Kuzhur Wilson Jun 2014
Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its congested patio,  
Beheld the sky

That sky spilled over the sky
Stars squirmed and threatened to jump down immediately

We were like the children beneath the mango tree who do not rush to school
Even after the last bell

The wind may blow any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Descried the sea
Sitting inside its smoke-filled, odorous kitchen

That sea overflowed the sea

The fish swimming along in the deep asked, “coming?”

We were
Like the fisherman waiting for the snakehead murrel
Though it is noon and he is hungry

The sea fish do not know
The grooves of tears and the little waterway

Rainclouds can arrive anytime

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Saw the woods sitting near its un-curtained window

Those woods got darker than woods
Trees pretending to cavil for my being late

Moonlight clear and fuzzy amongst boughs

Us, like fireflies watching ripened paddy stalks

There are wounds that are hidden
A lightning can strike any moment

Our house was a 12 year old Lancer car

Sitting in its spaces coarse otherwise
We quenched each other’s thirst and hunger
Perused the holy book

Often, while no one watched,
We fed the dolls
Sung them lullabies

On these occasions,
I went out pretending that I wanted a smoke

Thereupon, between us
Sky sea  woods.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
We met
In a deserted street
In Kabul, capital of Afghanistan, In the next incarnation.

A tee shirt , with the legend
“The lovers in this incarnation
Belonged to two populations
That were at war in the last one”
Walked by.

I realized that day
That your gaze
Was a bullet
Of hatred and vengeance
Left over from unabated fury
Even after firing six times that day

And you told me
That my words
Were like
The satisfaction of chopping repeatedly,
A body long dead

When you saw popcorn on the wayside,
Why did you offer to get it?
Why did you coo, ‘what’s wrong, dear’ when I sighed?
I am clueless!

you asked
How we separated
The first time it was because the flame flared up
When lighting a taper
Once it was because the phone rang while kissing.
There was some stain on my shirt when we met in a dream
For asking
For not asking
For calling, not calling,
For sighing,
For laughing, for whimpering,
For crying, for eating, for not eating,
For sending, for not wishing to send,
For going to the toilet
Without asking permission
For saying a prayer for mother and children

Must have died together on that day.
The anxiety was not
About who would look after you
If I died first,
But who all will look at you!

Must have killed
If not that, *** would have interfered
Whatever the rock on which it is built,
*** would upset it with an earthquake if nothing else.

*** and His strange ways!

In the Afghan capital city of Kabul,
It is the same us who killed with love in this fashion

When you exclaimed
“How lovely this city is”,
I lighted another cigarette

This time, another tee shirt
With the legend “I am not even born”
Passes by

I remembered
The two lines you told me
in the last incarnation,
Four days before Christmas,
A Thursday evening,
At 5:41.
I laughed without telling you that.
You gave me a kiss.
Author Notes
Translation Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Apr 2014
I will tell
Surely tell
Wait until Meenakshi teacher arrives
I will surely tell

That you’d pinched me
You had hit me
You’d hidden my umbrella
Your hand had delved into my lunch box
And you picked up and ate the tender mango pickle
I’ll tell everything

That you’d peeped into my math book
And copied my homework
You’d forged my handwriting
You’d spilled violet ink
On the cover page of my science book
You’d inscribed
“I love you” in my palm
You’d scored on my back with the compass
Everything, everything

You’d called me names
Didn't you call me monkey?
I’ll tell that too
You threw the marbles
That my grandpa had bought me
Into the river
I’ll tell that too
You spoiled my new slate
That my brother had got me
That too

You had written in page fifteen
Of my double lined copy book
That Padma teacher isn’t good
I’ll tell that too

Well, nope
Not saying that
What if Meenakshi teacher relishes that
You may end up getting fewer whacks

At any cost I’ll tell
That you’d eaten
Raw mango with salt
In the classroom

Before the teacher came in
You’d written
The film song on the board
For sure I’ll tell that
Just wait and see
Teacher is going to grill you
You’ll cry
You’ll burst into tears
I’ll see that and burst into laughter

When you cry
I’ll drop some ants into your bag

Have you already
Started to cry
Now wipe your tears
Hey, come and sit
Next to me.

you give me a kiss
on my cheek,
I won’t
tell anything.
What you refuse to give me that?
You don’t need to give that for free
When I grow up
I’ll return that;
Will give you double
Of what you give

Forgot to ask you something
The birth before the last
You’d borrowed
A 316 kisses
From me
When will you return them?)

I wish
to go to school with you

(Letters from inside My Stomach – A Part )
Translation : Rajasree Ramesh
Kuzhur Wilson Nov 2014
By Kuzhur Wilson    (trans by Ra Sh)

It could be said that I, who should reach the office by 4, reached only at 4.35
because I spent much time jacking off fantasizing about that girl
who never got clearly imprinted in my mind despite best efforts.

But, that wasn’t the case.

It could be said that I, who should reach the office by 4, reached only at 4.35
because of a luxurious bath dissolving in the new brand of Chandrika soap.

But, that wasn’t the case.

That wasn’t the case at all. May be an incident which you will never accept as true  could be the case. That was the case.
That indeed was the case. It happened so. It happened approximately so.

While driving along granting the police enough cause to book me, by switching on the AC
and setting the volume of music high and switching off the AC and lowering the volume of music
and looking at the watch and switching on the AC and setting the music at a high volume again
and looking at the watch and looking with scorn at the cell phone in the silent mode
and again switching on the AC and switching it off
and again setting the volume of music high and switching it off,

There stood the house of death beyond that curve. I see it every day. A cute house
that prompts one to sing how pretty you are today! I didn’t stop the car, folks. It stopped by itself.
I have never seen such a house of death looking like a dome of gold. Upon my father, I haven’t, I swear.
As I enter the house, a hum on my lips, flower upon flower look at me and smile.
They smile at me with a hum that says you scoundrel never have you thrown even a glance at us
though we have always been here laughing aloud from the edges of the fence.
As if the song how pretty you are to look at has come alive. O flowers in the house of death how pretty you are to look at (like you, I am not bothered that grammar is all twisted here.) How pretty you are to look at!

Among the flowers lay the dead man who was as pretty. Don’t have to sing that I sang the how pretty you are song. That house was the chorus of the song how pretty you are. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s wife. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s kids. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s neighbours. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s friends. How pretty you are sung even the dead man’s mom.
You may not believe this. My ancient desire, that wish of my life, to give a kiss to the dead man at that precise moment pulled down all barriers.

I gave I gave I gave a kiss to that man.

The reek of alcohol mixed with the fragrance of Ittar. Mixed with the scent of flowers. Mixed with the scent of burning incense.

Oh! I gave him a kiss.

Folks, it was not like giving a kiss to an acquaintance dead or not. Honestly no.
A kiss given to an unacquainted dead man. No issues whether it was right to give a kiss or receive one. Oh! Even after writing so much I am not satiated.

I only remember that, reeking with the smell of liquor and letting out a nasty swear word, he asked me where have you been all these days?

Now, I am entering my office at 4.35. You know why I got late today. The dead man too.
By Kuzhur Wilson    (trans by Ra Sh)
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2014
My precious

You become a beauty
Only when you languorously
Hug the waists of damsels as cincture

Countless are the times,
earlobes or ankles
Unadorned by you
Inflamed  me

A plain a yellow thread has ousted you nowadays

When you swing from an ear,
It is indeed fascinating to watch

You have even usurped my sleep
As a nose-ring, through its keen glitter
Costume jewellery has replaced you too, many times

Still, my precious,
It is when  you are pawned
That you become real ‘gold ‘

Like the revolutionary
Who become more so
By getting hanged

Like a soldier
Who become more of a soldier
By getting shot at the border

My precious, my precious
My precious pledged gold.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2016
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 **** shop
My gold, dear gold

Translated by Binu Karunakaran
Kuzhur Wilson Aug 2014
Was getting ready
To interview
Who goes to and from the office
Daily in an ambulance

All questions
About death
Were interrupted by life

So I changed track
And ferreted about for questions on life
Then death too barged in

About an ordinary vehicle becoming an Ambulance,
About an ambulance becoming
An ordinary vehicle

A casual end,
As if there is no homework needed
For the world’s most boring interview.
translation : A casual end
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2014
2009 october 9,
Sharja, ajman, dubai**

Very early,
The day
Browses through the book
On suicide

“this wooden cross of poesy
Will control
The road mishaps
Of dream travel”
I told the day
That those are my lines

He laughed
Sunlight spread

Gave the book
On suicide
To the day

Let it get dark,
He said

A father for the first time
is making
His daughter
to the sea
Named after her

Why don’t you
Say something?

This is the sea,
Mother ocean
Mother ocean
Gave you your name

You laugh
Listening to the roar
What do you know
About its depths
Even your father doesn’t know
Deep abysses

Huge sharks
With protruding teeth

Keep it a bit closer, girl,
The low voice
Of a goddess

After your father
Dipped you
In the ocean,
He  wrote on the bank,

That the ocean mother is a thief

It was probably
Because she was scared of you,
This time,
She didn’t wipe it out

Who is this Ranni?
To which godforsaken place does this Ranni belong ?
Whether it is Ranni
Or Konni,
I have to drink a drop of liquor
After that, everything will be all right

In the perfect Ranni room
Of the one from Ranni
Ranni, etc

There are pictures of father and mother

You are blessed
The pictures of
And mother
In the words of Nazimuddin
Fair wife
Obedient children

Gave a kiss
On the forehead
Of the one from Ranni

Would Shobha
Have ever seen me
Except through the camera?
Mary, Mary again,
Must have seen me
Changing lens after lens

As  for everyone else,
I am a picture
For Shobha

No shobha
Has seen

Is it because of madness
Or in order to not become mad
O forest,
These missed calls

Those that were missed were missed all right .

In- between,
Trying to imitate
In your language,
I failed...

There is,
In Aluva
A Sebastian
Who vends vegetables

Sells anything
Except poems

And you?

All who smoke
Pine cigarettes
In the world
Are brothers

After I die
You should give
A packet of Pine
Along with the award given

Was the seller
In that grocery
One day
For one hour
In some moment

My pay
My pay

This kiss
Is this worker’s
Struggle with you

A struggle with kisses

I feel like living


See, I didn’t write this
Why do words
Come and look
In places where
They are not wanted,
at times when they are not wanted?

I will stab you
It will be over with a stab,
It should be over

As soon as a poem was over
Another one!
A lady says

Is it possible to feign deafness
when females talk to us?

But this time I fooled you!
I am not reciting a poem
It is reciting me!

Now let it think!

In the look of wonder and respect,

I become another person,

You are with your father
Even then you whisper
That you want to hear my poem

I have seen you somewhere

My children,
It is all gone

It smells like a cadaver
If I open my mouth

Do you know
How many people ran away?

First you gave me
A huge bunch of basil

My soul turned green,
But as I stand there
Thinking that you are so small - a girl,
You give again

An uncooked forest of leaves again

Hey look,
You are a girl

This kiss is on your forehead
I am not one who do not fancy
The private parts of females

My kiss is firmly on your forehead.
My son is a daughter..
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Nov 2013
A crow  cawed, inviting visitors
While I was translating my country in my dream

When I got up
A pigeon was sitting sleeping
On the window of the flat on the other side

Not saying anything

O visitor, go back
Don’t stay in my dreams
Without a visa

Coconut trees

Date palms asked

Why are you staring?
We are the coconut trees
After you translated us.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2014
Once, I was, with a thin body,
And a sound which roared
Louder than the ocean

Only the banned loud speakers
Are needed as proof

Remember standing on the street,
As a thousand flowering  tongue-trees

Remember standing guard in my hometown,
A torch stuck on my chest

Remember asking
How Itteera became Itteera

Today, after translation,
When I look in the mirror,
Word has got swollen,
It lies dormant behind the bars of the specs

Similes have developed a paunch
Metaphors have gone obese

Wonder whether my poems will recognize me

Cannot walk,
Cannot get up ,
Been sitting for such a long time

I wish to devour everything new
But  start gagging as soon as I see it

*** almighty,
If I miss my exercise,
My 400-page autobiography
Will end in diabetes.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Nov 2013
this time, when i went
to meet Death at his place,
he showed signs of weakness.
he was watching a cricket match
relaxing in his arm chair, legs stretched.
yawns kept rolling
in slow progression
towards the boundary.

'are you well?’ i ventured.
'nothing wrong,’ said he.

stammering, i quizzed him:
which one do you fear most?
allopathy, ayurveda, or

dear wilson,
have you observed sachin
facing the ***** of shane warne?
brian lara, wasim akram?
chris gail, brett lee?

i was thrown into confusion.

death admitted, unwillingly,
that like vivian richards
confronted narendra hirwani,
he was laid low by the
secret herb
of an old tribal man!

aaha! the panacea
became then
a spin ball!
(aaha…Nothing official about it!)

i forgot to ask
how our people
smuggled away by him
were faring now.

he forgot to comment
“you will see for yourself
when you face it.”
By Kuzhur Wilson
Trans by Ra Sh
Kuzhur Wilson Aug 2014
When the bakery was bought,
For the sake of novelty, uniqueness, etc,
Called it ‘bitter’

Laddu was bitter
Jalebi ws bitter
Cherry was bitter
Bitter, bitter

What bitterness, said people

The servant got bitter
There are no bill collectors to turn away
Flies mock
She at home
Serves bitterness

While sharing the alienation
Which novelty and uniqueness supplied,
With eatables,
Biscuit said

Let’s add the salt of tears,
Eatables will not sell
If bitter

‘Please give me something old”
When the sound of a beggar

Myself, who stood for novelty and uniqueness
Told him ‘ you can have this bakery’
translation : Anitha varma
Kuzhur Wilson Aug 2014
The coconut climber’s chicken
Is in the well
The climber started to climb into the well
Feet downwards, steps downwards
The chicken climbes again
Fish climb higher
The coconut climber reaches the tip of the well
In between, when he looked down, saw the top of the coconut tree
Saw several heads
The coconut climber is at the tip of the well
Police came
People came
Started to pull out the climber.
translation: Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
Perused that which was written in blood, applying saliva to the fingers
Disgorged the writings of hunger unread
Those of tears got erased even before reading.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2016
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
Kuzhur Wilson Sep 2018
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


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.


You must not

Alter my name


It's my prayer


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
Dairy notes of Miss Web World beauty Jere on an ordinary day
Kuzhur Wilson / Translated  to English Roopa Panath
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
In the garden in Corniche
In the playground bound by a metal fence,
While the Arab teenage kicks the ball,
The feet of the Sudanese, sitting on the stone bench nearby
Start prickling;

Cries out that
For one who knows how to score goals,
The hunger to kick a ball
Is the ultimate one!

Me? I shall remain nameless!

The fisherman
Whose whole body tingles
As he espies a shiver of gigantic sharks
Even while swimming for life,
Having lost his boat and fishing net in the deluge,

The nun, whose ******* start secreting
As she watches a bawling baby,
Standing amidst toddlers of the nursery

The swimmer,
Who crawls through the desert
On camel-back

I do not ask for anything else
Just the ball and the opposition
Let a thousand, or tens of thousands come,
Let the goal-mouth
Be miles distant,
I do not ask for anything else

Once, while carrying a load of cement
On the tenth floor,
For a moment,
A moment,
The sun tempted, as a huge ball.

The scar of the beating received
While dribbling the sun on the sky meadow
Remains on the back..

There are ***** anyone can play with.

No, all surges ahead
Do not end in goals.
There are no games that do not have ‘foul’ -
Even in dreams.
There are no Arab children
In the playground now.

Jut the ball, ball, ball alone.

It scurries hither and thither
By itself,
Races outside,
Speeds towards the goal-mouth,
Sometimes ducks out of sight.

Very privately,
And even more secretly,
Ball smiled at me.
A shudder of incarnations
In my toes.

As soon as the ball and feet
Left the playground,
Two legs
Started dancing,
Betwixt twilight and night.
(trans from Malayalam by Anitha Varma)
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2014
He doesn’t know me
Neither do I, him

There is a lake between us
It is full of fish

Those fish are not his.
Neither are they mine.

The connection between us
Is that those fish do not
Belong to us

The fallen sky is still in the pond
I can see the fish diving through
The cloudy hillsides
There is no doubt that it is the fish
That stir the clouds however slightly be it

Are there fish that are undaunted by birds?
If you wish, peer into the sky in the pond

I kept wondering whether he was witnessing all this
Also, whether he comprehends my reflections

I couldn’t envisage what he saw in the pond
Neither did I have the time for it.

O, let him think whatsoever

He has a cigarette in his hand
That I too have a cigarette
Is another bond which we share

I feel that the fumes from my cigarette
And the clouds are friends
Isn’t that the reason I get vexed
About the clouds in the lake, floating, dead

His is not like that
One can see it in his face
He has no cares

He must be smoking to **** boredom

He is darker than I am
That too is a bond
But he doesn’t know
That I am actually fair
And that I am only pretending to be dark

Perhaps he was fair too once
Would he have got dark when his mother left him, forgotten?

I don’t think so; No, he is dark

The pond belonging to the clouds
The sky  fell into
My smoke fumes that roam in the company
Of clouds

Me, who is not dark..
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Dec 2014
The day after he
of swimming in
the endless ocean
of pain
as a one-eyed fish,
he wrote
to his lady love

~ I need
to be caught
in the net of
a gentle fisherman
and reach you
an affectionate
fish seller
at your dinner table
as your
favourite dish.

~ How will I
recognize you
from among
all the pieces
of fish?
She asked him
in her letter of reply.
On the day
the postal strike
was called off,
she received
a tattered letter
and in it was
given a sign.

~ What
the wide open
single eye stares at
will be you.
translated to English by © Jose Varghese
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2014
When we
Are alone,
Me and Ammini
Make another
World to play in.
Like the ever vacant
Sand houses
Some adults build
With their kids
On the beach.

I will get angry
Even if the gentlest
Of breezes
Passes that way.
She will turn livid
Even if a *****
Passes that way.

Or sighs
Or their scars
Appear on the face
She will
Wipe them off

After playing
For long,
We will fight.

Ammini  will holler
Louder than
The way she laughed.
I will keep mum
Louder than her.

I will
Lay her down
Holding her close
To my *****
That will beat
Ammineee, Ammineeee.

As she pretends
To sleep,
I will shoo her off
Go away pussiiii!
As if the masculine
Of pussee is pussoo
She will shoo me off
Go away pussoo!

I will retort
Go away Poochamma!
Ammini will retort
Go away Pochamba!
Go away Kochambi!
Go away Kochambra!
Go away Pochambra!
Go away Sochambra!

Go away
Go away
Go away
Go away
Go away
Go away


At a loss
For words
She will
Change the tune.

Tiffin box!

About to lose,
I will show the
Trump card.

Go away
Agnus Anna!

Her face will change.
She will say

Go away
Kuzhur Wilson!


When Ammini
Turns back
Kochu TV,
I will
The bathroom
The door
Puff on
A cigarette.

Kind of
To live
Around me

**Translation : Ra Sha
“Wilson speaks the language of the Christ contemplating life in the dark cavern in the twilight zone between crucifixion and resurrection. At the door, stand guard numerous women, goats, dogs, birds and reptiles speaking agitatedly in a vernacular tongue. All objects, living and non living, fall within his jurisdiction. Over everything falls a great sheet of sadness like a gloomy rain. “

Ra Sha
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
It was a day
Somewhat resembling today.

When, abandoning Ramachandran, Shivan
And ****** Mary,
And leaving them to sit in the sixth standard again,
Forty three of them
Went single file to seventh A.

Where did these tears,
That were missing then,
Originate, now?

Ramachandran did odd jobs even then
Shivan’s mother was a beggar
****** Mary’s name itself spoke aloud
But what was wrong with me?
And That was what Meenakshi teacher asked too that day
If she were my mother,
I could at least have answered ‘O go away’!
It was later that Meenakshi teacher’s right breast
Got removed due to cancer

“It is because of the evil eye, teacher
In case the answer is correct,
Give me marks and send me to the seventh”.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2014
En route from Dharmapuri
To Krishnagiri
Amid the tamarind trees
There goes a flock of sheep

Shaking heads
Jumping merrily
Hither and thither

Behold!  there, one man becomes
A flock of sheep

Evolving in to
A black little lamb,
A mother sheep munching on paper
And a goat kicking another one
Among the group

There! a flock of sheep
That has turned in to a man!

Where on earth
Are you?
Wails the flock of sheep
Bleating be..........be......teasingly
Tongue brushing  ear lobes
with ruminating saliva

Beside that flock of sheep,
Dragging along a wounded right leg,
Staring at the sky
Standing transfixed,
The shepherd was the other person

He was a memory
Of having been a flock of sheep once...
On each path he treads
A thousand flocks of sheep passes
In joy and mirth

Despite being poor at herding
The one who happened to stop by
Bumping on a lamb that fell down

The photostat of a goat
With burned legs

Lying in the **** of a pregnant sheep
He is sleeping...

Looking at each bird
That flew across the sky
He laments
That they are his lost sheep
Beckoning the crows, sparrows and parrots

The birds in turn fly away
As though seeing a hunter

The stick he held
Was mistaken for an arrow
Piercing the ground

His prayers,
Not to let them fall
In to the lakes of the sky
Was blocked by the clouds...

En route from Dharmapuri
To Krishnagiri
Amid the tamarind trees
There, goes a flock of sheep
There, a shepherd  !
translation- Vijayalakshmi Murthy
Kuzhur Wilson May 2018
All the bigwigs in our village
Took refuge in the mercy
Of Fortune.

It came to such a situation that
If we locked our house and left,
Before we reached the goal,
At least ten fifteen Fortunes
Would come looking for us.

I noticed
How quietly
Does this Fortune make its entry.

Earlier, it was so noisy.
“Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow”
The sing song chant
Was amusing.

Slowly, Tomorrow became Today.
“Today today today”
How many times have I joined the chant!

How forlornly
How silently
Does Fortune arrive!
It has lost its speech.

It has contempt for itself.
It has shrunk into itself
More than the ex-serviceman
Standing in guard before an ATM.

Where did Fortune’s voice vanish?

Does it mean that Fortune has no voice?
That Fortune itself has ceased to exist?

Kuzhur Wilson / Trans by Ra Sh
Trans by Ra Sh
Kuzhur Wilson May 2014
O rain,
That falls
On the green
That I love most
Let me kiss
Your tender chest

Nobody to come, or go
Alone, alone, alone,
Have to bear the heat and odors of earth

Was the world built by someone?
In it, the marks of a kiss
By me or you
Is graffiti

In Ethihad’s cabin
Your name is Mariyamma,
Mine is..

The sound of someone singing on earth
Mother might be crying
You might be singing
Or else I might be muttering about myself

There is only one place to say
Peace, peace
Your mother’s ******
Only one way to come out

To go inside, at least a thousand ways, but
All blocked
With what Ammu, Ammini and you have earned

Not as beasts,
Not as humans,
It was not father
Or mother
Who gave birth
To us as us
Someone else..

Will name a dream after you
Will name another one after you
If you miss at one, you will get it right at three
I will give my name to the third dream

A mouthful of grain is a word
There is a mouth
There is rice
When these two combine
Like myself,
So unbearable,

Was it the food you ate
Or the tall and hefty  myself
You or me
You or me

Please take with you
The care and protection
Of this SMS
In the morning
Anxieties leave

As I fight like a butcher,
Preethi, from Maha Iranikkulam
Calls me to take a bath in the temple pond

Was it you
Or me
Or our children?


Translation : Anitha Varma , Suvarnna bhoomi - thailand
Kuzhur Wilson Aug 2014
The *** of the joyful
And the *** of the sorrowful
Met on the dawn
Of those who had gone for a walk

Even though they belonged to the same family,
They didn’t even acknowledge one another

The eyes of the *** of the sorrowful
Were in the sky
Birds are making fun of him

Clouds ?
They stood their ground,
Stating, ‘ we are not with you’.

The eyes
Of the  *** of the joyful
Were on earth
Plants on earth
Smile at him
Dogs, cats and horses
Were vying with one another to walk with him.
The *** of the sorrowful told
The *** of the joyful,
Sometime or the other
On earth, or sky,
Or in the toilet of the passenger train,
Or in the corner of the bar of the poor,
Or in some Hatta in Sharja
Or in the kitchen of the labour camp
Or in a room of a house with rent  unpaid
Or in court
Or on some strong tree branch
Or in a **** shop
Or in the middle of the road where children die from collision with vehicles
Or in some sorcerer’s hut

My people will see you
What will you tell them?

In the storm-like **** of the *** of the joyful,
The cosmos started gasping for breath.
translation : Anitha varma
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2014
The forgotten umbrella

Did he get wet?
Cry because it was missing?
Would his mother have given him a beating?

Benches and desks
Are cozing

The board still retains
The day’s remnants

Night came,
The umbrella was in tears
Rain rain
Umbrella umbrella
Said the rain outside

Only  the umbrella heard
His voice was raining over the shower
“my darling umbrella”

Crying itself to sleep,
Headmaster’s room
Came in a dream

Question papers, canes
Maps, globe, skeleton,
Chalk power,
Fat lady teachers,
Farts and baloney

Startled itself awake
No, it is not light yet
Through the darkness
Nothing other than his embroidered name

Still you forgot me!

Other umbrellas came
And sat on either sides

Didn’t you get wet yesterday?
Didn’t you go home?
How can it be said that he forgot me?

There he is!
Umbrella closed its eyes

Let him come running
Give a hundred kisses

He didn’t come even after the bell rang

On opening the eyes,  saw
His new darling umbrella

Hasn’t put it down..
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Nov 2014
The name was Antappan.
On his wedding invitation
He printed the famous words
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi -
(Today it's me, tomorrow it will be you.)

Whoever  asked
“Are you nuts, Antappaaa?”
Got a voiceless laugh in reply.

In native tongue
The laughter said
No quotes are quoted
Except through one’s own life.

Though not a charming name
It ‘s true that from that day
Antappan came to be called
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Wolfed down the pork and the beef.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi CrasTibi Antappan’s wedding
Gifted pretty sums of money in envelopes.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Said nasty comments about the bride.

Everyone who attended
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s wedding
Asked the sound system guy to play
You are lucky I am lucky loudly.

But before that a small incident at the church. As soon as he set his eyes on Antappan who was a grave digger the Chaplain forgot the wedding and without asking who died began to set the church bell tolling in that rhythm reserved for deaths. The senior Priest who heard it came running and opening the small prayer book for the dead began to sing the song the seeds sprout in the fields when it rains. Hearing that the girls in the choir sang the rest of the song when they hear the clarion call life sprouts in the dead and went on to the prose portion I call you lord from the abysses. Seeing that the boy who helps with the communion lighted the candle and incense stick for the dead. (Meanwhile the bride’s naughty song you who is not dead yet will you not **** me tonight also rang in Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan’s ears.) Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan who realized that the same flowers meant to be wreaths at some house of death were now adorning his ***** as a garland laughed his famous voiceless laugh.
Hodie Mihi Cras Tibi Antappan
By Kuzhur Wilson    (Trans by Ra Sh)
Kuzhur Wilson Apr 2014

After she divided

The gills and scales for the crow and the cat

Head for the youngest girl
Tail for the smart son

Middle pieces
For husband and his friend,

She became vegetarian

Worried about being accused of the stench,
Washed hands again and again


In answer to the question
Why haven’t you eaten?

Fasted in front of the innocence
Which asked “Do you want this, mother?

After fasting so many times
She became known as very devout.
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Jun 2014
this tree would grow big
and bear fruits

crows would come
ants, centipedes and all

then the wind, rain
and sunshine would come

savour the taste,
in one way or another

the tree would grow again

when the branches
grow beyond their reach
children would leave the tree

then comes the contractor,
and the chopper and carpenter
arrive in their turn

when the chisel touches
the same branch, where
the crow used to sit,
there arises a sound, cawing

hearing the sound
the remaining children
would fly away sturned

when the nail pierces
its windblown shoulder
there 'll be an eerie silence

desolate like the midday
of friday without anyone
going to the church

gradually it becomes the door
and enters inside
and sits as a chair,
then lay down-
as a cot, tired

I am waiting for her
under that tree
(translated by Rajendran Cherupolika)
Kuzhur Wilson Feb 2014
One who cavorts
To the beats of the percussion instrument
Does not hear
The screams of the animal

One who loses himself
In the rhythm of the Tabla
Will not read the memories of the leather

One who presents his love
With a peacock feather will not see
The blood stains where it was plucked

The one who accepts it and dances
Will not know
A bird, its feet and wing broken

One who wears hair from the elephant’s tail
To become fearless
Does not see
The life cowering under the sharp end
Of the pole used to control it,
Nor hear the rattle of chains

One who reads these lines will not read….
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
When I rang in the morning, amma asked ‘who is it?’

‘who is it’
In the same voice that she used in the olden days
Worried that she would have to serve coffee and snacks
When Jinu, Pradeep, Riyaz came calling

Amma, it is not the nair boy nor Pradeep from pallippuram, nor the Muslim boy Riyaz,
It is your son

‘who is it’

Amma, this is me,
What else shall I say?
Your son.

What other title do I have

Your Youngest
Born in old age
One who is supposed to look after his amma
Who left home
Who lived as he pleased
Who married without consent from those at home
Who failed many exams
Who used to wander around with strangers
Who used to drink and shout obscenities at the clergy

The butcher knife in amma’s chest

When again the question ‘who is it’
Falls in my ears,
Amma, what should I say?

The dark one of yesteryears became fair
Because of not going in the sun, amma
I cannot become dark even if I pretend, amma

I drank and drank and got all swollen up, amma
I smoked and smoked and became tired, amma
I shouted and shouted and became hoarse, amma
I read and read poems and overflowed, amma..

When amma asks again ‘who is it’
As though she didn’t know anything

I felt like answering I have become Thadiyantavida Naseer, having read too much news
I felt like answering that I have become A P Abdullakkutti  having hankered after whatever I heard and saw
I felt like answering that I have become MA Yusuf Ali, tallying accounts again and again
I felt like answering I have become Kunjhalikkutty, having lusted after everyone I saw
Who is it, who is it, when the voice cracks asking, what more am I to say

Amma, who are you?

Why do you start as though you heard the question ‘who is the father?”

Do crows still visit the breadfruit tree on the northern side, amma?
Do you still scold, ‘hey breadfruit tree, you little minx, do not fall before you are grown enough!’, amma?

Is amma listening?
Do you understand?

What about Biran?
After his girl got married,
After his boy went to the gulf,
Biran doesn’t come
He is prosperous now,
Good fish are not available nowadays..

Was the tamarind tree fruitful this year, amma?
Did you dry the tamarind to make it into cakes to preserve it, amma?

Cannot down a morsel without buttermilk
In the morning, when I looked, all sourness was lost
moreover, the milk got curdled

Amma, wont you get up fast
Don’t we have to go to church?

There are lots of people there
There are lots of people there

I have taken the matchbox
Buy two candles (small, cheap ones)
Come, I will be here
It has been long since you lighted a candle for your father

I wrote my name
At the tip of a huge tree in our genealogy

It sways in a gentle wind

Brethren with whom I grew up
Say that it is because
Of  intoxication

People say it is acting the fool
Some say that all that is needed is a beating

On the roots of a huge tree in the genealogy, amma,
You sprout little greens of new awareness

Still even in heavy winds

Your children, fruits of your ****, who knew the labour you went through
say it is because  you are not in your right mind

People say it is acting the fool
Those who watch recommend tying up

for me
and you,
what is consciousness,
trans from Malayalam by Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Oct 2013
While sketching a lamp, it was seen that the current came on.
The memoirs about darkness too got stuck then. Thus started to pray

*** is a father who gives ten if we ask for a hundred.
Otherwise, would he trick me, by giving me sleep daily, instead of the death I pray for?

The only consolation is the sky. Its reddened eyes, swollen eyelids, disturb.
The previous day, I saw it fallen into and lying in the river.
No, it wouldn’t have died. I can hear the birdsongs.
Is the kingfisher a bird enchanted by the water-spirit?
Or else, leave it, let it be a fish with wings.

