Meenas PoemsWith age comes wisdom
Never be it so.
Age is external.
I assume.
It is the understanding that drives.
Youth is profound.
A child can be sensible.
like Solomon.
A lady in her sixties
looks agile and alert.
Anyone can die. I
Perceive no universality.
It is the thought that makes
you an intellect and glowing.
It is the mind that creates
a fascination and a depression.
Conquer the vulnerability
You are the King.
It is an experience in itself
digging a land
which lay barren
for a century and more.
A hoard of termites
and spiders unknown
springs up. Buzz
and bite with a sting.
Never have seen many species
as they come out from the hives
long and short, brown and black
disastrous in outlook.
More happens
as I go deep into the endeavour
excavating stone sculptures
abandoned for ages.
Apprehensive of the living
and the nonliving, I process.
Might unearth many more
in the next procedure.
The land looks graceful
with a magnificent dwelling
and a splendid garden
a grandiloquence.
It is an interpretation
a study, a research
not anything to do
with science.
A profound insight
of a personality,
with exultant ego.
Machiavellian.
A semblance
of godliness
behind a cloak
of evil.
Malicious, treacherous,
incoherent in opinions
and voice.
A spoiler.
Shall we call him Ravana,
after the Ramayana villain.
No, it is tall a claim.The epic villain
possesses enormous power.
The belittled Ravana
embodies deficit
in all quarters
spreads disaster.
His tribe follows him
merrily. Delighted to enjoy
the fruits of his illegal
acquisitions
The train chuckles into the terminal.
I do not see the soot and black vapours.
It is not the age old train as I expected
a supersonic one racing ahead.
Sticks around for a few moments. Accelerates
The one resembles an aircraft.
Shiny and elegant the train crosses
unlike the primitive one. A wonderful course.
The oldest train operated in snail speed
honking and making commotion in its journey.
The current one moves soundless with a momentum.
Science has contributed to glorified progress.
The pictures of Gods and Goddesses
on the walls send a shudder
down the spine. A gallery could I say.
The images are full of life
dressed in the best, adorned
with rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds.
Lakshmi sits on a lotus, Saraswathi
plays the Veena, Meenakshi
with a parrot in hand blesses.
Benign and smiling they cast a look
pleasant and protective.
Divinity enthralls.
The stately homes provide a generous slot
to artistic pursuits. Serve as an impetus
to the artisans.
The hall is an architectural marvel
designed in a hexagonal fashion. The intersections are
impressive with delectable effusions.
It is a pavilion of grandeur.
Unable to take my eyes off the canvases I go
in a moderate pace. Gape with mouth wide open.
The sensory effects, the choice of colours
fascinate. As if in a reverie, I stay spell bound.
Cry, “Oh, my God”
The sculpture of two cranes,
capture my thought.
One carries the head stiff
could he be a male chauvinist?
The other one bends her head down
a demure female, I presume.
Cannot it be otherwise?
I challenge myself.
Is pride masculine?
Cannot a female command esteem?
Are they to be forever
inferior to the male?
The statue stares at me, asks
“what is wrong with you?”
Unhappy with myself,
I regard them close.
Discover a romance.
It is a union.
Universal!
I go down the patio
notice wetness in the ground..
Rains after a month and half,
I dance around in glee.
The pale yellow florets
of the old Neem tree
lie large on the floor.
Like a bed of fluffy cotton
fear trampling on them.
Could experience a tangy,
sour and intense fragrance.
An aroma impregnates the air.
An experience of the senses.
A line I draw
an abstract demarcation,
limits me much as possible
a constraint,
I dare to cross.
The distinction is splendid
as between a cliff and the lake
one steep towards the sky
the other on the flat level.
A watchful entity.
Conscious of the line
I refrain from indulgence
wish not to speak of others
passive and sober, I work
experience serenity.
A revised version. Like to know which reads better?
A smile and a nod
with a “namaste”,
typical of Indians
causes a banter
among those who
shake hands.
That be the style
of India, which does
not entertain physical touch
rests content with gestures
gentle and gracious-
folding the hands.
The age old ethics
goes on to the generations t
who are westernised
hold on to the traditions
with a steadfastness-
habits die hard.
A line I draw,
denotes a constraint.
I dislike to cross.
Stay far behind.
Not a physical one,
an imaginary demarcation,
limits me as much as possible
in activity and in communication.
I am fine at all places
manage a distance,
respect to relation and friends
a rule I create.
I do not contemplate
on the repercussions,
I carry on with no issues
a prudence all in all.
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Meenas Poems 