The Wisdom...

Forest neither does descend nor does spread
but arises as knowledge.

Sea neither does detrain nor does advance.
But I myself am the sea…

If the winged lightning loves the sand,
it neither does approach nor does return.
But the Sun grows 'We' the roots…

And later,
Fingers transform to giant trees,
Animals wake up on the palms,
Streams surge from belly to eyes,
A landslide journeys from fingernails to the moonlight..

In the nights filled with cricket;s moan,
the branches begin to whisper..

Tiny mountains sweat their wings,
Lakes return the babies…
Wildfire begs for the last breath.

Rain, roots itself in rainbows, to flood..
Thus flowers become birds,
birds to stars,
and stars recur to love and flowers…
Epigraphs grow into ramparts,

A being with two hands and legs,
drinks to shrivel the path..

A symphony of footsteps,
commence to weave thongs..

On the groans of the forehead,
a street germinates…
Doors wear garments of clops,
Thumps fructify as trees, in memories..
Hands deserted by animals,
fall ease unto me..
Closed eyes decipher flood in stones..

Thus, women sprout again as leaves,
Babies retreat to the rains….

Forest, from ages, is wisdom..
Just like the sea...

Rubbish almighty..

stepping to the blank idol ,
invisible only to you 
but not away

imaginations are organised 
vision of emotions, 
a narrow point never end up. 

these are illusions like rubbish almighty.

moves on thorn rain on me,
these growing realization 
never dies with distraction of death .

tranquility born when breath stops,
creation the word is ego.
you can only construct.
an organisations of available objects ...

You, the river...

You, the river,

is a drop,

that I am born myself..

As sea draw closer the river,

to itself with pendulums,

the lakes of life shrivel...

On the third day of love,

as you the seed, 

conquered the unresurrected sand,

I draw the song of colours

on the non snowy polar axis..

On the dawn of cascading lightning,

as I drown and ascend with the urn of fear,

you light a sun with your soul..

Though I retreated to the galaxies,

and you embarked huge branches,

though wildfires and hurricanes advanced to avenues,

why does our entwined feet expand?

Why?

What daughter might be doing..

 

When shadow commences to die in the body,

When termites reveal creation,

When symbols scuffle with rain,

When the sea quaffed by father swallows the daughter,

When a sweat, in the name of spring, divide the doors of lifespan,

When snail manifest as a leaf of wisdom,

That is when each forest is baptized....

Yashodhara, Oormila, Magdaline, Amina, Kasturba,

 Anna, Alice, Sabeena, Mithra..that and this she...

Its not in search of shadow that sun decline to the forest depth.

Its not with awareness that birth delivers death.

Still it was on a starry day, that the baby was disserved from my palm.

As the leaves spoke to the root,

As the wind grew eagerly to the clouds,

I too was changing to a tribal mother...

When springs lactate on my breast, 

thousand tribal gods cohere to my chest...

thousand seeds, thousand songs, 

thousand coloured birds, thousand dancers, thousand lakes...

My children weave monsoon, valleys, hurricanes and sky with the earth...

They find love among stone reefs and shrubs...

They guide ants to walk in line to their self dug urbanism...

And I, filled my journey, in the tortoise shell that landed my shore and safeguard my daughter...

Even then, a senescent earthworm, under a baseless huge banyan tree, murmurs...

What would your daughter, who attained an untimely drought,

 be doing now??

Blood Downing the Pass...

Henna …

You boil in the dark

A silent pain.

Its very memory

breaking my veins,

blood rushes down the precipitous pass 

Abysmal silences,

bind the feet of Alps,

tears apart the brain of kisses.

On the ancient curtains of Grats , 

the salt-chewing priest, 

dipping in wax,

devours the eyes of dreams. 

A finger decked with uterine blood

gropes for the sweaty nipples.

One orphaned embrace,

the condemned corpse’s

worms eat up

The question unasked in the midst of coitus;

pervades the rotting brain..

Henna ..

Before the candles of the last birthday burn out

why, the one, in the red books in and out,

the frozen girl, her thumbs tied up ...

to summer-hued mountains;

thrown up.

Why?

Will you too sit besides me..

Lastly, my veins of memories,

recall the endless pain.
Bitter dreams I keep abreast,
though teary eyed, to be born one day.
On the verge of the finishing trail,...
innocent words, born orphaned.
"As my inside simmer in darkness
Will you too sit besides me"

I wouldn't have become..

I wouldn't have died..

If the iron sandals that relapse the monsoon,
had not crushed the streams of spring..

I wouldn't have been born..
If the fingers that squeezed the ocean
that lullabied the snowy mountains,
had not poked through my forefathers forehead..

I wouldn't have seen..
if the clouds that descended the shore of lust,
did not have eyes as the sun..

