Recently self-published my first collection of poetry on Amazon Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008EL0L2Y/
I envisage several poetic compositions serialized here, such as 'Odysseus', 'Siddhartha', 'Arthur', as potential poetic epics, hoping to enlarge and publish them some day!
© Copyright Prabhu Iyer 2013. All rights reserved.
In the dreary hour of the just-dawn,
your life painted in grim notes,
you are alone with all your Self;
The trees all asleep in grey tones,
lamps that gave light all night,
become pale packets of wastage;
A gust of wind pours in
carrying the songs of birds
singing to the unveiling skies.
A new morning comes rushing
on the waves of the mellow sea
from worlds beyond the horizon:
A day rises, when you drop all
the burdens you long carried
on your life-weary shoulders.
Dust gathers everywhere.
Only a swab on the windscreen is clear
on my dust-laden car.
Too tight to wear,
vibrates vigorously on the washing machine.
The cycle is ending. Intensity waxing.
A song of the solitary koel
serenades a reverie.
I open the screen from inside.
You, the windows from the outside.
Glances exchanged from either side.
It is the time of the late flower.
A drop, even a drop of hot water,
the skin craves for a touch.
In partings, a beginning.
In still winds, all the leaves silent.
Peace comes visiting, a migratory bird
and sits sagely by the bare stalks,
in a hurry to reach
far off lands beyond the seas.
You only get a moment: a moment
when the world freezes.
A mellow morning rises out of the smoke of the night.
The storm clouds clear and the garden emerges
out of heavy veils of the pouring rains
that concealed everything.
Soft dew drips betray the fury of the days,
and the sweet chirps of small birds,
and the slow breeze.
Two roses bloomed for you
adorning the earth-bride
bathed in the fall and
blushing in her peplum of many shades of green:
One, withered, petals all over
her bashful cheek;
The other's still in bloom
drooping, now though;
and here are yet many more buds
awaiting your soft touch
concealed in the bush.
Can words help? Will a hug?
Just silence, the plain old fella?
Here you go then, I call you now:
and I am silent.
Hear my silence
breathing in my heart,
and beating with my breath;
It is empty of anger and moist with love.
Love and anger, the two faces of Janus-word
Silence is profound
it is empty of angles and corners
in its depths there is only
the haunting song
of eternal love;
I rend myself:
I mend myself:
I amend myself:
I commend myself:
I surrender my self:
Can you hear that in your soul?
This is me that you always saw,
this is the me that I always conceal;
I who love the maddening rains,
I who love the obscuring mist;
Listen to me, I am here
in your Silence.
Unraveling through everything
a road, a journal, a pathway
cutting through the thorn-
bush of clouded pasts,
intersecting my heart -
This is where everything began:
crowding cacophonous like
a hundred songs of birds
nestling home at dusk
roosting come memories:
Had I not run barefooted here
those many years ago; had I
not cultivated that sodden
riding motorcycles in rain;
Haunting the blood throbbing
in my veins; what if I had done
something about those
set to missed heartbeats?
Deer lurk in the shadows of grey
leaves: shadowy creatures stalk
on the high branches where
peace reigns among mists;
Ending in a clearance,
that rugged patch in the wood,
where an eternal storyteller
signs off: a form ripples
reflected on the secret lake
I see grace reflected.
Lone bower of hope in my desert life, spread bare
like pathos, against verdant wood, in this dripping rain,
prayer raised to the grey skies, like a late evening
streak of light holding out brave against engulfing pain:
Lone well in the deep forest, in fogging-wet winds,
refuge of abandoned stalks, music of waning seasons,
this waltz of love plays out amid the melancholy
ends of my choices, joy-stream of the drying fountain
when the chorus of crickets drowns the rhythm of rain.
There in that crevice, in that corner
buried in horror and humiliation:
a broken resolve, a frozen dream;
waiting in resurrection, guiding
us on, that still small voice
in the wilderness of the heart
that just never gets smothered.
There is a risen Lord in all of us, waiting
waiting to tide over, waiting to cross over;
Yes He finds us, when unsteady
faith is rocking in a hundred storms,
walking on the waters. Yes
the sea of Galilee is indeed here;
When in awe we sit by the doors
of that right reverend,
or that elevated achiever,
He allows our tears to wash his feet,
our hair to dry them up
and pours His simple love out;
He revives the dead in us; Yes,
He is death revived,
the resurrected Truth in us, the
eternal Hope of an unfamished fragrance.
Smouldering pain of ancient harboured, in the heart inflamed
of a passion, amassed whole of suffering earth nestled in your breast,
came alive in her who mastered the seven realms, whose
aspiration ardent brought down in that simpleton, grace that
poured forth like a pitcher upturned on this world enamoured of death.
Ah, that simpleton who never could fathom caprice that condones
commerce in the very heart of the temple of justice, the virtue and sin
the learned uphold that cannot see in the neighbour's fall,
ones own, or how if the father that birthed the world is divine,
his children be brutes or kin of daemons that deserve stoning to death?
O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!
A drop of blood dries the sands today, heavens weep in the tears
silent of she who stands by the cross today, even abandoned by those
for whom he gave so much; In the still dark night grace walked
the stormy water; and Lazarus returns from wherefore who knows;
A husbandsman reads and answers doubts in minds of learned pharisees.
For every whiplash cast was cast on the earth wide. Every insult
taunted the winds draping your arms. That girdle of thorns, mother,
was placed indeed on your mourning heart. When the cross
ascended slicing the firmament, heavens were mute to your pain,
lama sabachtani, sabachtani, grieves the earth unto the empty, parted skies.
O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!
inspiration for use of 'simple' which I've cast in my context (simpleton), comes somewhat from my friend Jim: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/right-now-i-think-of-him/
There is a passion that rends the skies
dark of pain, to thunder forth
in this suffering world;
Grace that rains and brings forth
an oasis of refuge in this
world weak of flesh;
The spirit rises weighed on the cross
by the suffering inflicted in place
of Barabbases, thousands.
In the dunes of the desert, a call echoes:
husbandsman, tinkerman, everyman,
Never mind the pharisees;
The spirit to the letter is moon
to the rippled reflection.
Weighed down by the burden of life,
you who have been told you deserve
nothing more than the dirt of the earth
you sinner, you sufferer,
A passion calls forth to you. So difficult
indeed is to see the father, aye,
lawmongers, enough for us to see
this humble son of a carpenter here;
O you crushed
under the wagon wheels of time
taste that love by which you are
before Abraham was.
Come, be pillars
in the mansion of your father;
Tiller toiling away in the sweat of life,
you on whose shoulders walk
the sweet-talking liars
who yet enthroned say
you are worth
only more taxation,
You can part waters. You are a miracle.
You drive away ghosts. You can
call the dead to life. Yet you are
love and see no difference
in Mary from Mary,
a secret ocean at the shore of an oasis
to drink of, until we are here
as He is in heaven.
Heaven for us to see and live here
not some unknowable hereafter.
Photo-frame on the wall,
Snap your hero in.
Never mind their foibles;
Every fault is just a small weakness
when found in the otherwise great.
Dying to deify,
we are itching to sanctify;
but, for the struggling everyman.
What if we will never find
another son of a carpenter
who will die preaching love?
In a world starved of messiahs
ready always to worship ever
but be, never,
iconoclasts are icons;
in the language of hope
aye, fete-worthy acceptables.
A pdf document on Maoism as a proto-religion: rauli.cbs.dk/index.php/cjas/article/download/519/549
There is a song that skins remember.
A line that resounds in silences.
A form the heart revisits
in fervid recollections.
That you must not speak,
that you must not speak.
Silences can kill.
No need to ask Crusoe.
Stars that explode in suicide:
From aeons of tortuous silences,
from distant companions,
Yes, our silences talk. Sorry, this
was not how it was supposed to be.
Strains of there we go again.
Gulfs of empty spaces between
silent vales, that birth the
Murmurs leap out like dolphins
out of our silences.
Waiting to hear each other. Past
the dirge at the grave of my errors.
Youth who pelts stones at the convoy,
go get some drunk.
Dawdle up to a tavern.
Cozy up to the ladies.
Have some fun.
You feel great with the gun.
