cp aboobacker

Occupy my heart

2011-11-08T22:25:00.001-08:00

Occupy my heart

I am in the winter of discontent

Not in the summer of suffering

Nor in the spring of desires

Nor in the autumn of fading hopes

I hope for your cuddle,

For the warming dreams,

Fora bridge to connect our hearts

And for the tender caress.

There with you flow the rivers,

Reverberate the surfs in the ocean,

West and East meet through your land,

Occupy my heart.

Snow falls in my veins

Fog has wrapped up my pains

I shout in silence over in my cabin,

Streets echo me in louder strains,

Crowds sing in chorus the tunes of class war

Winds become stronger

Bush asks why the crowd in its bosom

Gorges disheveled see bright eyed cats

Ready to jump upto the noises of liberty.

Occupy my heart;

Cities cry in thunderous tunes

Markets sell flowers to cuties

To garland their loves in the march

They march in peace

Hunger and poverty in unison

Black and red ware empty abysmally

White has a little mirage in the pots

Occupy my heart.

Shed your sweat away,

It's winter and you are hungry

Below the bridges of poverty

Above clamor of men of pomp

In limousines of affluence.

Occupy my heart,

His barracks might be full of ammunition

To fuel the the roads and streets

To return to the streets of Chicago

And soak the clothe in blood.

I am in love, occupy my heart,

You have all space there,

To rest and fight in valiance

Men and women of America,

Come, occupy my heart.

When you realize

2011-11-08T22:24:00.001-08:00

When you realize

the people demonstrate for your sake

and you did not know it,

you are sure to feel sorry for your self.

Every struggle is fought

by the working class

not for individual sake,

but for class sake. Like an ecologist,

he is fighting for a flower or a plant or a tree

or even a moth, a sparrow or a falcon.

We can easily remonstrate struggles

and the inconvenience they cause you.

But it is a sacrifice of multifaceted kind;

first you fight for others forfeiting your subsistence;

you are scolded not for a deed done for you,

but for the whole mankind;

You call it a class, I say it's mankind.

2011-11-08T22:21:00.001-08:00

THE LAST LONELINESS.

Alone in the dark of night

I stand in orchard in my lawn

A star shines solitary

Blinking with a secret of heaven

Angel has left to the skies

With its colored wings

Pervading the hearts of men

Which were filled with a fragrance

It smells none of earthen flowers

Nor those of paradise

It smells none of mountain buds

Nor those of the rivers

An island stood above the sea level

With a coral forest around

Reefs suffer assaults

From the deep blue water.

Mountains join the ocean

In this tiny island

Heaped with sumptuous fruits

And with a grove of trees.

Afar, comes the ship

With wingless souls

The captain has a sinister smile

In his lips closed and thin.

2011-11-08T22:20:00.000-08:00

A crow in my dream

A Crow In My Dream

Every night I drink the cup of life

Pure water from my own well.

It intoxicates me to the brim

And I am a drunkard of life

Every night I think of my meadows

Where I clinging to my pop's fingers

Roamed about under the skies blue

Dreaming of soaring into the skies.

Wings would come from the winds

Beaks from the pointed rocks

Eyes from the tiny little plants

Legs from the soil I touched on the earth.

Groves would fly under my wings

Rivers make a sky below the lands

Oceans reverberate under the dreams

Cool hands cuddle me in the wind.

Children call out I am a crow

While I, in fact, is a golden bird

A sparrow or a sooty tern

What flies over islands.

Realizing not that I am lonely

I flew in heavens over the isle

Between oceans and a bunch of trees

And my wings are tired to fall.

Thatched Cottage

2011-09-13T04:57:00.001-07:00

I started from the thatched cottage

Where the oldie my mother cooked porridge

burning dry leaves fallen and collected in bags of palm leaves

The porridge will be shared by eleven stomachs

Some times even thirteen, if the neighboring kids are starving.

Disinterested in a half-starving porridge He left the chapel

To the pebbled patth, with no lawns, but natural flowers blooming

Every step takes him from home to the lanes and footpaths full of coconut palms

The champa in the southern corner of his house spread fragrance and said stories of coupling in twines labyrinth.

From lanes he came in the open

To the vast paddy fields, where his father and mother worked

But no yield thereof satisfies their want, fill the stomach of their children

Inch by inch I moved from lane to field, to the rivulet,

Along the rivulet I traversed the hungry stomachs and dreamy eyes.

White cotton fly away from the plant to horizons of fear and satiety

None could weave a cloth from them, it wouldn't suffice his requirement

A song born in the depth of heart I suppressed, none would need it,

Song that reverberated my heart was already sold, the master would say,

His master's Voice prevails; stubborn, I suppressed the song and the chant

I looked back at the torn up sides of the thatched roof

Through which my brethren saw light ; I looked back, again I looked back

There is a mom and pop that share their kids' food with the starving neighbours

A grandma to stitch slacks for men and blouses for women.

She learnt it by mending the tears and wears, then a full blouse, for no wage.

Poetry can dwell in piracy and poverty, and I choose poverty to piracy

I did not wait to reach my primary school that taught me my tongue and mind

And the great bards that sang for devotion and sacrament,

I returned to my home, my mother standing in smile blooming, father weighing love.

