cp aboobacker
chief editor, www.thanalonline.com
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Thursday, July 5, 2012
A Sigh
To extend its hands
To distances far
Love does not require a wind
Or any wave;
It can always reach
With no flute or reed,
But a sigh for the beloved
A FEAST BEFORE THE FINAL SACRIFICE
( There was no way for Gautama to escape Nirvana or
salvation )
Gautama,
You are the ocean.
A fathom filled with invisibilities
A mad thought in a sleepless night!
On the edge of madness
On the walls of pains
Vague lines conglomerate into heart-hidden pictures.
The thought that the roof
Of disappointment will fall down
Makes you laugh!
The heart filled with stony butter
Is valued better than water or soil or blood.
Knowledge of senses becomes the prison of thoughts
Truly, your depths have whirlpools
And your plains have tranquility
You and I should not have been impractical poets.
Mango grove, dinner table
Alcohol and meat
The pork lay chopped in colorful vases
You or I were not sad about the headless fish
A hammer in the hand, black hard muscles
And cowry laughter
The blacksmith was standing behind
You were drowning in the floods
Hidden on the dinner table
I wanted to tell that you should not be afraid
Of the rebels’ efforts; you too were a rebel!
Behind were standing the blacksmith and the merchant
We should not have been afraid in their murmurs
They might be saying that we should not glance at the lady
Dressed in jeweled attire
And that we should not think of her transparent sleeping
gown
Of course, desires should be suppressed
They want us to do that.
Blacksmith… merchant……
Groves…. and the tavern…..
They own everything
Remember:
It’s better to be channels not deep.
Oh! ATLANTA !
Oh! Atlanta!
We have nothing to be proud of
About our songs
Hadn’t we sung about the softness
Of the bed of the wrathful king
Who always remained a threat
With his infernal ways?
Golden gallows
Stood high in the courtyard
Our subject was the emerald studs
In the court yard
The path to the dungeon
Was paved with golden flakes
Our subject was the golden flakes
Oh! Atlanta!
We have nothing to be proud of
About our songs
The domes of the royal plaza
Were built high
Only after we reached here
The pond for the royal bath
With marble steps
Were dug
Oh! Atlanta!
They say
We did it!
Are you laughing?
Oh! Atlanta!
Why do you laugh
When we are mocked at?
Did you listen
Our grandchild
Was reading from the book
He was given by the princess?
How much right!
King dug ponds and wells
King planted floral plants!
Why? Why did your head fall?
With wonder and reverence?
Oh! Atlanta!
Why don’t you raise your head
Before Truth?
Why do you faint
Before the truth,
Stainless, spotless truth!
FAREWELL
Season of sufferings begins
Son goes to deserts,
What remains now?
She and me
Have to reach the ferry;
Coo as mother
And weigh as father
Tears must be boiled salt
Within the chest
Salt must be collected
And hidden in unseen cellars
Yeah, he is going
On the wings of a bird
Soaring high and fast
He must attain golden thrones
By the pains
Peeling all human bonds
Life is a war
Where hearts are withered
He flies
With a little salt on the twig
Of olive in his beak
He flows to attain something
Beyond love
Life is river flowing
From the hearts squeezed
Nebulae of hard cool
Heaps filling the eyes
He keeps smiling
Amid the piercing thorns;
He that was born
The result of holy rituals
And as the little butterfly;
Hearts go weak,
Who is to soothe?
Now we have only asylums
Or geriatric slums
With urchins as children
And dung as bed;
Go on, thou our son,
Go on to victorious eternity
THE SINGER SINGS
Words move fast
Over hearts
They chant life
And for life
Orchestrated by
Sighs and coughs
In the company
Of urchins and dogs
Words reverberate
Over streets
And crowds
This journey
On the long train
Of fabled bogies
Is short and fast
Fast numbers have
Great acceptance;
Steps tremble
The listeners are still,
Enthralled.
Seasons are ripe
Earth is charming
As ever,
Fertile with grains
Fruits, flowers and fauna
Singing is faster
Respiration is stronger
Palpitation fervent
Singer is moving
Fast unto his destination.
Theatre is modern
Walls are white
Shades are clear
Stains make images
Life is a shadow play
Singer sings
Animals run
Birds fly
Stags dart into pole
Birds fly into falls
Time is short
Take a shawl and weep
For today.
Dawn due
With dew and chirping,
Light peeps
Into the singer’s face
Calm and pure
And in trance
Singer sings.
Melody pervades
And fuses into silence
WRITING
Writing is not an evening walk,
Neither is it a dream
Burning in sleep;
Nor a wet thought,
Nor greed
Rising in the mind
Of a street walker
Or blighter
It’s not a wing fallen
In the city square
In drought,
Nor a scolding
By a Cyclops
That drinks
The glowing embers of sufferings
Nor a “for sale” lust
Within heightened walls,
Nor a smoky depressed sky,
Nor the hallucinated
Eyes of the opium eater
Nor a hiding
In mountain passes,
Nor legs chopped off
In the chill of battles lost
And won
Nor the hell-heaven fancies
After death,
Nor shivering hymns,
Nor faith fighting wars,
Nor the hide and seek games
Of those scrambles
For seats of power
Nor the nuclear fission
Of a thousand suns in the sky;
Nor the smile of a New Buddha,
Nor is it the humble mind
Standing enslaved
Before false masters,
Nor the ocean
Where those masters drowned;
Nor the red fill in hearts
It is a gift from the depths
It is a sob rising from heart burns
On awareness of hunger!
……….
(The rest, reader, you tell me!)
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