You want to die a martyr.
Yours is a dead cause.
Revolutions are past.
Revolutions don't work.
The baron you want out
is the hell back soon.
He's got the capital.
The dead die unsung.
on ladders of the dead.
Youth who pelts stones at the convoy,
go get some drunk.
Fancy cars. Drive around the world.
Throw away the watch. Wear your phone.
4 am queues are so in. Dior, the who?
Thank god: Chrome can stand in
when Mozilla's bonkers.
Drown in likes and wallow in tweets.
Stay drugged. Stay unconcerned.
Pack up your rage and light a bonfire.
May be the smoke will
plug the holes in our skies.
It's all over.
An unmarked grave is all you get.
Gun or some fun.
Whose cause do you want to benefit?
The door stands outlined in white:
in this dark night, a presence
weighs in from the corridor.
The fan holds a garbled reflection
of stray light on its illusory blade-disk.
I'm talking about parthenogenesis.
How can renewal be born, when
creativity loses her companion,
This monotone life lugs on.
The tree shrugs the question off
by her parting arms half-illumined
by the streetlamp.
The late bird of five calls flew away
to a far-off tree, couldn't be
I hear a voice
soft in the setting chill of the distant autumn:
choked eyes beaming in love.
I seek palingenesis.
Check all emails and ensure zero
answer none, follow up
Umpteenth time through the day.
Autotomy all over again.
die like tails, to be grown
all over again.
This is an etiological myth.
An apocryphal story that
renews itself on the palimpsest of life.
I must cut my nails.
This tea has brewed too dark.
When the moment arrives, it arrives like this:
Dark, like the hour of the silent stars
the hour of the shrill crickets,
the hour of waning hopes,
when all is dark
in my soul:
Friend, at this moment,
I cease the world;
At this moment,
just you and I in the entire universe;
Silent companion, guardian
of the door to all mysteries,
the cause of all causes,
if I must reason like that,
or an unknowable vast,
unknowable, as I am, now,
but an essential knowledge
in some mystic part
of my own hidden,
if I am of sterner stuff than
the pyres that churn out the stars,
if I am of firmer strength than
the cutting arms of time,
reveal this now, friend,
for this is my dark hour,
the loneliest hour
before the eclipsed dawn.
Splash words across: images on canvas.
Before Abraham was, I am:
the cubist of poets. Mangled and tangled;
Here thoughts emerge, in reverent perspectives.
The real world: how many dimensions,
depends on who you ask; Monotone
in my unidimensions. Filter. Baritone.
Coffee-brown is the best colour around.
Here we sit by two-arms distance. To north,
to south. Facing opposing poles.
There is an attraction.
Here are images from the industrial world
gone post-industrial. Broken commodes.
Outsource your misery here. The sky can afford
a hole from on here. As long as
there's none in my shoe.
Sometimes, I roll over in waves.
Sometimes, you wave over.
Questions still hidden in the corners.
All that's passed remains flickering
green like the wireless router
silently at nights: recover, play it over.
Flush it all up. Splash it all around. Cubism.
Art nouveau. Portmanteau. Now fruck the world.
Neon shades rippling through the smoke
riding out dancing to metal clang;
Crazy laughter like that of an empty skull:
smoke the pipe, brother,
spread the peace around. 2013, stupid.
Idealism died in 1967. And many times since.
Repeats always a farce.
Only one man died for the poor.
Who called the dead to life.
All other stories are about barons and hedgehats:
while the millions were ground over
to oil the world. While they roiled the world.
How the poor die under the heels
of those that claim to love that man?
Disagree? Drone. Agree? The throne.
Yes, we can, brother, we can defeat this
bloody corruption. Brother,
be not corrupt.
A sigh of disapproval, soft in sleep.
I come and lie, back to your back,
waiting for love to seep over.
Yes, we can, brother, we can overcome
bigotry vile. Brother,
say not, mine, the only way ever.
Happy lovers day. Shout out aloud,
peans more to the meek women's rights.
Forget not, there's some in your sights.
Two arms' distance is about the right in the day.
There are two faces seen in this bubble,
formed at the mouth of the tooth paste tube.
Peace to the world, every morning after.