Nest Is Empty

2011-07-26T07:14:00.000-07:00

http://www.thanalonline.com

I've always wanted to hear you,
Perhaps clumsy as you claim;
I want your sounds. Instead,

You write long lines and stanzas on your life
And on the destiny of mankind.

But I want to hear them;
Your sighs, your fragrant tones,
Words uttered, not written.

The nest is empty.
I cannot stay alone in winter;
I can't enjoy the bloom of trees in spring
When leaves fall and fly through the air.
Autumn goes away without me,
Summer shines and sends me its burning laughs,
Roads tarred with vitumen and rubber
Show me mirages, water flowing ahead...

I have traversed continents and seasons
To hear a sound from you.
I've become a tearful lad plucking grassroots
To write my lines into your eyes,
To hear your cries of ecstasy.

Far distant, you stay within or chirp outside;
You may roar or sing,
But I need to hear you.
I call you in the wilderness,
My noise echoes and returns.
Valleys laugh at my madness,
Still, I want to hear you.

Long passages are written,
Emails fill the trash in the inbox of my desires;
Have you spammed my pleadings?

Once, only once, tell me something,
Scold or praise, pour forth accusations
Or screech in the dense wood of emotions.
It's your noise I lack...

cp aboobacker: If I see the sun again.

2010-12-02T08:40:00.000-08:00

cp aboobacker: If I see the sun again.

If I see the sun again.

2010-11-28T09:27:00.001-08:00

I have no poem today.
Tomorrow's sun may rise with a couplet;
It might say that you are there
eager to hear my song,
and I am here
eager to chew your words.
Or it might be a quadruplet,
a Rubaiyyath from a mind
filled with an ocean of sorrow
and a mountain of suffering.
I have a fragrance in me;
it is the experience of reading
your words of consolation;
a boy ran to me yesterday
and said to me:
grandpa, from the janasa
the dead body has raised a revolt;
it wants a few couplets of love
and a mobile phone
to speak to its spouse from the grave.
I had to smile at him;
son , I called him,
it's love; love is what he wants.
So, my dear,
I have no poem today with me.
Perhaps tomorrow,
if I see the sun again.

cp aboobacker: Little Finger

2010-10-09T00:31:00.000-07:00

cp aboobacker: Little Finger

Little Finger

2010-10-09T00:27:00.000-07:00

A translation of Cheruviral by Shams Balussery; translated by cp aboobacker

If the leg hits on life
It would not be painful for me
I had a little finger to cling to my memories

Putting my leg on my memories
Pain still rushes fast unto me
I have nothing to hang on

Poem without title

2010-10-09T00:21:00.000-07:00

from Malayalam original

It was while I was walking along the lane
To the little springs of water --
Lo, yonder waterplant has bloomed
And grassroots have shed tears,
Heaviness hanging on their feet
Bending against the muddy walls.

Time passes away,
I walk back along the lane;
Sun sets,
Twilight comes,
Lanes are dark.

What is happening in the ocean?
Has it torn open its heart
To accept a sun
From among the thousand suns in the skies?
Is its heart filled with warmth?
Are sky and sea embracing each other
Into a big heap of embers?

On the river banks rain has stopped;
Is the river remaining, a teasing lover?

Somewhere, drinking a cupful of melting metal,
A poet is climbing a mountain.
And what does he discover?
A large stone mass is rolling down the mountain.

Aboobacker CP: In conversation with with Farideh Hassanzadeh

2010-09-18T10:35:00.001-07:00

Aboobacker CP: In conversation with with Farideh Hassanzadeh

C P Aboobacker

“Without poetry I could not have fought against injustice and cruelty.”

Some poets are easy to get at, anybody can understand them. They speak to the heart of the common man and the intellectual alike and are understood by them likewise. With their poems, you could go on a trip or go to sleep. You could even murmur some lines of their poetry while shampooing your hair in the shower. They are hidden like pearls in oysters and you’ve got to dive and bring them out of the depths of oceans. Now, what kind of a poet is C.P.Aboobacker? In my view he is a beautiful amalgamation of such a popular poet who appeals to many and at the same time is a serious, academic poet. If I admire his poetry, it is because I find no distinction between his life and his pure poetry. He has been a serious social activist from the first years of his youth. This shows the union between his poetry and his life. Here he discusses various issues relating to literature and religion among other things.

Farideh Hassanzadeh: How do you interpret the September 11th tragedy?

CP Aboobacker: September 11th tragedy is a great calamity, of course - man-made calamity. The main thing about it is that the US rulers are as responsible for it as perpetrators of the tragedy are. But for the unwarranted victimization by the US aggressors, the world over, the calamity would not have occurred. But in history there is no “but”; it is a record of what actually happened. Therefore 11th September has happened; Afghanistan is conquered; Iraq is in ruins. These are realities. Any kind of attack on human and animal lives, on human civilization, and on nature should be deplored and stopped, whether it is war or terror. As for American literature, I do not want to read govt. sponsored literature; I still stand on the beautiful title by Alice Walker: All That We Love Can Be Saved. The US govt thinks that all that they desire can be conquered. Now they are against Iran, Syria, and North Korea. Aggressors never learn lessons; in defeat they are revengeful, in victory they are arrogant. If imperialist hegemonization does not stop, terrorism also will not stop; we lose moral right to ask any one to do or not to do anything.