I wouldn't have wandered..
if the venules in his belly
had not berated the crippled doorsteps..

I wouldn't have flown..
if the mountain cavemen,
delivered by the effulgent streets,
did not bore any nails..

I wouldn't have loved..
if the volcanoes musical strings
entranced by the rising wind on the mountains,
had not invaded my shore as a lullaby
embracing the sea ages..

I wouldn't have become..
if I could not sow myself from the earthly lamp,
on to the alley of the milky way..

The next world war..

We were fastened by the heart of the cactus...

The love which flourished,
unsparingly,
by the thorns of hauteur,...
hiding a world....

The gestation, insulted,
and overthrown,
in a forest riot...

The last gulp given,
to the one victimized
to the sweltering sand granules...
Now, to say the truth,
This heart wrung by the desert,

may be,
will decide our next world war....

Translated by Deepa Chandran Ram 

A baby asleep in the earth's mantle ....

A baby asleep in the earth's mantle,

unable to be born,
It bickers with machine hands
and is entwined by tree's venules.

I want to be a termite mound,

a quilt that snakes, centipedes, crickets and black ants crawl on,
The termite feet should creep

and grow as the navel string of the unborn child.

Lizard, an indicator,

the broken tail, is history,
the helpless poem of shrivelled verses.

When the secret gatherings of bygone trees

downpour as nights,
A banyan tree from Sravasti,

break through the ribs to emerge.

When the leaves with wings drenched in sweat,

are lost in fond kisses through ripped sand walls,
the baby start to depart.

When the sight of images, dead,
turn naked,
When consciousness creep closer,
stripping off the word husk,
An unnamed finger, lastly,

would,
inscribe on the scorching sand.

It might be through a root

that the sea transform to salt,
till the tears that boiled my inside
mature to a truth,
till the dying ember is casted to a being.

Translated by Deepa Chandran Ram..  

Crab..

The melody breaks in between

Poetries are no more laments,
Heartbeats upbraid,
Feet scared of sand-granules,
Cuddles turn dispassionate,
Lately, I am turning to an amnesia.

I am in the clutches of a crab.
as an uninvited famine,
a creature that walks with piercing nail claws,
over my premature dreams…

Before it swallow,
I need to swam over, augment,
to the terminal corner of the world.

When it's scabrous, churlish fingers,
force open the scorched doors in my arid stomach,
I become an unfleshly nakedness
in some silent night tide..

Ballads extended as universe,
a science for you,
a fame within the thick jacket,
a sea as old as genesis..

You, the song,
is the poison goblet,
vended in taverns….
Did the server know that you fed your own hunger?

You are above the scintillae of breath,
Maladies not too big, been accused on you…

This crab is a migrant..
Though, seeds germinate and trees merge with soil
with it's shadow…

Every moment,
the voices dug out by sandals, follow…
Breath cells that exude the phlegm of obsession, vociferate….

Who jailed me?
Who sentenced me?
What was the offense?
When was I betrayed?

Without a charge sheet,
without a prey,
with no one to endorse,
without a legal text for namesake,
who purveyed the executioner?

Though the real convict is the shadow,
that arranged even the gallow
in the unknown prison,
the historical thoughts simmer another question…

How many more crabs
left in this world…
never tired of leeching,
ever breeding and multiplying…
like a landslide,
that embrace one after another…
how many??

Traslated by Deepa Chandran Ram

Song of Vagabond....

On the spacious physical question 

you encounter a vaporous drop..

The drop desires....
to embrace with a guffaw,
to kiss tenderly,
to turn to a tolerant roar,
to tread weaving through her like a silkworm,
to make baby feet dance,
to sometimes drown and kill,
to announce guerrilla warfare through bizarre emotions..

Universe, the wisdom, is monsoon...
torrential rain, is the sob of the soil impending labor pain..
A time bound opera that germinate seeds and uproot huge trees..

As a seed sown in a word,
an instrument can blaze the performer as a lightning...

But this is not that leaves the dark clouds brooding...
Why your body alone stay dry and sapless,
in the middle of all consuming storm and overcast..

Though the doors are groomed with colours,
the latent lamp is truth.
Even in the sweeping raucous whirlwind,
umbrella is an ornament to a dunce..

The festoon in you,

is a diseased organ..

You are a still birth,
if the apparels do not separate,
though amputated..

You are the thong's tongue,
that streamed wailings... 

to the wind, that knitted sand into path...
to the sunlight, that burned dreams to cause light..
to the forest days, by heart felt springs,
harvested darkness, keeping farther from night..
to the wisdom of sea, the itinerant..

A vagabond, oblivion of borders,
continued the song…

"Be naked as the earth's mantle…
Wander as far as the milky way…
Umbrella is ego,
Attire is selfishness,
Footwear is arrogance.."

Translated by Deepa Chndran Ram