Educated cat,
debonair toe to tip,
mustache and whiskers
trimmed to suit
the current style,
demands in a fine
cultivated
clipped accent,
to the chief
of the rat hole
to surrender
peacefully, his army
cache of weapons
secret Swiss bank
account details,
gold and diamonds
stashed away in
vaults underground,
and the database on
high net worth
individuals
within 24 hours,

without much ado
to avoid bloodshed.

No, it wasn’t happening for the first time

I don’t know whether anyone wrote ‘Tattered sky’ in a poem before. Maybe it was me. I haven’t met a poet in whose life memory and forgetting are so mixed up. Even if I wrote, maybe I had forgotten it..

Still, I am sure I am the first poet to write ‘tattered sky in the lake’ for the first time in the world. Otherwise, ask those crows pecking it to tatters. Or ask the kingfishers who fly in that tattered sky.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

Two nuns who went to Aluva river sands to pay annual obeisance to the dead to Jesus

One day, while going via Aluva, i saw two nuns. They were two poor women going to Aluva river sands to pay to Jesus the annual obeisance to the dead.  One among them had the looks of my mother, and the other, that of my girl friend at the church compound. Even when i recited aloud VG Thampi’s lines ‘I am Jesus, unfinished’ they didn’t listen to it. They were not in any way related to me. Then, i was a handicapped Jesus.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

My name was Shemeer then

In the hospital at NAD, my job was to sleep in the place of that fat insomniac doctor. My name then was Shemeer. I can’t prove through my writing how well I performed my job snoring loudly all the way.  I don’t think anyone would have worked like this so totally oblivious of oneself. My sleep was not in the least affected by the rounded ******* of doctor’s jasmine vine of a wife, or by the odour (i wanted to say smell) which was capable of bringing the dead back to life. Moreover, his two candle-like daughters used to play hopscotch on my bed sheet, which was my work place.  But what to say? They dismissed me from my job for opening my eyes a wee bit on a day at dusk. I heard a shriek. That too, a familiar one. They had brought Madhavi Chothi to the hospital when her asthma got worse. True, i did open my eyes. I am Shemeer, the one who was dismissed from his job for the first time in history, for having startled awake from sleep.

It is not the first time it is happening, you know?

I have cried in keka and kakali meters. I have begged in kalakanchi. I have lied in kalyani. I have laughed and guffawed  in anushtup and sardula vikriditham. I have masturbated in slathakakali, and ****** in anna nada, and let it flow innathonnatha. I have dozed in manjari and died in maakandamanjari. I have gone mad in mandakranta, and have lost myself in meters i don’t know the names of.

One could have adjusted at least a day..**

Something that smelt of breast milk. I think my name was Shinto or so at that time. I was an altar boy who had lost his belief in names after having cognac from a bar in Chicago. There was a little bird too. From that day, i developed the habit of calling even a crow a little bird. Whatever it maybe, there was a little bird. And that bird was building a nest. The bird brings the twigs, strands of hay, a bit of a flex sheet broken at the edge of a word. The bird brings a red wire, the bird brings. It was beginning to take life in the address ‘The Little Bird, Nest, Tree PO ‘. A day. A week. An year. Yes, it took a long, long time. Bird, nest, tree.. tree, nest, bird.. The moment i asked ‘Hey little bird, don’t you have kids?’,  it flew away. Here it comes with its little ones to occupy its home. Yes, that very day. On that day, just after those who won the tender contract, had cut that tree down. This was too much. They could have adjusted at least a day..

It is not the first time it is happening..

Mackerel, they want to  be
both unanimously agreed;
but why is she stuck still
under the hide of a whale?

The young woman, plain, was unsmiling behind the control panel,
a ribald passion filled his veins, her mien has to do something,
the airfield was deluged by waves of grief, among them
was those robust women, he tried to forget but couldn't
who may defeat the purpose, if he takes a second look.

She gave her word to fly the single engine airplane
"Don't fear darling, i am an aerobatics specialist
if need arises i wouldn't hesitate to crash land,
take care of your hurt, bleeding lonely heart".
How reassuring! never would he turn back,
after this difficult take off awaited life long.
No more entries in this log book.

Her dark make up, was feline an added attraction
that gave him a libidinous surge, an ******* with ample promises,
to last till he reaches his destination final, from where
the return flight, is even unthinkable the lady pilot winks.

This Cessna to the unknown, has the aphrodisiacal scent of
wild orchid flowers he once discovered in the far stretches
of the Western Ghat mountain ranges
and ******* secretions of one particular lover
a reminder perhaps death wants to carry as it happens

Some books I have never opened once
Within the wood can hear them sigh
If you had in mind not to give us a chance
Why at all us did you buy?

The books I read lying in the wooden case
Read once and that was enough
They too show quite a long face
Seem to say we’re forgotten stuff!

There are books behind the dusty glass
That found my head too hard to penetrate
The minds that wrote though of high class
Couldn’t reach me having spent all the sweat!