FH: What is the relationship between literature and religion?

CP: I do not think poetry has any connection with religion; all books of religion are most often good poetry. Bible with its parables and Khur-aan are all poetry par excellence. So, we believe they are God-sent; I wish to believe they are man-composed. May be I am wrong; I wish I am wrong. But, still, religion had had a time when it was metaphysical, it encompassed the whole universe and its secrets; Sufis tried it, and saints tried it; they were always good poetry singers; they sang perhaps to themselves; they wove songs on universal secrets; that is how Mansur became a Hallaj, the weaver. Omar Khayyam was not hedonistic as is often given out; he was a mystic singing happily of how the world wishes it should live. But most religions end their metaphysics and faith in slogans: Allahu Akbar (God is great). Perhaps God might not like this unwanted praise; slogans first emanated from religion, not from politics. I am neither anti-religion, nor pro-religion. I think religion is a fact - it exists and it happens; but fundamentalists are sometimes detrimental to humanity. All religions speak of love, truth, morality and what not! But what is being practiced is not conducive to attain these ends. I would like to add: the agenda of poetry (i.e. literature) is life in this world, the agenda of religion is life after death.

FH: Maryam Ala Amjadi, Iranian poet says: “I feel that if real poetry were written, the pen would break into half, for it would not possibly tolerate the madness, the originality, the genuine poem.” Do you agree?

CP: I do believe that poetry could be written with consciousness. Still poetry presents a mad attitude; it is a kind of intoxication, a revelation. Truth does not reveal to you if you are plain and flat; you walk on sandy path; sands are golden in colour; it is not a desert; it does not wrinkle; it is smooth and beautifying; but you imagine things if it were a desert; or a beach with holes of little crabs; crabs turn to cancer; you experience the pain. Of course, you are torn, wounded. But what is real poetry? Rumi has written real poetry, Goethe has written it. Neruda has written it; trembling generations of Chilean society, from young girls to old buddies; poetry is not sharp, it is just strong - its influence is strong. Poetry is positive. Have you heard, Farideh, that one of my poems ends with the statement that that there is no antonym for poetry. It is that, and nothing more.

FH: There is a theory that says that all writers, even the male, write with a feminine soul.

CP: I don’t subscribe to this theory. As for Muses, they might be feminine; as for poets of the earth, most of them are masculine; those who composed Rg-vedic hymns were Rishis, the wise men; the best literature in history were composed by men- Homer, Virgil, Milton, Shakespeare, Iranian poets like Firdausi, Rumi, Amir Khusru, and Indian poets like Kalidasa, Valmiki. Of course, there is Ratiji, Farideh, Kamala Surayya, Annie Finch and Blaga Dimitrov; but men far outnumber women. It is not a question of counting heads of men and women in literature; men had greater chances; in spite of it, Brontes are small in number, Wuthering Heights is a special case amongst a galaxy of beautiful works created by men. I am not gender conservative; but on the contrary. But history is history.

FH: Let’s admit that finding solitude for a man to stay home and write is as natural as for a woman to peel onion in the kitchen. Even in societies where equality is not the slogan among men and women, she feels uneasy with the circumstances when she sits behind a desk to write, she feels unusual, as if she has betrayed others. Her conscience suffers from the guilt that she might have robbed others’ rights. If you do not agree with this statement, then, would you please express what is the difference between Women’s Literature, and Men’s Literature?

CP: I fear we live in two circumstances. We have in India good women writers. But men outnumber them. Very often men write about the same problems. Woman needs no excuses for writing. She is as capable of writing as man is. She does not require to express a guilty consciousness. I can also peel onion, my wife does not object to that; man-woman equality is a must. Woman is intellectually fully equipped as man. Please see my poem “onion”- it is written in English – it is, in fact, a tribute to my wife, to women who suffer the bondages of the household.

FH: The Turkish poet Enis Batur writes: “If ‘Death’ didn’t exist, Mankind would never write poetry. He would never need it.” The Iranian poet Soufi writes: “Everyone fears death: Poets fear it more.” How do you interpret this? To what extent do you agree with it?

CP: I don’t agree. I don’t fear death. I don’t know when it comes, I welcome it. But I am not a lover of death; death is not the end of the world. Death is inevitable. Death makes life possible. I had written in one of my Malayalam poems:

I hope hopelessly
That Death is not the end:
Oh, death, where is my place
In your book of judgment?

It is neither fear nor adoration of death. Basheer, the celebrated writer in Malayalam, also had the same view. I had published an interview I held with him in 1992 in one of the former issues of www.thanalonline.com.

FH: What is your idea about the translation of poetry? Please tell us of your own experiences as a translator .

