Month: October 2017

Kabilan has nothing
to do with the Sangam poet.

He is a scholar in his own way
explicitly bombastic.

Calls himself as “Tamil ocean”
a pointed disgrace to the unfathomable.

Addresses his fellow poets
as devil, demon and pimp,

An unbecoming character
he provokes with promises.

Quotes extensively
from the epics and puranas.

Considers his memory
as an invincible strength.

Walks with his nose in the air
forgets he is similar to dust.

The way his audacity overwhelms
invisibly it belittles him.

He has to learn humility
to win over the hearts of Tamil lovers.

 

 

A controversy rages.
A diffident behaviour
on the stage causes
a disturbance.

The speaker of repute
employs phrases which
display fewer respect
show audacity.
His talk is ego centric.
Quotes from scriptures and legends.
Talks of poetic justice. Exhibits
his knowledge with a pomp.

The expression is full of  matter.
The presentation is the impediment.
His superciliousness sets a trap. An inescapable besiege.

Listening to him for a while,
I think he is an educated illiterate.
Shun him hereafter.
Teach him humility is my shout.

 

 

 

The temple bell chimes,
the chant of slokas begins,
the dais is all set
speeches come forth
music flows, school children
enact, poetic in a sense
enwrapped in a divine rhythm
mark the first day

The days that follow,
equally remarkable
keep us in a trance.
The intricate weave
of celestial and cultural
render an adorable charm.
Divinity seamlessly fuses
with literature, drama
and music.

Enrapatured the people
enjoy the exuberance.
An extravaganza aesthetic,
ethical  is confined to dignity.
Discipline to the anvil,
the nine day festival,
winds up with an expectation
That next year’s programs
would surpass this year’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An experience it is
to live in a quarter finished house
with scaffolding as roof
the poles firmly fixed to the floor.

Spread tarpaulins red, yellow and blue,
have to negotiate between the poles
at times, the tarpaulins fold
cause a havoc. A fall most possible
met with trepidations a few times.

The two half done rooms
serve as living, bed, dining and kitchen
with the bath three fourths completed
I pass the days. count them every fwe hours.
The days have flown. Five more days to go.
A difficult one with its own challenges,

I never expected to happen. I endure
and hope to build a standard house.
That is in itself a reward.

 

A critic to the end,
Shiva, identifies the flaws
improves, exalts,
rocks royal.

His emphasis,
on the negative part
that being minor,
enlarges the micro. to macro.

Responds with an ego
indulges with a gusto
chuckles with mischief’
as if he is the lord.

Shiva reacts
with a disdai,
Exasperating most times,
annoying as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“God be with me,”
Mona exclaims. A moan rather.

Pensive and sobe,r always
she looks distraught at present.

“What could have gone wrong?”
I wonder.

“Could be anything personal?
could there be an impending danger?”

Looking at her, I could not decide.
Distress engulfs.

I watch every move of her.
She is an enigma.

Mona stares at me.
An empty one!

We sit in silence.

 

 

The swans, no longer found,
seen in a picture,
the one turns against the other,
one looks north
the other faces the southern,
appear to be in love
but have quarreled of late
need someone to mediate
the ego prevents them to agree
such that a truce is impossible.

They move afar,
each not looking at another
swim in the waters
the cold weather makes them tremble,
require an embrace and a hug
the male looks back
at the same time the female swings
their eyes meet.

They swim towards.

 

 

 

Living a socio economic life
bound by time and relations
where the self sinks into oblivion-
a task of untold struggle.

Even to smile, one has to be cautious,
needless to say, crying is looked down.
An uncomfortable placement it appears,
a schedule of unheard cynicism.

The better part of existence is governed,
by commitments unknown and unexpected,
well, that way one moves on,
through a scheme of unpredictable agendas.

The life is short, never know when it closes
one has to pull on through vibes and wisdom.
A strange coincidence of favour and inheritance
make you what you are and who you are.

 

The intellect sharpens,
the pen deepens,
the pages embolden,
a birth is ushered –
that of a poem.

The caterpillar
wriggles,on the ground,
an awkward style.

The stripes on him
look bold and big
not much to the liking.

He grows. Turns
beautiful overnight.
Attractive in ways.

The crawl becomes
a hop, then a fly
He takes on his wings.

The butterfly as seen
sucks the nectar
from the blossoms,

The colours on his wings
fascinate. The grace
overwhelms.