Every little home by home.
Neologisms I have coined and used in this piece:
1. Unidimensions - uni-dimension as an opposite to multi-dimensions!
2. Hedgehats - a somewhat derisive word for those who divide the land into hedges for their own fiefdoms and the such :)
A beat pulses through the song
rising like a plume of smoke
across the ridge.
The night rolls on.
A love languishes.
I can't help but
The scattering clouds.
Heart-beats to the head-song.
Do you even exist?
Arms upraised like those of a
tote bag. I surrender. Fold
up, like a gunny sack.
Not this, not this.
Stars flicker mourning my
You must, when I ask like this.
Dead man's procession. Every
pot-holed road is a graveyard
of dogs. Dead, unsung.
Milk spreads in the tea cup,
shooting out, widening,
tentacles, like fear.
Why is your voice this feeble?
My face, flatter than is usual
in this mirror?
You mean, you are me too?
I mean, does that even like
I'm an Olympic hero. All of us.
Hubbub. Throb, to
An existential thought-stream. Free rhythm.
Holy yards of hallowed houses of prayer
rise in sublime chants and hymns
at this hour of the blessed dawn
when auspicious shades of light
grace the scabbards of swords
long sheathed and covered in shadows
of figures on the stained glasses
A divided land of long used to darkness
engulfing, rejoices: a saviour rises,
a hero who can unite and heal:
purple robe and the rag, Roman
and Celt: the long suffering realm
finds solace at last in order and justice;
A quest brews, of sacred chalices
In the noble hearts of faithful knights:
Alas, a tragedy in the shadows,
whither, famed Artorius, wise?
Hades schemes to snatch away
your Persephone to Annfwyn afar:
No mortal wounds could fell you alive,
But this, you carry on to Avalon.
Piece in progress ...
The auspicious chorus of birds announces your regnal arrival
at this hour, as the morning unrolls itself like a sacred scroll,
and everything around comes alive in her ancient symbols.
Trees, topped in ruddy hues, objects in this room, the tower
lamp, the mirror, the table, all joyously content in the glow
of their acquired aura. All strung together in a sublime hymn
sung in some tongue more archaic than phenomena, yet more
familiar than voices in the head. You stood here by my side,
golden mist spreading from your feet, but I remained asleep,
lost to morose worlds. You walked across into the living room
before vanishing into the abandoned well by the backyard.
Alas, I wake up smelling the scattered fragrances of your
silken footsteps. And I go tracing the peals of joy wafting
across these spaces, empty and mourning your departure.
like pebbles into a well.
Woven like a web all over.
Returning at the same spot,
beaten, broken into
a hundred parts.
Plumes of obfuscation.
Rising, spreading everywhere.
This spiraling music in the head.
What is the way forward?
The rickshaw slices the expanse
speeding away from my grasp.
A query rises into the wilderness
of a hundred distractions.
The bell. The bell. Distant, sonant.
Door. Phone. Beep. Beep.
The firmament is camouflaged.
Am looking for a direction;
Confusion. Obfuscation. Frustration.
Moments of echoing self-reflection seeking an answer, guidance, amidst distractions....
I followed the line of smoke at dawn:
Smoke from ebbing fires that
burned all night, leading to
some unknown end
past the horizon: eagles
circled above and crows
sliced the hum of the wind,
as I walked on,
of a buried life emerged:
Laughter, cries of joy, who is that
running after severed kites?
Colours splashed in merry
summers; that corner refuge
hiding during scary fights -
Memories like a river
roaring out of the gorge,
of a buried life,
emerged out of the horizon
beyond the line of smoke,
figures that retreated into shadows
and corners beyond approach,
memories of buried, forgotten times...
You lie curled up this way by my side
budding rose waiting
to bloom, light plays with
shades on your face like in a Monet
piece: your lips in bloom,
touched up bright and curled hair,
waving in the breeze.
You suddenly proclaim in half-sleep,
'get ready, we've got an invite.'
You even cite
a phone number. As random
as it is, it brings a smile; and
when you ask for the time, I'm happy
you are awake, but then you ask,
'what shall I wear? After all, we
mustn't look plain at the do.'