He doesn't know me
Neither do I know him
There's a lake between us
Full of fish
The fish does not belong to him
Neither are they mine
That these fishes belong
to neither him nor me
is a link that connects us
A sky lies fallen in the lake
and through the slopes
of cloud I see
the fishes slink away.
The clouds fallen, still
show movement when nudged
by the fish
Could there be fish
unafraid of birds? Look
at that sky in the lake
Would he be seeing this,
I began to think
and whether he will read my thoughts
I could not imagine
what he saw in the lake, and
there was not enough time
Let him think whatever he likes
There's a cigarette in his hand
The fact that there's one in mine
is another link that connects us
I think the smoke from my cigarette
and the clouds are friends
That's why I mourn the clouds
floating bloated in the lake.
Reading the face you know
His thoughts are unlike
There's no sadness in him
He might be smoking
out of boredom
He's darker than me
That too is a link, but
he doesn't know that I'm white
and that my blackness is an act
He too might have been white
and would have gathered soot
after being left by a mother
who lost all his memories
Can't be, he's black
The lake of clouds
where sky lies fallen
My curls of smoke
in the company of clouds
A me, unblack
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 11:21 AM UTC
A 22 ct poem on gold
Dear gold
In the body of a woman
you attain elegance
lying chained to the hip
fatigue like
Endless are the times
when earlobes and foot
seduced me without you
Mere threads of yellow
will do better than you
There's a cuteness
seeing you
swing from a single ear
Nose studs, with a stare
have stung me sleepless.
The ones made of rolled
gold too
But, dear gold
You become gold
when you are pawned
Like the revolutionary
who becomes more revolutionary
when hanged
Like the soldier
who gets shot and becomes
a soldier even more
Dear gold in the pawn shop
My gold, dear gold
Translated by Binu Karunakaran
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 11:19 AM UTC
With a touch of spit
was read the written in blood
The writings of hunger
were puked unread
Those of tears
vanished before being read.
Translated by Binu Karunakaran
https://g.co/kgs/W613VR
#poetry
#kuzhurwilson
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 3:29 AM UTC
I had only contempt for him.
An Amul baby, all the way.
I made fun of him
At newsrooms and in debates.
One such day,
I was at my best
Finding faults and laughing my heart out
At the expense of that Amul baby.
All of a sudden
A voice from nowhere
Pulled me down to earth,
And said thus.
You made fun of me, didn’t you?
You called me an Amul baby
That baby who gave its toothless smile
And made baby noises to its grandma,
Did you hear the sound of bullets
That punctured its soul?
When it ran, calling out to its father,
Did you find blood splattering on its little dress,
From a body that was blown to smithereens
Like a chain of firecrackers?
That voice was
Dripping water on me,
Blown, burnt and scattered as I was.
My blistered contempt
Has a lingering slight irritation now.
#Rahul Gandhi
#RG
#kuzhurwilson
#poetry
#india
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 2:52 AM UTC
Your withered hair strands are my childhood
Love is now those tiny footsteps
That takes its maiden steps
Searching for each of those strands.
My mother's name is written on each of your greyed hair.
Where have you been
When you braided your hair
And kept the two of its braids
On to your chest.
Translation to English Jisha K
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 1:06 AM UTC
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
On the southern border
Of a dilapidated, porous house.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I used leaves that have decayed
More than the usual
As manure.
I took handfuls of the sand,
That was measured out
For construction of the house,
And spread over its base,
Without any measure.
I diverted the rain,
That was flowing away lazily,
To its base.
******* trembled
As love swelled up within.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I kissed every leaf,
Without anyone seeing it.
Its veins looked like yours,
When I read them gently.
And when the eyes welled up
I made a ridge under them
With my soiled hands.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will nurture it with love.
I will fight with ants and beetles
And even butterflies.
If it ever droops,
I will pamper it with sweet talks
And pet names uttered in its ear.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
I will stand guard to it
In rain and shine.
I will tattoo on my palm
Its green, branches and leaves.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
Tears
Spittle
*****
I will pour out the soul of life
Just for it.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
In nights, when I really lose it,
I will hug it and cry my heart out.
I will shower it with kisses,
Drenched with tears and spittle.
I will lie down on its lap,
When the eleven bells crumble.
And when I feel naughtier
I will close my eyes
Get inside it
And hide in there.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day,
It will flower.