CP: Translation is a process of requiring the faculty to enter the mind of the writer who is being translated. Of course, journalistic translations are easy. But you cannot translate poetry, story etc. Creative writings are beyond the competency of any man or woman other than the original creator. But there are certain poems, certain works of art of literature that haunts the translator; I have translated many books, most of them history. They did not pose any challenge to me. But I translated sixty poems of Joop Bersee, the great S. African poet. I published it in Malayalam with the title “One who writes poems.” There is a poem in the collection with the title “Writer of poems.” I changed it a little and made it the title of the book. I must confess that it was the most crucial period of my life. I became Joop Bersee myself. I entered into him, and through email, I gave him the English summary of what I translated. I had to get his approval; it was not an assignment, I took it up on my own. I spent about six months to complete the work. But remember, I did the translation work at a stretch, in a couple of days. I wanted them to look purely Malayalam. I also translated your interview with Blaga. It was a marvelous task. Each word is important; each phrase is important. I translated Osho Rajaneesh’s Meditation and Communism. I did it on assignment. The publisher wanted me to bring all its depths in Malayalam. It is well accepted. Translation is a creative work. That is my experience.

FH: The terrible irony: it is possible not to be a very nice kind of person and at the same time be a marvellous poet. It appears as if this may not be possible but I do see that it happens. What is your idea?

CP: I think it happens. Great writers could be in company with great political criminals. Ezra Pound is an example for this. Nietzsche espoused the idea of superman and this superman came into reality in the form of Hitler. I have read that an imprisoned poet found pleasure in smelling the fouls he gathered from his anus! These are perversions. Poetry must be love, poetry must be kindness and empathy; Fide Erken and the like are my ideal in this matter. See for example:

In A Daisy Field
( a poem by Fide Erken)

I'm rolling
In a poetry field,
Where so many daisies abound,
A soft breeze bringing their mist.
I'm smelling them,
Satisfied with watching their
White, yellow appearance,
So I don't need to write a poem.

Then your name is echoed
Amongst the petals,
Spreading this wonderful sound
All around the waving daisies. The most beautiful name I've ever known

It's enough to hear

We smile to each other,
Me and the daisies.

The other poet I mentioned smells dirt and enjoy, Fide, on the other hand tries to smell the beauties of the world.

FH: I strongly agree with Kafka’s statement that “war, in its first phase, emerges out of total lack of sense of imagination.” How do you view the main source of war?

CP: War comes from greed. The Malayalam poet Kunjan Nambiar who lived about three centuries ago wrote:

“Kanakam Moolam Kamini Moolam
Kalaham Palavidham Ulakil Sulabham”

(Because of gold and women, quarrels are plenty in this world.)

I hope you have heard of Gautama the Buddha; the great prophet of Buddhism, the sixth century BC Indian religion. He preached a moderate path. He said: 1. Life is full of misery, 2. Desire is the cause of misery, 3. Suppression of desires is the way to overcome misery and 4. A middle path, neither of sensuality nor of asceticism, should be followed to suppress desire. The middle path is an eight-fold path for the Buddha. 1. Right belief, 2. Right aim, 3. Right speech, 4. Right Action, 5. Right means of livelihood, 6. Right effort, 7. Right attention, and 8. Right meditation. It is meant for man. However, wars are being fought in the name of religion, whereas the agenda of religion is life after death! War is a crime just as terror is, even graver.

FH: What do you think of anthologies of love poetry? I think it takes the hearts out of great poets, as if the rest of their poems were irrelevant. May I also know your feelings about anthologies of social and political poetry?

CP: Love is a basic emotion and hunger is a basic physical function. So, both are relevant. Love poetry is sure to carry every poet to an extent where he/she has no control. Kamala Surayya is one among them. Rati Saxena is another. As there is hunger and war and terror, political and social poetry will find a place in man’s history. I do not deny their importance. The main problem with them is craft. In Malayalam, M. Mukundan has overcome the problem of craft; Basheer had over come this. Archibald Mc Leach had overcome the problem of love poetry, in the same manner; he did not allow his poetry to dictate to him, instead he dictated to his poetry:

Come, said the Muse,
Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,
Sing me the Universal.
In this broad Earth of ours,
Amid the measureless grossness & the slag,
Enclosed & safe within its central heart,
Nestles the seed of Perfection.
By every life a share, or more or less,
None born but it is born—conceal'd or
unconceal'd the seed is waiting.

FH: Would you like to visit my country? What do you know of Iran? Which Iranian writers are you acquainted with?

CP: I would like to. I know Iran is a great country, with a great and ancient civilization; Medes and Persians and other people that inhabited the region; Zoroastrianism which I think is a very special religion. If God be the Creator of all things and beings, evil also is created by God; so, Zarathustra found a creator of good and a creator of evil; Ahuramazda and Ahriman. They worshipped Sun and we know all source of energy is the Sun. In India, the ancient people of the Vedic age believed thus, too. This formed part of the Rg-Veda, the earliest literature, in the hymn called Gayathri:
“Om, Tat-savitur-vareniam / Bhargo-devasia dheemahi / Dheeyoyonaprchodiyata”

(Oh, Sun is the most ideal, it gives us intelligence and light and all our source of wisdom.)

Iranians are a wonderful people who had great connections with the people of my land; both had a common source of language, the Avestan language of Persia and Sanskrit of India. The synonym Mithra for the Sun in Sanskrit language came from Avestan language. And as for the third part of your question, I have no contact with many Persian poets. But to me the word Persian itself forms poetry; Firdausi and Rumi.

You do bad deeds and hope to get back good
Though bad deserves bad only in return.
God is merciful and kind, but even so,
If you plant barley, wheat won’t grow
The great bard has sung, yes, Jalaluddin Rumi; he has also sung:

You could string a hundred endless days together,
My soul would find no comfort from this pain.
You laugh at my tale? You may be educated
But you haven't learned to love till you're insane.

Beauty is embodied into quatrains. Rumi wrote a lot; he was mystical and metaphysical.

My secrets are not alien from my plaintive notes,
Yet they are not manifest to the sensual eye and ear

writes Rumi in the initial part of the great classic, Masnavi. Poetry knows no bounds; none can hide any secret from it; me or you. Love takes turns unimaginable. The king saw a maiden and fell in love with her. Without asking her idea, he married her. She began to become weak and sick; all earthly physicians treated her and failed. The king who loved the maiden madly prayed for her health and God sent a heavenly physician. He diagnosed the disease: the girl was in love with a goldsmith. King ordered his men to find the lover. He was brought and wed to the princess. For months they led a happy and enviable life; then the goldsmith who was not faithful to the maiden, left her. The princess found that her true love is the king and appreciated his companionship for ever. I cannot conceive of greater poetry. Of course, there are modern Iranian poets and poetesses.

FH: Yes. She is one of the greatest poets of our country. I am glad you know her. It is a surprise for Iranian readers.

CP: I have a shallow idea about Forugh Farrokzad. If I remember right she suffered a lot in the marriage she was forced into at the age of sixteen; at nineteen, she was a divorced mother; gradually poetry became her spouse. She gradually was able to make herself part of the greater society; her grief was part of human grief.

FH: This story was what everybody believed but a new book was published of Forough’s unpublished letters to her husband that reveals interesting facts about her. According to those letters, she fell in love when she was 16, and in spite of her father’s disagreement, married her lover, a man who was 15 year older than her. Her restless soul was unable to bear a routine life and they separated. The rest of the story is exactly according to what you say.

CP: Here is a poem I remember by her :

I will greet the Sun again,
I will greet the streams that flowed in me;
I will greet the clouds which were my lengthy thoughts;
I will greet the painful growth of poplars……

I wonder this is a contrast to one of my poems which I wrote when I was middle aged; even the title of the poem is “Sun you may go now.” Of course, it has some political undertone; but there is a lack of confidence compared to Farrokzada’s poem. Then I have a very vague understanding of Zhaleh Esfahani. Her dialogue with Forest and River is a marvel to me. Forest adored the river for its flow, for the mobility it has; river adores the forest or its secluded beauty and peace. We are enchanted to the lines depicting the ultimate truth that everything any thing in the universe is beautiful, has utility. Mahmud Kianush has captivated Iranian minds; but he would captivate any mind. Look at his Shame:

Unfamiliar with the blue of the sky
Unfamiliar with the shining green of the earth,
Unfamiliar with man’s history of covering his own body,
I am standing inside the circle of ice, surrounded by sorrow and anxiety;
And naked, and ancient , alone,
I carry on my shoulders the thousand-year-old burdens of shame,
of coveredness,
of modesty,
O mothers of sleep
Whose bones are ancient hiding place of the dead instincts,
Look how my bare, bare ancient roots,
Slowly, but with resolution, penetrate the ice.

I can quote more. It is not necessary. Iran is poetry. Farideh has sent me beautiful poems; she has introduced me good poets like Samavati and Mariyam Ala Amjadi who believes that the ideal of the poet is Shahr Zada for whom poetry, rather story, is a life and death struggle; any failure would send her to the delta of void and darkness and death; she manages one thousand nights during which she made Shahryar to develop into a man with joy, confidence and love.

FH: Which one book is always by your bed right open, and which book is always, before any things else, in your briefcase, when traveling?

CP: I would like to have two books: 1. Rainbow people of God by Desmund Tuttoo, and 2. Gitanjali by Rabindranatha Tagore. There are other books which I like very much. Serpent and the Rope by Raja Rao is an example; Balyakala Sakhi is another example; it is a simple love story by Basheer, the great Malayalam writer. I would like classics to be with me. Masnavi is one among them; Laila Majnoon would haunt me if I forget them. Above all I would like to have a political work: Manifesto, yeah, communist Manifesto by Karl Marx. What a wonderful combination, No?

FH: Proust says: If I did not have poetry, great literature, music to listen to, I would not have survived my sorrows. Let me know please what would you lose without poetry?

CP: Without poetry, I would have lost my love; love of all sorts, paternal, parental, conjugal, mystic, spiritual and what not! Without poetry I would lose my river and meadows; I could not swim in sunshine; I would not have transgressed the frontiers of countries and climbed up mountains and conquered seals coming out from oceanic depths. I would not tender the fifth moon and love it in a form of smiling lips; I would not sit on the stone mass where I spent with my childhood friends who are no more now. I could not have suffered the humilities of life; I could not have, above all fought against injustice and cruelty. It is not my poetry, I count. The whole world is poetry; I can find poetry anywhere in this world. Streets where sins abound have their own poetry. Read Martha of Khalil Gibran; he can find poetry on mountains as well as streets, among prostitutes as well as virgins.

Poetry of C P Aboobacker

Friendship, Law And War

Poet to soldiers
Camped on shore
Beyond iron bars:

No ships come in search of you
Not even a play boat
You are the dreamers
Crossing oceans
With thoughts of unseen shores,

Yet to conquer what you discover
Yet to rejoice in wealth and power
Ho, you are merely passive voices.

Rough rows have hardened your fingers
That have forgotten the piano's keys
You, somnambulists
Pretend to ache with wounds
Hugged by Queen Elizabeth
Winning victories over the Armada
You continue to sleep
Bloom in the zeal of bugles
And tambourines of war
Never intoxicated by symphonies of love
And ever afraid of smiling ships.

Your lips never sob for ailing children
Autumn dreams never pour over you
Their fragrance of lilies
Neither have fairies blessed you
With peaceful sleep

You dream
Unaware of woeful setbacks
And loving spouses in mourning
And the rhythms of flowers blooming.
You sleep on, in hope of war

II

I laugh at you
In prison's freedom
My laughter
Booms in silence
Oh, soldier,
You are sure to miss your sleep

The symphonies of cities
Kill my daytime sleep
And sing lullabies to snores
Coming from cellars
I wanted to write a poem
About electrical posts
In the rhythm of propellers
No stormy petrels
Soar up into my breast.

III

I have always looked at the sea
As the greatest fulfillment
Her noises have always
Cuddled me to sleep
Blossoming as seas
Rising as waves
Splashing into surf
Are my young dreams.

link

2010-09-09T22:47:00.000-07:00

Cp Aboobacker

Create Your Badge

This is the city

2010-09-03T06:34:00.001-07:00

This is the city
Destruction flows over this
Its footpaths
Not ached by the footwear
of the passers by in search of hell and heaven

This is the city
Memories flow in lump as worms
On the pathways.
Among them
the known and well-known skulls
The habitats are all collections of bones and skeletons
An unending stench beneath the super layers

Poets challenge among themselves
For duels on altars
There come the family and the singer
Beat their drums and stomachs
And sing , sing to the crowds of lights and men
Behind the eating houses
Humans are on a contest with canines
And this is the human Dharma.

In the stages of the mind
where the poet sings
Foam a lake of intoxication
Within the wells where water sprinkles
Time becomes a paramour.

The hectic havoc after
the buffallo was burnt in the unextinct fire
Is the tightness of the city.

Valleys of the Sun

2010-08-09T20:04:00.000-07:00

In the valleys of the Sun
Laments the lone goat
In meek noise
Over the golden clouds
Pregnant with memories

Any moment
A rain of words could be delivered
She would meekly weep again
For the kids spread in the skies
Among clouds golden

Promises are all always
Given in golden bowls
They are taken in silence
Without a murmur or whisper
They are taken away
In caskets of despair
Smelling foul, but looking glorious.

Sun is a cheat,
He never goes away,
It is me that flee
In revolutions
My meadows and deserts
Always at his mercy

a soul in attire

2010-07-27T09:36:00.000-07:00

www.cpaboobacker.wikipedia.com

I am here behind you
bent on the table
with piercing eyes on the message
inviting you to dinner tonight
alone at his apartment
to be or not to be
that is the question

you cannot see me
I was burning in the funeral pyres
first it fumed and fretted
and then a smoke burst out
then flames flew into heights
with fragrant incense
and with a stubby smell
i passed into the ethereal

After you all were gone,
I lamented silently for moments
with a desire to be with you

we in the world of the ether
has no shortage or scarcity
so I took an attire
where my hair reminding an ad
with sharp flying atonement
my brow with no wrinkles deserving
and eye lashes a muddy barren marsh
my eyes burning cavities
and nose a stuffy calamity

I see you in the most beautiful attire

I bought you

You are sad, I can feel.

I couldn’t feel the fragrance of your beauty

We of the other world cannot smell

The smells we had had when we were hither

The stuffy nose would not accept

the perfumes of feminine beauty

Still I longed you in the way

You are now

A confused beauty

Sighing every moment

Had you not kept silent

I would sit by your side

Listening to the evil rhythm of your scolding

I had visited his apartment

Before I visited you

He had a smile on his face

One of victory

He must be waiting to cuddle

the brunette flying in breeze

He had always envied me for it

From the college days

When I was in love

I quarreled with you

He was all calm and serene

I stand here to see what you would type

You are not aware of me

You would shout at my presence

In fright and awe

But you cannot see me

And you cannot hear me

I may sing to your bosom

Your favorite tunes

Which I had never done

Love was abundant outside

On the riversides and in lakes

On mountains insurmountable

A mirage of real life!

And at last you typed:

You shabby idiot!

Is it me or he?

All-knowing soul fails to read you right!

