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anilkumar parat Jul 2022
As crickets chirp-chirp
In staccato bursts
Weaving this web of silence
I wait immured
Within my own walls
To see if this darkness will fade

All I hear
Is the silence of the night
Her sighs, her slow breath,
The rise and fall of her soft *******
I dread this lull
That, like heady wine,
Pulls me into the whirlpool
Of drowsy sleep

Am I dreaming that I'm asleep
Am I asleep or awake
If only this web were a trampoline
I'd jump like a newborn kid
And prance and bleat in unbridled joy
But for now I simply wait
Within my own walls
For that demented rooster
To crow and crow and crow
And rouse the lousy lazy sun
To shine for one more day
anilkumar parat Jun 2022
moonlit silver night
like a spider
weaving
this fine web of silence
around me

trapping in it
tiny pearls of dew
forlorn calls of lonely koels
suppressed sighs of yearning
tormenting thoughts pacing about
sobs buried in drenched pillows
pleasure escaping in moans
as nails titillate

dark inky night
doggedly weaving
to the cricket's staccato rhythm
this fine web of silence
around me

trapping in it
remembrances
of things past and forgotten
of humiliation and angst
of jubilation and smiles
of tenderness and love

Every time I try
to curl up in this cosy silence
the raucous cockerel
rips it to shreds
letting in golden streams.
anilkumar parat May 2022
The earth here is red my friend
Because if you dig it up
You'll find the congealed blood
That was spilt in so many silly battles
Over ownership and honour and faith
And that blooms today as roses
And hibiscus and a thousand other flowers

The earth here is red my friend
Because it's already clotted
And waiting for more to be interred
While they wail and mourn yet again
As vendetta spawns vendetta
And ****** cockfights fuel the thirst
For more blood, more gore

The earth here is red my friend
Because her lust for blood is insatiable
And yet look how she clothes herself
In a luxurious glimmering verdant silk
Hums one of her sweet birdsongs
And smiles at you, innocently
Beckoning you like a coquette.
anilkumar parat May 2022
The pompous black crow
In his black tuxedo,
a silly top hat, shiny black shoes,
and dark shades
strutted up to me the other day,
tilted his head and asked
"Hey Mister, How do you do?"
I was new in the neighborhood
I didn't want to offend Mr Pompous,
so I replied meekly
"I'm fine, thank you, how do you do?"

Then another day  when the sky was pregnant
he came to me dressed like a spy
Eyes behind dark shades,
dark trenchcoat, collars turned up and all.
I wasn't sure if it was dark grey or black
Because i remember wondering
When dark grey became black
Anyway, he wore a hat
And he wore boots
And he strutted up to me
And asked me rather gruffly
"Hey Mister, how do you do?"
I said i was fine, thank you and how did he do
And he went away.

And then one day he came to see me again
When i was in my flooded garden
Rescuing drowning earthworms
He seemed ruffled, wet and miserable
In a dark but tattered raincoat
(Was it dark grey or black?)
And he looked at me sideways,
shook himself and asked
"Why aren't you indoors,
don't you know its gonna rain
for the next five days too
and there's a red alert?"

I said I was fine, thank you and how did he do
And besides, was his raincoat dark grey or black?
And the frogs and toads laughed in derision
And they couldn't stop laughing,
they are still laughing.
anilkumar parat May 2022
Half hidden
under his motheaten blanket
the moon
pockmarked and sullen
distilled the night
over and over again.
All around,
a brooding silence.

Only his still growled
like distant thunder.
And from  time to time
his fire crackled.
All else was still.

Then
slowly
little droplets
started falling
clear as drops of tear
And i raised my head skyward
and pushed my tongue out

Heavy and heady drops.
The ***** stung,
tasting vaguely
of suppressed sobs
of unrequited love
juvenile fantasies
****** dreams.
And a hint of birdsong.

I guess the rogue
had wrung the neck of
my songbird
and tossed him into the still too.
Because now
only a lone insane rooster
crows repeatedly
as darkness fades.
anilkumar parat Mar 2022
My skin has been
too tight, too old, suffocating
too rough scaly calloused
you dont know my struggle
trying to rupture it
gasping from every pore
writhing sweating shaking
silently screaming.

In the dead of the night
struggling shedding moulting,
I shall emerge breathing free
young and shiny
a new me
in my new world, new skin.
in my newfound sheen,
I shall at last smile

Tomorrow's sun too will smile
on greener canopies
and verdant vistas
on gurgling streams
and sloping roofs
on shoeflowers and 'mukkootti' and 'thumba'
and on happily jobless cicadas
with their day-in day-out whirrings
and on idle summer koels
with their throats drunk from
too many sweet mangoes

Tomorrow's sun will smile
on men glistening with sweat
celebrating life
with the heady rhythms
of a thousand chendas
and caparisoned elephants
in ancient temples
under ancient banyan trees
and my ancient deities
will exult goose-pimpled
at the ancient crescendos
of the thousand drums
and I'll be goose-pimpled too
in my new young skin
with its newfound sheen.

You'll see me, maybe
in my folded-up mundu
walking freely among the paddies
or languidly swimming in the streams
I shall sing like the koel
whirr like the cicada
I shall kiss all the flowers
of my new home
and bring you its bouquet, maybe.
or maybe I shall sit still
under an ancient banyan
and pretend I'm an anthill.
anilkumar parat Mar 2022
Woman, Oh woman!
I've tried and tried
to peel you tenderly
layer by layer
hoping to see all your glory
but I know it's futile
you'd just evanesce
into thin air
and all I'd get would be a whiff
of your lingering fragrance.

Woman,  I've tried and tried
to rain on you
with gentle sun showers
hoping to rouse you from languor.
I've touched you, tasted you
I've tried to hug you
for eternities that burst like water bubbles
I've tried sharp logic
to see what's inside of you
but all I'd get would be
some finely chopped confusion
some teary eyes
and some of your juices

Woman, oh woman!
I've tried and tried
I've eyed you, I've weighed you
I've measured you, sized you
I've sketched you, shot you
painted you over and over
in black, in white, in all shades of grey
and in a seven million hues too.
I've finally even thrown words,
wet gooey words,
onto my potter's wheel
coaxing them with clumsy hands
to mould your voluptuousness
your curves, your smile,
your love, your strength,
your fiery impatience
your very core essence--
but all I'd get would be
a limp blob
of pathetic poetry.

I've tried and tried
unraveling, deciphering you;
a mere likeness, a semblance
is all I'd get of you
but no, it still wouldn't be you.
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