Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
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  Sep 2016
Kuzhur Wilson Sep 2016
one morning
Sunilettan came
with a puppy.

i was writing a grand thesis on the orphaned existence of discarded people.

when the tether was removed
i gave her a dry fish.
did not eat it.
gave a fulsome bone.
did not touch it.
gave the milk from the ad.
did not even regard it.
kissed her.
did not show any reaction.

because she came on a monday
i named her luna.

whenever i called her
she wagged her tail.
wagged her ears.
luna luna luna
i whispered thrice
in her ears.

like the golden peaks
of mookaambika,
he sharpened his ears.
me and he did not play
any game.
before we could,
she came under the wheels
of a vehicle.
without autopsy
without a second look at the body
i buried him
under the hibiscus tree
with many blooms
falling to the ground.

two of the flowers
went to a  karnataka guy’s
father’s death rites.
some turned into hibiscus juice.
some were visited by butterflies.

the earth where luna was buried
forgot her.
me too.

another noon,
a german dog named adi
was found playing a game
of placing fish bones
on luna’s tomb.

no dog will
cease to play
till the question hung in the air
“my little sister, you have forgotten me?”*

Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Ra Sh

(( To S. Sithara who memorised  Khasakkinte  Ithihaasam (The Saga of Khasak) when she was still a kid)
*This is an original
reference from the novel ` The Saga of Khasak’ by O.V.Vijayan, translated by the author.
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 2019
At midnight,
After the rains,
I spread my wings
And flew across
The wide road
Without any company
And there,
Was this board.

Sparrow trading

That’s good.

Trading sparrows.
Trading birds.
Birds to be sold.

I decided
To troll
Ravishankar aka Ra Sh
As a translator
And Babu Ramachandran
Aka Alberto Caeiro.

I entered
The Sparrow Factory.
The Bird Market.
Wholesale trading centre of birds
Without ringing the bell.

I did not want to
Wake up
Even a single little sparrow,
I stepped in
Without a sound
Or even a thought.

There was no bird
At the gate
The watchman
A retired soldier

I moved on.
There was no one.

Where did those two cat eyes go?

I pushed
The window
And looked in.

A lad
Fast asleep
Breaking all grammar
In some unknown language.

Brother, brother
I called
Without the birds hearing it.

Unknown language
Blinked awake
And walked up to me.

I felt so sad for him.

I asked,
Weighed down by guilt.


He said.

Birds gone loose.

Birds gone loose?

Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose. Birds gone loose.

Every human being
On this universe
In many languages.

Birds gone loose.

Nothing more to say.

*You too can try these three things. Except going in search of those birds that have gone loose.

Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Anand Haridas
Anand Haridas

Always been in love with words and images. As reporter with The Hindu,he was noted for features on arts and culture and civic affairs. After moving on from a career in journalism, Anand is involved in advertising and branding field. Along with that, he kept on actively pursuing his literary and creative writing. He has already finished the translation of two novels – Kumaru by C.R. Omanakuttan based on the relatively unknown phase of Kolkata life of poet Kumaranasan and Kamakhya, a new perspective to the life of Sage Vatsyayanan by new generation poet Pradeep Bhaskar. His translation of the play ‘KaaliNaatakam’ by SajithaMadathil was published in Indian Literature, the bi-monthly journal of Kendra SahityaAkademi.
Ra Sh Oct 2013
By Kuzhur Wilson ( in Malayalam)
(trans from Malayalam by  Ra Sh)

Varghese has no home.

Holes up where he works.

Jesus’s own man.

Big rosary around his neck.

And a matching wooden cross.

He gardens around the yard

On days of leisure.

Holds a deep grudge

Against the trees around.

Doomed are they the moment

His eyes settle on them.

Asked him once whether

His rancor was because

Jesus was nailed on wood.

Or, was it the wheezing

the Acacia trees caused?

Or, was it the itchy worms

from the soft wood trees?

He said time and again

‘Brother, I love the trees

More than you love them.’

Have seen many times

The birds from the trees

Chopped down by Varghese

Looking for their nests.

Clearing the bushes along

The road to the office was

Varghese’s job for the day.

When I went out for a smoke

Glowing was he about

the way the place now gleamed.

Midnight, after work,

Was driving along the path

Shorn clean by Varghese.

In the blaze of the headlight

A hare dashed frantically

Looking for its bush.
Kuzhur Wilson  Nov 2014
4.35 PM
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  May 2018
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 Apr 2018
The White Shirt

(To Vinayakan, cine actor)

I set out to buy a white shirt.

The man in the shop took out two-three white shirts together and put them down before me.
It’s Rs.1050/- This shirt fits you well.
For this one?
Rs.800/- It’s good, too.
That one?
Rs.450/- All are smashing!

Aren’t there anything costing less? In the range of 150--200?

An odd expression on his face.

Is there?
There is, but…

An odd kind of laughter on his face…
Where is that white shirt?

It’s not here. It’s there. Near that flower shop. In that corner.

There’s some problem with his smile.


Sir, its what the dead wear!

Because it’s cheaper, those who wear that
Will die before their death?

Will those who were the more expensive white shirts, live even if they are dead?
Will the dead come alive, if they were more and more expensive shirts?

The dead white shirt
And the non-dead white shirt
Hung before me.

Finally, I bought a black shirt.
What’s it’s price?
No. I don’t like to tell you.

Kuzhur Wilson

Translated by: A.J. Thomas.
Vinayakan, An Indian Actor who loves Black
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

— The End —