When I couldn’t bear the boredom anymore, I thought I would write a letter to death.
As soon as I finished addressing, ‘O last supper of a loner,’ telephone rang.
When I attended, it didn’t say anything.
Earlier, it had given me a kiss.
I don’t remember reading in any book on marriage that from the second kiss onwards, you start feeling bad breath.
Forget all that.

Suppose I bewail ‘die me, die me’, to the current?
After all, it doesn’t know proper grammar or syntax.

Is the news that the copywriter who wrote the advertisement
for the glue which merges two lives
Didn’t get his pay, in today’s papers? No, let the day get lighter
It is a pity that there is no calling bell in the cemetery
Father sleeps , having secured  the mud door .
O no, I am not making any noise

O you who makes fun of me saying that I make a sign of the cross when I see a phone booth,
Please do not sin. You will never find a purer confessional!

I had wanted to make a good lay out for the suicide note, take lots of photocopies and entrust it to a friend to have it posted too.
Otherwise, leave it, it is better to live than to die thus..
Translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Aug 2014
Have we studied together?
Or some function
In the same row

Was it when you got tired standing in the queue

Or else at some bus stop

Not in the telephone book
Maybe in the list of people to be invited
Among  names that are listed hoping
They might come in useful sometime
No, not even that

Were you the same before?

I don’t remember
Uttering your name
For any purpose

You are like people in dreams
The one who fell in the well
The one who was driving
The one who stopped me even before the sea,
Something like that

I think your name exists for me to forget it

To think I am mute is one way
To think  you are deaf is another ..
translation : Anitha Varma
Kuzhur Wilson Aug 2014
Kamarul is going to his village
All of us are going home with him

Kamarul is bringing
A bangle for his sister
Rafeeq almost buys up a jewellery  shop

Kamarul takes as saree for his mother
Divakaran is busy searching for a clothes shop

While making tea
While emptying waste-baskets
While feeding new paper into the printer,

Kamarul sings his own song
All of us sing aloud privately

While going down in the lift,
He learns to count

All of us leap towards zero

Kamarul  goes home,
Taking our letters

To the plant on earth
To the wind that blows in the evening
To the friend who promised to come

To everyone, for everyone

We wave our hands, wondering
What would be the time on earth
translation: Anitha varma
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2016
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

Translated by Binu Karunakaran
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
I was returning
Along the walkway
Through the paddy field
All set for reaping.

As usual
It was dusk
You know
I don’t go
To the paddy field
Except in the evenings

An evening
Of a day
Suffused with
Sighs, monotony
And unpleasant jobs.

In the middle of
The daily
Skyward incantations
“Whom do I have
To claim as my own”
Got bored
Thinking about
The number of times
I have been doing the same.

You know
That boredom
Makes me miserable

That ripened paddy field
I lighted yet another cigarette

For a moment
Had plans
To set
The crowless
Heaps of hay
On fire

A cigarette
Resembling a bundle of hay

You walk
In front of me

Trance like
Unaware of paddy stalks
Chatting to you
Or the two homebound mynahs
Passing comments at you

A leaf of the coconut tree
Sang a song
About you

You weren’t listening
Or seeing anything

You were the swiftness
Of a deer
From one life to another

You were walking
The world expelled
Out of you.

Amidst the tenth puff
In the interval of a sigh
I saw you approaching me
You didn’t talk to me
Or show signs of seeing me
You are about to pass me now
And quite unlike you
You had your hair, ******* and face draped
By a shawl
No, that shawl
Was not violet in color

I hadn’t seen
Such a
And distressed walk
In any of my
Past lives

I realized that
You were crying
While walking
I saw
The seeds of your tears
Fall and germinate
In the walkway of the field
I feared
It would grow
Into a forest

You are leaving
Without a backward glance

My melancholy
Where did you go
Leaving me
All alone?

translator  : Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
Went back
The house
Has not given me peace of mind
It keeps asking
For you.

While getting in
After hastily feeding
The puppy
And the rabbits
The door stopped me
And asked
Where were you?

When I reclined
On the sofa
To have a wink of rest
It pinched me
And rolled its eyes at me
Don’t lie here without her.

When I opened the room
To read
The books
Began to sing a song about you,
A green parrot
Came flying from one of the books
And kissed me on my forehead

To console
The house
That was weeping relentlessly
And asking for you
I searched
Each and every corner  
For a strand of your hair

You could have left
At least a drop of

Translator - Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….

Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter gourds
On the pandal  
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.

We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.

The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.

I am like the faces
In a death house
At times  
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.

I am all the faces
Of a death house
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.

A marriage house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.

Just like you.

My dear bitter gourd,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk.

Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
of wholehearted love.

Translator - Shyma P
pandal - natural shade by leafs
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
Once, upon a place
There was a fisherman
He had a river
Of his own
He had
Ten or twelve fishhooks
Of his own

And he had….
Are you listening?

So, he had…
A river
But then....
Listen listen

He didn’t have
Of his own

Every morning
He would go to the riverside
Clean the fishhooks
And call the fishes
Beckoning to them.

Soon, it’ll be noon
And then night.

Poor fellow

None of them
Were his
None of them
Heeded  him.

I have heard him
Address them
In desperation

Have seen his
Tear flooded
The river

I feel sorry
For him.

Translator : Shyma P
“Vave”  - Oh babe
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
There is a forest
Not even sun is permitted there
I had my eyes on the place
Even before I was born

I knew
You would come

That’s why
I saved that garland
Made in childhood
With the leaves of tapioca
Till now.

In that temple
Inside the forest
I want to
Put it on your neck

(I always forget
To ask
If I can take your neck home
For a day
I will ask this time)

I needn’t remind you
About the weight
Of a thali
Plated with gold
Do I ?

Heavy hearted I am.

translator  - Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
Is like
An answer sheet
Handed over to the examiner

Is a helplessness
That cannot be edited

I am helpless
No matter
What you think about me

I am a stone
That has hauled itself
Through muddled waters for long

You might assume that
I am
A garden pebble

Be careful

If you are hurt
I’ll suffer.

translator : Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
It might
Rain today

Can’t be sure
About the clouds
Fecund wanderings

It might rain
Lightning and thunder are certain

Be afraid
Or cry along

Just think that
You are watching
Of some life

Just think that
The crows
Of that life
Had come
To see me
Yesterday at dusk

Just think that
One of those crows
Have built its nest
In this life of mine too.

trans : Shyama P
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
Your father
Is ordering
Gold bangles  
For you

You ought to be glad

The glimmer
In that eyes
When you were born
While putting those
Tiny bangles on you
For the first time
Are inimitable

I feel envious
Of that bangle
And that world of yours
Without me.

I declare war
With your father
For no reason

Although certain
That I would disappoint as usual
I too had bought
A karivala
In the third life itself
Sure that you would come

I’ll wear
On your hand
On the morning
The fourteenth life

I have preserved the karivala
In saline water
Lest it
Gets blighted

I deserve the honor
Of being the first poet
To have preserved a black bangle
Meant for his girl friend
In saline water.

trans : Shyma  p
Glass bangle, black in colour.
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016
You say that
I am proud

Yes, I am proud
And I’ll continue being proud
As long as you love me

If one doesn’t feel proud
Even after being aroused
By your love
There’ll be
Something wrong
With that person.

trans : Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016

This is the slogan
I chose
And imploring life
Many times
Many ways
No, cannot
Don’t, don’t expect me
Don’t go, don’t do
Don’t see, don’t hear
Don’t talk, leave me alone

Its difficult
To reckon
How often
Let it be
Fists inside

A girl friend
Had taught me so
Last life
Seeing me weep relentlessly

In this life too
You are resounding it

Let it be

Does it mean that
I be alone again?
I be a beggar
Next life too?
That I be

Why did you
Steal my slogan

If you had asked
I would have lend it to you
For a couple of days.

translator  : Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2016

I remember
You telling
That you saw my poem
Asking spring its name

Everything happened in a trice
An Ilenjhi  sprout in front of me,
All of a sudden.

Didn’t get time
To sigh
Much less
To think.

My poem
Named spring

Ilenjhi Ilenjhi..
Weeping, laughing
Confounded with joy
I saw the poem
Give it
Hundreds and hundreds of kisses.

With all that
It must certainly
Have choked

A drop
Must surely
Have got to its head

Have to give it
One more glass of water
And some gentle taps on the head

Let me go.

Translator - Shyma P
Ilenjhi -  Tree bearing fragrant flowers and a verdant canopy.
Kuzhur Wilson Feb 2016
Today is the day I’ll see you
Today is the day you’ll see me
Today is the day we’ll meet

How I see you
Is not how you see me
How you see me
Is not how I see you

How I see you
Is not how you see you
How you see me
Is not how I see me

I want to see you
And you, me
Some time, some day

Leave that

Have been waiting fourteen years  
Yet, how arduous it is
To push through
These one or two hours!

translator  : Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson Apr 2016
Danced yesterday
After a long time

From the toes
Of an Adiyathi  
All of a sudden
Your toes
In front of me

Your toes
That I wet
My saliva

My mind dances
Hands and legs
Join eventually

By and by

Goes berserk  
With fits of frenzy

Are driven to dance
On the floor

On a leg
On a toe
That utmost moment
Thought about you
That toe
Your toe
Appeared before me

That I danced
On your toes yesterday

Today my body aches

I want to feed on your toes
And fall asleep

Translation  : Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson May 2016
You were talking
About a girl
She laughed
Clinking like anklets
At times
Grew dull
Like an overcast sky
Other times

I strained my ears
To stencil her in me
When a solitary pigeon coos
From the office wall

Am out in the sun
Listening to you
And through you
At times
You become her
And she, you
There is a you
Who laughs like glass bangles
There is a you
Who is silent
Like a broken bangle
Myriad yous.

We become alone
When we love

I have stood

The sun
Abandonment s


I can see that girl
That tree shade
Her solitary sobs
That embankment
Her solo conversations
That desolate stone
Her lonely laughter

What is more agonizing
On this earth
Than to be in love.

Translation :  Shyma P
Kuzhur Wilson Aug 2016
Dear source of my happiness

When I write to you
I forget words
I forget
I am a poet
Once again

Like a farmer
Who wishes to plough
The whole land
But doesn’t
Even an acre
Who doesn’t finish
Sowing seeds
Even in a cent
Like the many seeds
That don’t sprout

Dear source of my happiness

When I write to you
I fail
More miserably
Than that farmer

Dear source of my happiness

When I write to you
I require
The ink of a thousand seas
But my seeds of blue
Fall astray
Even in a single page

How many of them will sprout

Even my greeting
In this poem
“The source of my happiness”
Is stolen
My prayers in childhood
To the Holy mother

Dear source of my happiness

When I write to you
Dear source of my sorrow.

Translation :  Shyma . P
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