Some books came like love at first sight
I fell for them like a blind lover
When opened the first page found nothing right
Soon my romance with them was over!

Books are like women fast infatuate
Give the feel without them is no life
Yet they fade at too fast a rate
Only a few holding on like my wife.

Turbulence and tranquility,
the waves taught me both,
from seagulls came
silent flights, smooth landing
on moving waves
and cacophonous rage,
dervish dance was the gift
coconut groves granted
during the months of monsoon,
the art of hiding sweetness
within hard shell, too was their lesson,
"Don't exhibit,
let them find out coconut water
if only they deserve" the tall palms
implied while they danced like
feverish, passionate lovers,
hair splayed, rocked by crazy winds.

Your eyes spoke about a kind of
beautiful transience and unaffected calm,
at the end of the quest for the ultimate.

From many we flow towards one,
tranquil, eternal, omniscient.
I pick and choose from various notes
to create a symphony of accord
knowing in my heart that it's what we all share.

Night took me to the heart of deep sleep
and said the specs of light will not perish
"Cherish it to make  days of sun and dance
then come back to the ample ***** of darkness"

Youthful spirit told me about the alchemy of love
between hearts and heart breaks too, that teaches one
that sadness has it's sweetness.

Walls proclaimed all about limits,
also patience and courage to break it,
if one removes stone after stone bearing pain
every wall will eventually fall.

I'm escaping from every fear,
from the moment I met Love.
I'm loving being in Love,
being in Love with you.
Found reason to smile,
for you & your love,
for your trust & care;
I can smile whole my life fearlessly.
It's journey of our life,
with you & me becoming just 'US' forever..._

"Thank you", a mesmerizing spell,
Ever wanted one to know,
amazing words that one can whisper,
zilch that works apart...
There is a tale to tell,
how I feel so far today,
everything I received in cluster,
I failed to greet it with smile...
Life remains incomplete,
without greeting words,
we have enormous reasons,
to share words of gratitude...
Don't let anyone down,
thank 'em with smiling heart,
receive reverence in galore,
spread words of honesty n bliss...
Do we really need time n reason???
Even when we happy n safe...
simple words that work magically,
why one needs to think to say???

Have no idea
what to really ink,
Having potpourri of emotions,
and perhaps piled up feelings too.
Have no path to walk on,
still turning on the lane of hope.
Words don't spill what I really wan't to,
nor does my silence.
Patience leads to bliss,
and days of halcyon moments.
Now, I'm waiting for a moment,
for someone to hark me,
understand me,
and never lets me go any wrong way.
I'm tired,
really tired,
yelling and calling help,
I'm losing hope,
It's time for me to kip.
It's time to bury all emotions,
feelings, yells, and patience too.
It's time to bury the corpse,
corpse of zilch demands!!!

You cannot give me thorns and expect roses in return.

There is a story to be told,
either we should attempt,
together or keep it a secret.
Pain is the glue that joins us,
the story has different narratives
that won't converge, in all places
hence it is less than joyous.

Joys are but a rainbow till evening,
the rains of happiness are sparse,
                           we still are waiting
the drought destroys everything green,
love is a dying stream in between-
ego trips and never ending pain.

Let us tell the story in one voice,
let go the pain of lost choices,
you should be lying on my chest,
sobbing and I must be  consoling softly,
"Honey, don't cry, it's not your fault or mine"
still you are inconsolable in your grief.
              Then you see my eyes are
              two pools flooding in pain.

1.Forgone
learned languages:
silence speaks!
#
2.Forgot logistics;
transcendence
rings bell.
#
3.Transgressed limits
accidentally;
how fortunate!
#
4.Dense darkness
highlights
the starlight
#
5.Expected silver
got gold;
dissatisfied!

A melancholy ***** we came to adore
in mournful tone, finish the tale abruptly
and sob, uncontrollably;
"Memories of my melancholy ******"
including "Love in the times of cholera"
are now part of our folklore, this land
of cashew groves and banana plantations
in  Indian landscape, far far away from Latin American shores.

Her lascivious days are over
death visits the house of love, blood splattered
and a haunt of dark happenings, that begets children with tails,
shame, honor and secrets creep out of manuscripts.
Gabo is no more, no more"Living to tell the tale"
the Part Two, promised before.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, after three false starts
goes to his final abode for rest, now.

A coded manuscript, written in
in classical Sanskrit,
(the language of all divine texts
of Indian sages of yore)
scripted by the mysterious gypsy,Melquiades
predicts the wipe out of Buendia clan
of five generations

Torrential rain and deluge engulf Macondo,
ends "One hundred years of solitude".
Gabo you point towards east
what is the answer to the conundrum of Buendias?

In Mexico city
they were preparing to take  Gabo to his last ride
to the origin of all magical realism he'd return

In a land far away,
yet exactly the same landscape as Latin Americas
we grieve his death as that of one of our own
Gabo, in past thirty years, you mysteriously taught us
to discern the magical realism of cosmos