I used to see him everyday on the street, this poet as well as panhandler, impeccably dressed, whose searing poetic images set fire to our hearts. Though recognized even by the man on the street, as one of the great poets of Malayalam language in our times , he just didn't care for anything except his daily communion with muse and booze.Some times we saw him on the high street with his sweet heart, a prostitute.When he died right there on the side of the main road , evening sun vainly trying to resurrect failing light of his eyes, the state machinery rushed to give him an honorable funeral.What followed was an absurd drama nonpaeril.Finally when the minister of culture, was free from all other obligations, and the police band ready and guns for salute were brought, his still body was three days old frozen stiff in the morgue.Then a media hue and cry followed.He was to receive a prestigious award in few days, it came to light.If this tragic events had one positive effect on me it was this : my writer's block of few years vanished, it ended with my writing, 'Three poems on the death of a wanderer poet' See poems: thebrowncritique.blogspot.in/2010_12_01_archive.html
In memory of poet.A.Ayyappan, who was indeed a missionary of poetry all through his life and even in death.