No wonder, I always lost you.

channels

2010-06-22T07:59:00.000-07:00

channels penetrated into my bedroom
while I was asleep
the anchors searched into my library and shelves
disappointed, they tried to enter into my cell phone
they went on searching
how screeches emanate from invisible hoods
who sleeps on my bed,
my self or my substitute?
they smoked their brains to have an answe.
somewhere along my slumber lashes,
is there a glimmering of the eyes?
is snoring possible after a love-packed shred of time?
they photographed the dances of the wind outside
on my flowery trees
the channels that were not ready to go away
without any scoop
took the snow book I left reading on my chest
they decided upon broadcasting
the music emerging after snow melts.
in the hot seasons
when cool and water were impossible
they were seeking an entrance to my heart.

May 18

cp aboobacker: channels

2010-06-19T09:53:00.000-07:00

cp aboobacker: channels

The Black Bird

2010-06-08T19:27:00.000-07:00

Life unrolls into a paper sheet

when I read poetry

as mere combination of words.

I can't see the turns and twists hidden in life.

I am poet, yearning for understanding.

And I hope

when I tumbled into an abyss

with my blacks and whites,

with my blues and greens,

and with my yellow sparrows

and red, crimson twilights,

I was understood by a soul very near

A blackie from the conference of birds

That sang songs celestial

She is dead and gone,

and now reborn into the planet

with a luster of unknown stars

and cool of unknown streams.

Forests have a sigh of the bygone bliss

and skies roam in winds

with the messages for the coming days.

The Final Note

2010-05-08T21:38:00.001-07:00

A night has passed by this place
A night when yellow sparrows and red candles
Melted away.
Here a night had visited as guest
When all nine rasas were strangulated
In the stained bronze vessels of the throat
The fettered geniuses
Passed away in the unmarked palanquins

Friend,
This was only an inn
It had walls
Never echoing moanings and laughters
They had a meaningless reverberation

This is the last night
The fastness of respiration
The deserts of sighs
The salt of tears
All became causes and results
The repititive lights in dark, deep colours.

Away, in an invisible distance,
A comet has begun to smile in cruelty
Friend,
Dead songs in your bewildering lips
Decayed flies in your tearful eyes
Dawn of December wrapping hamlets in snow.

Behind the soil falling down from the forts
Friendly countenance of concealed wrath

Then suddenly, suddenly....
The links of broken cameraderie.
All ends this night
This is the end of the world!
Comrade,
Let us all die a death of forgetfulness,
Sob as mornful deaths,
Be born as sobs,
And roar as births.

first | < previous | next > | last

channels

2010-05-08T21:34:00.000-07:00

channels penetrated into my bedroom
while I was asleep
the anchors searched into my library and shelves
disappointed, they tried to enter into my cell phone
they went on searching
how screeches emanate from invisible hoods
who sleeps on my bed,
my self or my substitute?
they smoked their brains to have an answe.
somewhere along my slumber lashes,
is there a clicking of the eyes?
is snoring possible after a love-packed shred of time?
they photographed the dances of the wind outside
on my flowery trees
the channels that were not ready to go away
without any scoop
took the snow book I left reading on my chest
they decided upon broadcasting
the music emerging after snow melts.
in the hot seasons
when cool and water were impossible
they were seeking an entrance to my heart.

Motherland

2009-09-28T22:59:00.001-07:00

When the poet says to me

that we can speak about birds

I become restless

Because I suspect whether it is not our own epic bird

When my spouse says to me

That we can sing about limits

I am aware of a dervish who lost his tongue and land

Twirling and twirling and dancing

And saw a world without frontiers.

The stormy petrels harp that

The alleys would include the west bank

Those who lost shelters

Got dressed and wore their ornaments

Might get ready for their last journey

The children who ask where their birth land is

Would be taken to their schools

And served sweets

And called "darlings"

Then they would be shot on their chests

Without surprise or fear

They would fall dead calling their moms

In the end they would all be stamped terrorists.

Falcons and foxes would eat a tasty meat.

Intoxicated Singing

2009-08-06T05:33:00.000-07:00

Intoxicated with the spirit of poetry
I sang in the dialects of hamlets,
Pasted with cow dung
And decorated with straw
A ruffian among the crowd
Often speaking things unheard
To laymen and folks
I sang in the dialects of hamlets
I was singing things not known to me
Sacrifice, struggles, and martyrdom
I wanted to demolish the church
To make a new one, and
I would make it from the ruins of the old one
But I would run my sermons in the old one
I would cut the plantain trunk
And plant the leafy part
And I would sing about my leaves
Flying in breeze
MY spouse is away
In her comely attire
Of love and affection
In the paradise of life
I wish to sit singing
Lonely in the valley
With a reverberating note
To please her round the clock
But my singing always betrays me
It sings of lives gone
Into the fathoms
Where martyrs live
And paradise
Where songs are made
Trees without leaves
Embrace me in harmonious horror
Into their bony branches
Screeching in silent tones
Rains fail mankind
Into an infernal battle of life
And bleed the emotions
Into fluid maggots
Merci… merci… plead the buns
We can’t enter the juicy dirt
Of human mouths in the battle field
Merci… merci…
And I am intoxicated with the spirit of poetry!