And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.
The wind, birds and all creepers around
Will take up that song.
When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.
In your place,
I planted a golden shower.
One day.
***
One day
I will open my day
With its sight
And fade away to next life.
It will wait for me
Till the next life.
***
‘ When it rains,
Seeds sprout in the fields.
When the bugle sounds,
The dead come alive.’
A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 10:31 AM UTC
Wrote
Seed
Ten times.
Dug in
Nine of them.
(One
Fell on
The rock.
I saw
You count
Even
Before
The poem
Started.)
I wrote
Water
And poured
On its foot.
I wrote
Organic Manure
And put it
there,
But it
smelt
Furadan.
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Before I
Wrote
Leaves,
I placed
A board
Saying
Don’t Touch Leaves.
Butterflies
Who cannot read
Fluttered
Around
everywhere.
I was
About to write
Flowerflies
Flowerflies
Next.
Butterflies
Got in
Between.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 1:39 AM UTC
Oh crucified Messiah!
You walk along
The Messi street
Here in Kozhikode playgrounds,
Alone,
Head hung.
You used to write poetry
With your foot
In the green field.
Green pens of press rooms.
How swiftly did they
Turn to red underlines.
—————
I am writing to you
From this land
Where poets will
Always get red card in
Playgrounds of poetry.
You should get down at Kozhikode one day.
I shall introduce you to
MoyduVanimel,
A journalist as old as Kozhikode.
We should roam all around Kozhikode
With him.
We should listen to Vanimel tales,
Sipping hot tea,
At Malapparambu, Puthiyara and Kallayi,
Everywhere that remained under
The spell of your foot.
—————
There is a mosque cemetry
Full of Meezan stones
By the beach.
Tombs
Tattooed with
Foot poetry
By many souls
Who died
Many deaths
In the playground.
You can see,
From your flight itself,
Those Henna trees
That lean towards these tombs
And nod lazily in drizzle.
There,
I shall kneel down
And repeat
The Liturgy for the Losers,
For You.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 1:35 AM UTC
At midnight,
After the rains,
I spread my wings
And flew across
The wide road
Without any company
And there,
Was this board.
Sparrow trading
That’s good.
Trading sparrows.
Trading birds.
Birds to be sold.
I decided
To troll
Ravishankar aka Ra Sh
As a translator
And Babu Ramachandran
Aka Alberto Caeiro.
I entered
The Sparrow Factory.
The Bird Market.
Wholesale trading centre of birds
Without ringing the bell.
I did not want to
Wake up
Even a single little sparrow,
So,
I stepped in
Without a sound
Or even a thought.
There was no bird
At the gate
The watchman
A retired soldier
Snored.
I moved on.
There was no one.
Where did those two cat eyes go?
I pushed
The window
Open
Gently
And looked in.
A lad
Fast asleep
Breaking all grammar
In some unknown language.
Brother, brother
I called
Without the birds hearing it.
That
Unknown language
Blinked awake
And walked up to me.
I felt so sad for him.
I asked,
Softly,
Weighed down by guilt.
Birds?
He said.
Birds gone loose.
Birds gone loose?
Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose.
Every human being
On this universe
Sang
In many languages.
That
Birds gone loose.
Nothing more to say.
*You too can try these three things. Except going in search of those birds that have gone loose.
Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Anand Haridas
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 1:04 AM UTC
If i am born again
As a girl
I would Christen me
As Jere
Without going to the nursery classes
I would fib that I've fever
and would apply collerium in my eyes
the whole day
When I walk through
The city with my doll
Close to my *****
With a solemn look
I would peep in to
The camera eyes
Which would revolve
Around me.
Then also,
My best friend
Would be my mirror
In which I often look
Discontentedly.
I would take to myself
Pretending as grandmothers
Talking to themselves
You can write anything
Miss Web World beautiful or
A pretty girl in Webbannor ( the land of Web ) anything.
But
You must not
Alter my name
Jere
It's my prayer
And
It's my life breath
It is the tumult of ecstacy
That iam the only one
Belongs to me.
The slogan of living.
Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere
Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere jere jere
Jere Jere Jere Jere Jere
Iam going to sleep
In sleep also chanting it only.
In sleep also
I fear some people.
Kuzhur Wilson
Translated to English Roopa Panath
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC