Meenas PoemsOne of a game
picturing the difference
of small and big, of strong and weak
a practicality that prevails
As the game advances
the cat catches the mouse
a representation with validity
strength conquering the frail
Seen this played long, long, ago
where children spent time in the garden
shouting and running happily, an exercise
promoting health and adaptability
–
Walking like a camel
with a big hunch, I drag
a baggage,
across roads and lanes
pause a while, hasten at times
unable to keep it down.
I carry on exhausted
knowing it will
be interred with my bones.
I keep forgetting
the nights turn agonizing
while my mind begins questioning
of things that have gone missing.
Half through the night
I wake up in fright
the lost ones come in sight
I switch on the light,
Those gone missing
start fast moving
more or less swinging
while I lay crying.
–
A city which never sleeps.
one that is as ancient as Athens,
echoes music all through the year.
It is a place of trade and transaction,
a seat of learning hosting the 3 Sangams
where Tamil literature flourishes.
Braving invasions, the town
remains complacent
and modest bereft of ostentation,
it is a destination unsuitable for snobs
extends a home to those who love
simplicity and who practise
modesty.
Like the Shrine of Meenakshi
whose towers cast a benevolence
this place called “Madurai “
remains intact for some 2500 year.
An historic city. with few shortcomings.
where the sun shines brighter
than elsewhere.
–
Having been away from the main
very much into the festivities
through weddings. to be precise.
One or two of them work well. A score
turns me inside out,
I bunk a few, attend the rest
gazing at people, who seem
busy, walking, eating and
talking. it is fun to watch
a folly anyway when experienced,
My roving eyes circulate
without a focus, Gaiety
dominates, Colourful attires.
bejeweled necks cut and cross
the venue forming a zig zag curve.
The week passes such a way,
idling I spend the hours, neither
I am an exception, as I follow
the herd to the point, draped in
Kanjeevaram saree.
My four feet high pedestal fan
a mixture of blue and white
with buttons red, green, yellow
and black
twenty -five years of age
looks pretty clean, wiped
every day, serviced every year,
hitherto ran smoothly
with a humming noise
fussed midway
with a bustling noise
growing audible
as the hour advances.
Oiling would arrest
the incohesive sound
I think.
only to find the loudness
turning most pronounced.
Annoyed, I push t
he so long faithful fan
to a corner.
Resignation dawns
Well, if that be the case
of a 25-year-old fan
Where do I stand?
–
The mother in me surpasses
every other portfolio.
My boys come to my mind
be at home or elsewhere.
They may need this, I conjure
put efforts to bring them,
Before they ask I do most
fall short when I go out of money.
They were not too many
a handful did creep in
enough to bring the roof down
with shouts, screams, and exchanges.
I did resign those times
with a heaviness.
Misty eyes marked the day
they fluttered with unmeasurable velocity
Tainted with blood , my
bitten lips quiver.
Brushing aside both with a smile
I resolve to keep away from them.
Again, it is the mother in me,
subtly surfaces.
Placing me in my original track
I forget the count as how many times
I am back
