By Elsy Satheesan (Kalaparampath)

With strength hidden
in the center of weakness,
the artist lives
in soft dreams
veined with love.

When hit hard
at the soft core
he spins out of control,
shaping wonders
in tongues, native to heart.

Agony is an art to him,
deft at morphing rupture
into supernal rapture.

He sits majestic
on the throne of the artist
with joy that is teary
and woe that is dainty.

The artist lives through agony,
as gold through fire,
smelting agony into marvels
with God's own mint mark on them !!!

Artist's Agony
by Elsy Satheesan


With strength hidden
in the center of weakness,
the artist lives
in soft dreams
veined with love.

When hit hard
at the soft core
he spins out of control,
shaping wonders
in tongues, native to heart.

Agony is an art to him,
deft at morphing rupture
into supernal rapture.

He sits majestic
on the throne of the artist
with joy that is teary
and woe that is dainty.

The artist lives through agony,
as gold through fire,
smelting it into marvels
with God's own mint mark on them !!!

Garden
By Elsy Satheesan



She planted a secret in her garden
and one in her soul too.

The secret in the garden
bloomed into golden marigolds,
and stood beaming,
with bouquets raised to the skies.

The wind rippled about,
birds hummed above,
bees surged in buzz,
and beetles hovered in fizz.

The season and the garden
warmed into every heart.

The secret in her soul,
the seed of a carving ailment,
lay buried quite quiet.

Slowly it started sprouting,
seldom showing up to any.

She smiled with the marigolds
to let them know
that their mesmerizing charm
will keep her from harm.

And robust hope, did thwart
the germinating ailment,
keeping it down and out,
to a ripe old age!

She gleaned from her garden,
hope is life,
life is hope.

HOW OLD WAS SHE?



How old was she,
none knew for sure.

When they were kids,
she was there tending them.

When they had kids,
she was still there,
playing with them.

How old are you Kurumba?
someone would ask her.

“You tell me kiddo,
how old I am.
I was born on a night
when the moon was
smiling full lipped
in the crown of the sky.

I am older than your ma
and grandma too.
Now you calculate.”

None knew the magic
of calculating the age of one
born on a full moon night,
one of those yonder years.

At some point of time
age had frozen on her.

Kurumba was all smiles
and a lone dream.

She wanted to leave in style
if not live in style.

She proudly dreamt
of her body wrapped
in soft red silk shawls,
one from each child
she tended, on her day
of final departure.

The soft silk shawls,
all in red, from three
generations of sheer love
wrapped her body in style.

Scanning the glorious finale
from ethereal heights,
silent tears of joy
rolled down her cheeks,
showering down
a warm rain, in summer shine.

INVITATION



Do come for a walk with me
through this sylvan trail
where the air is scented
with lilies and pine.

Here shafts of sun shine
streak straight down
through the luxuriant roof
of thick lush green.

Let us go in stealth,
just to make us unfelt,
and unheard,
for we are intruders here.

This idyllic land belongs
to the birds, rabbits, critters;
their chirping, whistling
and scampering echo all over.

Let us be quite quiet,
and allow all sound and silence
to wash over us,
cleansing us of the city scent.

Side by side, let us muse over
those living in concrete forests,
and lament over the massacre
of trees, full of life and limb!

The sky scrapers are tall,
ozone layers have holes
global warmth flies in rockets
and weather fractures all forecast!

Let us take a vow together
to blanket Ma earth with trees,
our oxygen cylinders,
sole life savers!

One to one
will be a good one!
I plant a tree for you,
and you plant one for me.

And all the world
hand in hand, bed out trees
one to one!

That will make us
rich in green again,
leaving the green legacy
for generations to come!

LAYERED EMOTIONS



Heaps of hope she heaved on
the rare orchid, bidding it bloom.

Annum four begot the boon;
it tested its little magic
and sprouted a slender shoot,
sprinkled with decimal buds.  

She kept breathing life into her hope,
pining for the buds’ open sesame,
and daily guarded over it,
with her adored two year old.

Slowly, after what seemed a ‘thapas’
the teeny buds unfurled, one by one,
into a beauteous brooch of mimosa pink.

Moment of pure fulfilment!

Next noon, her beloved two year old
drew nigh, with a spring in his sprint,
chirping, ‘mom, close your eyes,
I have a present for you.’

Mom geared up as per order,
eager to glimpse the gift of love.

‘One, two, three: open your eyes’
the proud voice cooed.

She obeyed and lo!
upheld in his tender fingers
was the rarest of gifts,
the pendant of her four year dream,
the mimosa pink brooch!

He offered his token of love
with a proud enchanting smile!

Should she cry,
or should she laugh?

She did both.

She locked him in a bear hug,
showering kisses all over,
proud of his precious love!

But tears of joy, laced with dismay
silently dripped down her cheeks!

It was a loaded moment
of layered emotions!
heavily loaded, heavily layered!