess us same
Sonorita

Birth and death
Sonorita

Bind us same
Sonorita

Name and fame
Sonorita..

Cut us two
Sonorita…

Make it one
Sonorita..

Gain and loss
Sonorita…

Cut us two
Sonorita…

But we two
Sonorita…

Let them go
Sonorita

You and I
Sonorita

Form us one
Sonorita

Wednesday, 29 April 2009

Basking under discontentment


Jessica teaches cooling


Jessica and the Pilgrim
Were there
Basking under
the shade of a grove.

‘In the beginning,
who required all this ?
Pleasure and the displeasure
In the nights of rummaging
Fingers and movements.
Flurrying with
All formations

Was not the toil sufficient
for a day to find our worth
Tilling the soil with worms
Sheltering in their homes;

Was it God?
Who made our images
Of which we are discontented
Now,
and then
and often
and ever,
and now trying
to clone
Aping the creation.?

The poor sea
Bellows with volcanoes
And earth quakes.
In the labour of
creating islands;
Designing new habitats
For our displeasures.’

He paused.

‘Pilgrim!’

She stopped him.

‘You need.’

‘What?’

‘Water of a
tender coconut.’

‘Why?’

‘It teaches.’

He watched.


‘Cooling and
Saving your
Cool’


She went
And brought.


After drinking
He realized .

‘ I agree
Nothing is
Created for
Total denial or
Total acceptance.’

She shared the
Half left water.

The River and a Boat


Jessica rows a boat

‘Can you row?’
Jessica asked the pilgrim
her head resting on arms folded back,
Her eyes fixed on grey sky as
The temple backyard slides
down the Marbled steps
kissing the stream run,
rosy feet splashing water;
her hip and the neck loving
the curvy bend of steps;



Small boats budge distantly
Noticing a little boat’s
Arrest on a long purple pole
Tied by a dirty rope
tipping up and down
At ebb’s force.
The pale young moon
Paying a view
of an insipid flicker.


‘Can you?’


‘Yes! I can;
Though I am not a pilgrim’


‘A pilgrim need not know
How to row a boat?’


Her astute eyes grasped
The point.


As he followed
Her to enter the boat
She said,


‘I am the stream
Rowing a boat.’


The oars tore the water
Making waves.


‘No’


‘Then?’


‘You are a river;
I am a boat’
A wave flipped.


‘Every river
Runs to surrender’


‘Yes’


A brief silence.


‘But no boat....’


‘No. All boats chase'
'Timely.'
A Fish jumped.


‘Think of
The end of
Any river.’


The oars went
Idle.


The wind and
The waves and
The stand still
Boat


Everything
Listened to
Her breathing


He needed
To drink
The tears


But…
Impossible.
How much..
How much..


The stream goes
On and on
To meet
A river of no time.
So much …


Tuesday, 28 April 2009

On returning from cremation


Ventilation
(after returning from mother’s cremation)

On the road returning
after cremation a dog-
frenzied or understandable or left sad
in the red wood coppice-

pound upon my dusk
filled with choke
behind his drawl
reflected in certain
and appealing voice,


then hurried and riotous,
an autumnal wind
quieted him ,
and then,
a brief shower.

Drive off mirages

Jessica playing Chess


Jessica left the temple
For strolling around the sea-shore
The pilgrim loitering behind
Reminding Solomon.

It is not Sheba now
But Solomon following.
The sea breeze shuffled
Her curly black hairs

‘Do you play chess?’
Without turning she asked.
‘A little.’

‘How many moves
Do you need to win your king?’

He counted.
‘Four’
‘Poor’
He listened.

‘Three is more;
If you are a player lore.’

The waves went high
Rising up above the sky
Sun went down
An angry wave
Rushed pushing her
Over him.

She was on his chest now
Their eyes met to rest
The lips were close
While waves enclose.

‘Drive off mirages.’
She said stiffly.

‘Stephanie did it’

‘No, you alternate.’

His eyes questioned.

‘A variable is only variable
Not with meaning.’

Another wave threw
Her to grip firm on him.

He sensed the quest
And warmth of a plump breast.

Their lips enclosed
Brewing a meaning.

He counted within.
She won her king
In just two moves.

Teaching by negatives

What my mother taught me not

You never taught me mother,
how to be hard and stony,
Over others pains and tears


You never taught me to rest at ease
And find numbering comforts to increase.

You never taught me to hang after others
And how to exploit the toils of brothers;

You never taught me how to linger
For anything which could be won with our finger.

You never taught me to sell self-respect
For any craving to buy some prospect;

Mother, you never taught me to go low
When all demanded a hung down show

You never taught me to boast and pose
While I was selling sweat for buying rose

Mother you never taught me to live in dream
And you claiming to make a cake first and then cream

You never taught me human life is more than a speck
No other power can save our ship from wreck

You never taught me to grudge and make revenge
With any cause which came across to avenge

You never taught me to waive my concern and care
For any dependant demanded my dare.

Mother you never taught me to live
Leaving the show with out something to give

Mother you taught me all by negatives.

A jouney in queue


Jessica instructs the pilgrim


From Stephanie to Havana
And Havana to Novena
Novena to Kentia
The pilgrim with a punctured
Heart sailed on and on
Until attaining.


The Temple came
Then Jessica instructed ;

‘What was,
What is,
And what shall be
Will not ever truly be
For what unravels is,
Mere a flame
Of blow- off game by
Space and time.’


‘Words;
Are they better
And juicier ,
Kicky enough
To sink one ever,
Than the wine
In the cup
Of ripened lips?
Or the journey
Is yet in queue?’


The temple echoed
Jessica’s laughter.


Might be the other

Stones and glass houses


‘We gather in and
Out collecting
Stones to

Throw over
Weighing right
And wrong
In our globe

Of glass houses.

Who lacks truth?
May be you
Might be the
Other.
But not me


Who makes guesses?
Might be you
May be

the other.
Sure,
Not me,


Who is irate?
Must be you
Or the other
Certain
Not me,


Who is dupe,
And foul, and fake?
Not me,
Wait,
Well,

maybe
Might be a little."



But throw your
Stones
Not on me ;
Better bombard
All.

Monday, 27 April 2009

Pilgrim has to move

Jessica lights the lamp

The Pilgrim with downy eyes
Waiting outer temple door
Lifted his eyes. A jingle caused.
It’s Jessica’s anklet singing.
A glow seeping
From her Gleeful eyes
Tapped his gloomy indoors.


‘Waiting?’
He nodded.


‘For whom?’
He sighed.


She knew it was now
For the wine mouthed Stephanie;
With a sad smile she reminded.


‘You are a pilgrim.
You should not stay.’


‘After swimming many
Seas of eyes I await;
My east is reached.’

In Stephanie’s skies
Sun is dead.


No, truth needs to be
Known not told.

She entered sighing into
The temple with
Oil in her cask.


The inner lamps
Sent their rays
One after another
To reach the pilgrim.


Jessica prayed
For lighting him.

Saturday, 25 April 2009

Cast your Crowns


Jessica watching spring doves



Jessica watched the spring doves.


Two, might be a love pair,

Fluttering within the Altar of her temple

Whizzing their way searching

Space for unabashed gaily

Blue love in the outer sky;


The wings within her called

A contain, the first quiver to

Experience the shove up

To spread and swim in the

Air allowing nothing but liberation.

What a feel of power within!


'I am shy '


'Why?'


'When it occurs to

Reveal my inner....'


'Which inner?'


'The inner most ... the thoughts

And feelings'


'Larvae and Pupa too..

Even those doves on

Rehearsing flights

In their egghood'


'What did you say?'


'Egghood'


'Better call Shellhood'



She laughed musicalizing

The Altar with her

Melody of freedom.



Jessica seized watching,

Began flying in her wings.



Thursday, 23 April 2009

Operating under zero comments


Does America owe anything to

William Carlos Williams?


I,

M.S.P.Murugesan alias Vaiyavan,

Also known as Murugesan Paramasivam,

Assigned here to remind if

America owes anything to

William Carlos Williams.


No comments please.

We,

Me and the patrons of International Poetry,

And you the Ladies and

Gentlemen of the Jury

Assembled here got bound

Under one condition;

That is only

To operate under

Zero Comments.


You,

Respected Ladies

And Gentlemen of the Jury,

Still in India

We chersih a yoga,

(Sorry, I don't mean the

much commercialized venture,

sold and bought so extensively}

Practising labour

Unminding wages


I remind you

The honourable ones

It's what Mr.William did

In his labour rooms

Of Rutherford hospital


Bringing out

2000 babies in the short

Time span of 42 years.


As did he sought to

Deliver the American Idiom

From the wombs of ideas

To the material beds

Of maternity wards.


To quote

What Marianne Moore wrote,

His poems were

'as plain American which cats and dogs can read.'


I beg to conclude

That Mr.Williams examined the role of the poet

In American society

By the way in human society

As Dr.Williams did in his hospital society.


And you are the ones now,

To offer the verdict

Whether America still owes

Anything to Mr.Williams

as per our norms of Karma Yoga

Or not.



Mother India


Nominated for battle


He is a boy,

Brave one;

Nominated for battle;

You need to know the like of

Millions in our campus

Which offers freedom.


And he discerns

Battling is more appealing

Than the barred freedom

Throwing consumed sachets of

Fake distilled waters


In a short thrilling

Life of rag picking

You attain wisdom;



'You need to relax

When sun and wind

Offers you a rest;

You need to run

If threat encounters;

the regale in runs

Is the wages

Paid for your wars




For which many

More sigh silently

Missing the

Unbound freedom

To run so briskly!


His mother who had

Given birth to him

On a free road

Of this free country

Was proud that

He was a boy born

Brave and brisk enough

Upto her expectations

On the roads of a panoramic city


Hopes are wheeling


Keep with yourself

your courteous

Sympathies customer!

I pull along your

Sad and glad burdens

On wheels and

Hands stepping on

The road of panoramic Kolkota

Where rich and poor,

religious and rebellious,

Pave more cement

For finer concern.

Enough, I love

This city of negatives

And their negatives

Permitting you and me,

Move sharing burdens;

Exchanging mirth

Under minimal hopes.



The same river water


Karma country


On riverbeds after riverbeds

A naive pilgrim treads on

Chasing his or her

Lost foot prints of

Yester births,

Sadly lugging them

On sagging shoulders;

The water running

Ever running

With same runs

And same fish

Remain same like

The sadhus and pundits who

Barter the cause

With effect relishing

Their bhangs.


Rarely some elated

One shows the bright

Cheery teeth querying

The cause of the causes.



In our collectible bins


In deciduous forests...


No mention of forests, please,

Any more and chiefly

On these deciduous ones.

They don't exist

As we knew them

In summer and autumn

Filling their lives

And desperate hopes

In our collectible bins of hearts;

We shunt them; missed;

Now those who run

The faith nurseries

counsel us to dine

With tomorrows mirages.

No, the winter offers

A better dinner

Cruel, but wiser,

Factual.




Wednesday, 22 April 2009

Surrendering Changes



The hunter and the hunted


Remember I were then hunter dear,
and you were the hunted with bleeding sole.
Remember you ran as fugitive ,
not to yield , for any relations .



Yet , you posed to overlook what the
physical shelter and the pull of hunger -
appeasement charmed to trusting
your body's slow move.



It was no dream you returned back
here then on fragile steps, in form
the hunted one's dusky looks
overturned constant



In these forests, exposure is prey.
My hunter's image is captured.
quick and lost in light

remains: now the hunted.



Your waves of breath, dear, have gained
the garment of allurement, my bow
and arrows returned to rest,
under your bleeding feet, as dust.


Generations are breathing



Dereliction


A too long

abandoned house

homing three generations

now no longer holds on

it's tender heart beat

and breathing;

losing ribs

and joints;

weeds and grass

enter through brick

and wood of

withering walls

yet it never fails to

report sun and rain

A lived out living

There.