When Death is imminent

2009-07-12T07:23:00.000-07:00

In the threads hanging from heaven
Fly butterflies
Sun and Earth
Join together
Within the dense pores
Creation of truth and equality
Has begun on the mountain slopes
Sculptor has begun meditation
Before the heaps of clay
New fields of struggle
Are in formation
With kindliness and love
As weapons
Along the paths to heaven
Sights of the army of love
Marching forward
The final moments of
Ecstasy
Until I dissolve in my end
Through wind, rain and sun

In Wait

2009-07-10T08:33:00.000-07:00

Waiting for the tram

By this narrow lane

I spent a seed to germinate,

To grow into a tree,

To flower and fruition

Waiting for the train

By the blue lake

I spent an egg to hatch,

To wing into a sparrow

And fly awayWaiting for the ship

By the hillI spent a sperm to be born

As myself as helpless,

To grow into a tall buffoonery

Vain, vain are the waiting,

Silence and loudness

And the hugs and cuddles;

Vain, vain are the waiting,

Cruelty and roar,

And frowns and spasms of porn

Foaming in the lake

Swimming and dipping into ponds

Tasting the wetted flesh

I would satiate

As if a lion

With a live stag eaten;

Or a tiger roaring gratified

With lots of venison tasted.

And my soul claims her wholesome

2009-06-07T09:54:00.000-07:00

Today morning
Birds lost their feathers
Plants their flowers
Mountains their dales
Deer its horns
And I lost my pen

Piercing out of my heart
The lark has flown away
Heavens have claimed her songs
Angels her smiles
God her soul
And my soul claims her wholesome

She had a bird in the cage
A falcon with screeching cries
And with a sharp beak
Ready to break love and ties
It had a fragrance
Spread everywhere in the labyrinth

The tree is still there tall and high
With a lightness of cool and warmth
Standing sentinel to soldiers of love
Shading a roof for fighters of lust
Beyond the hamlets of stags
Orchards of butterflies
And slums of values and priests.

The Shepherd of flames

2009-06-07T09:53:00.000-07:00

The shepherd of flames
Eats with his tongue extended
He has no hands
In the end
He has only the will to destroy
In the oven
In the chamber of suicide
On the battle fields
And in wild fires
Black tongues remain
That can't be seen.
He has limitless wealth
But it's of no use to him
Soon
He will combust
And after
Fly in ashes
In breezes.
His spouse
Will bring sticks to the fire
They will crack and burn
She will romanticize the fire
Pouring olive oil
And after
She will wear
A rope of hemp grass
Or of crushed palm leaves
Around her neck.

Trees of The City Park

2009-05-19T10:27:00.000-07:00

The cold dawns of winter

   Wrapped themselves

   On the trees of the city park 
The morning walkers

   Created spiral circles

   Peacock feathers

   With their wide open eyes

   Shone in lustrous circles
In the inkpot of poetry

   Rose a c minor from scale of octave;

   In the wild forest

   Peacocks, stags and reeds;

   Go ahead,

   Before the untamed, wild elephants

   Come to cross the road,

   Go forward. 
Royal courts remain in wait for     you,

   Life and drowsiness are creeping

   Through the way faring towns.

   Bullocks are tormenting water and mud

   In paddy fields.

   Sunflower blossoms,

   Thick breasts of plateaus

   Secrete sorrows;

   Drown not in them, Go forward. 
Winter is a mere beginning,

   Not an end.

   Beginning of a revolution,

   An epoch, a history,

   And an end. 
The secretions of the medicinal     plants

   Destroyed in the war marches

   Come to you along the mountain slopes

   Oh, ocean, to you. 
Seasons creep again,

   In the end winter raise its hoods

   On the Christmas trees;

   Again trees of the city park.

cp aboobacker

2009-01-25T20:13:00.000-08:00

Cp Aboobacker

The Blind
If you are born blind,
Remain blind
The world is an ugly phenomenon

You have milky ways in your eyes
Numberless, my child,
You have garlanded yourself
With umpteen colours invisible

You are lucky
Not to see the bloodshed
Around in the neighbourhoods
Smelling caramel and milk,
Darling, you are fortunate
Not to view men eating men
And women eating women

Love has no parallel
Child,
Love is a very selfish thought
You cry loud
And see naught
Because the Creator willed it
That way

Nonsense, says my brethren
Why must he will that way?

There is at least one
That escapes
The sights of slaughter
And the heat of explosions

Your eyes are filed with milk
Vision the beauties
Innocent as they are
You smell good or bad
And avoid seeing
What is not to be seen

Why? Why?

Do we have to cry aloud,
If sad about the troubles
of the world around?

Do we have to shout aloud
If we speak about the horrors
We experience?

Do we have to torch a light
To seek a man in our midst
Drowning in dearth of words?

Do we have to burn logs
To cook the fowl we caught
If we have fire inside?

Do we have to fiddle the string
In the cool flowery spring
If we have music inside?

Do we have to smile around
About the graze of love and calf
In the wilderness of poetry?
About the chewed up grass?
About the saliva drops fallen?
About dew drops sprinkling in eyes?

Do we have to cry aloud
About the corpses around
Hanging on the wayside posts
Cockroached into atomic wombs
Destruction beyond their reach
Extinction ready for man?