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writer omsy Jan 2018
Nothing changes the fact
That you are an animal
Even if you pour gold
In an old poor man's cup

When you tried to carve
This land from hundreds
You didn't notice, you must
For your sake at least

The strength they bore
Can scatter all your dreams
Over their dead bodies
Whether you serve the country
People in my region may have to leave their houses just because the government thought this is a better place for an oil industry to process. The village consist of a 75 year old public Christian School and a Holy Church along with hundreds of families living around them. Now, the people are striking for their land.
Charles Ernest Nov 2017
The desire to show myself
Could get me killed
With the malicious intentions of the world that I inhabit.
The name on my forehead
Is that of a caste
I am what they say I am born with
Then I must tell you that I am born with a gift to create
Would you then call me the creator’s own reflection?
Leave the question unanswered.
I desire to show myself still.
I want to tell the world about the art
That I had created
The covers of the books I designed
The books I am about to write.
Then I contemplate what I want to share
Through this feeling to bare myself *****.
I realize that I want to experience
The dazzling beauty of the smile
Radient on the reader’s lips
On the art connoisseur's face
The artist that I am
And not the illiterate brute that they call me to be.
The truth is in my nakedness
And I desire to unveil it in front of you
It, the cloak of my pen-name,
The mask of my unrealized self,
The ***** body of my noetic being.
Disclaimer: This poem is not autobiographical. However, I do feel all the above. It's as if a storm unbound within my soul.
Charles Ernest Nov 2017
I haven’t read the Koran
So I can’t say if Islam is violent
I’ve read the history
I’ve come to know the crusades
And the passion of Christ
So I feel guilty
When I am asked
To respond to terror
And stay quiet
At the bearded bombers.
My wife is Hindu
She is offended
At the mention of religions
So I choose to be a secularist.
I do to church and pray
For my beloved ones and myself
I don’t say I’m going to church
I try to be as vague as I can
I say I have to commune
With an old friend
Or that I have some bread and wine to purchase
Then everyone is happy.
I envy the bomber his blindness.
This poem is inspired by real and imaginary confrontations. Well, of course, most of them are real.
K Balachandran Sep 2015
"Ähoy" a sudden call, that speaks so much ; looking up I see,
a face familiar for ages,up above the dark, sturdy Palmyra tree,
thirty feet high, amidst  the lush canopy of thick green leaves,
his toddy tapper's gear, unchanged for generations, around his waist,
just a breast plate to protect from the rough trunk, while crawling up,
a broad smile, time couldn't wither, on that countenance.

An ancient avatar, he jumps out  from a favorite story book,
of  childhood, he animated a lot of memories of those times,
walking through the narrow path among trees,a loud "Ähoy"
would  unexpectedly greet dad and I,  from where the wind reigns,
unaware there is world above, ready to reach us, any time,
cut in to our animated talk on atlas moths with broad wings,
or amazing things, Malabar squirrels that fly from tree to tree.
"Ähoy! Raman!how'z toddy flow today? All fine?"
his voice booming  from below, dad would cheer our friend;
more like talking to the wind and trees, pleasantly surreal.

"Ähoy"makes all fall in place, Raman hasn't changed a bit,
time flows only down here, up there  it seems standing still,
my little village too has a trap, I suspect, time has no way to escape,
if it makes the river languid, no, Raman seems not to mind!
"Master" the old familiar endearment, "Ẅhat's the matter?
from here, above the clouds, I can see those brooding eyes,
The city, shall I say took all those smiles, you would gift
as a village boy , going to school with your chums, this way"
I know what comes next, fresh toddy served with love as an antidote,
right here under the tree, a brew that  brims with memories
of many guilty pleasures of adolescence,can I ever reject?

No worry lines on that gentle face, Raman is ageless, cool,
we sit on a pre historic rock, that extends  seating arrangement,
in to container, he made with braided Palmyra leaf,
Raman pours limitless love that for others would look like toddy,
to me this milky liquid, is a magic potion tapped from memories,
of a past that I thought has winged  away from me but still here.
I gulp it  and get transported to a time, I don't want to forget,
Now the wind, I can hear hums an old haunting tune,familiar
In mild intoxication, we chorus the wind's song on Palmyra leaves.
Toddy--A natural alcoholic sap of some kinds of palms, such as palmyra
Kuzhur Wilson Dec 2015
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 guards
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 the house of deceased
At times  
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.

I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.

The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.

Just like you.

My dear bitter guard,
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

Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Pandal - natural roof made by plants
Gaye Sep 2015
The ***** sound of the earth dream of
The stealing wind my mind left long ago,
When it rained after thousand years
Illuminating my heart with
The measureless lure of emptiness,
I danced to the desolation of my life.
I saw life masquerading under the drops
That fell from the shifting citadel above.
I lost the bliss once for my sin
And here comes the rain with my rebirth
To cover me with the desert sand dune
To wake me up in another land.
Gaye Sep 2015
He was the ‘revealer of light’
Oracles he read, forecasted future,
Time moved, rustic life stood still
"Look back and see, there is change."
There’s no trial left
The deity acquired the ****** body.
Predictions are vague, he cried in pain
And he danced to his unshakable faith.
The God revealed!
The divine and man in a union of its own,
Patrons wept and asked for blessings.
Serpent’s crown over God’s head-
Shone in the dark light, his golden breast
And pointed teeth, sharp as arrows-
Pierced the patrons, they collapsed in devotion.
The dead hero arose with Godliness
He is God, his blood is divine.
There is change, there is change!
The drums arose and it ****** bold,
Patrons cried in religious zeal
The God plunged himself into the bonfire
He reincarnated.
Born again to die again! Born again to die again!
There is no change! There is no change!
Amit Shroff Dec 2014
Its just a fantasy the only regret is permanence,
The life of a modern day gypsy, an unknown destination.
I wake up to new faces from past day's bruises,
A long journey into some town, exploring the unknown.
Green sanctum reflecting the temple top,
Woken up by the gong of the ancient metals.
Treated like a royal guest, offered a lot of the harvest,
Walking down the symmetric coconut grooves.
I see vessels carrying newest of the goods,
But here they still stick to their roots.
True its a gods own country, abundant beauty,
I'm lost amidst the hills sipping the Malabar coffee.
Her mind is the lake
where the rainbow rests.
I stolen the lake
that she withhold to me.
now, I colour to my life
with the shades adopting from the same.
Kuzhur Wilson Aug 2014
Around 4 in the evening, I proceeded to Karaikkal, a Union Territory.

By the time we reached Nagapattinam, I noticed that the driver was tired and asked him to have a strong cup of tea. When he was gulping it reluctantly, I, who did not like strong tea, watched the cows walking along the narrow ways. But, the cows did not look at me. The cows I watched. The cows that did not pay any attention to me. I was a bit out of breath realizing how quickly nonexistent relationships were formed in an unknown Tamil village.  I lit up one more cigarette. I remembered the doctor in Britain, a stunning beauty, who prescribed that as soon as I found it difficult to breathe I should light up a cigarette. ****! When it is hard to breathe because of nonexistent relationships and when I light up a cigarette as an antidote to that, there appear row upon row of relationships of some sort or other.  

I began to detest bitter strong tea. I was irked by the cows that went along the narrow ways. I felt hatred towards their not so small udders. An afternoon dawned one day when I felt the same kind of vengeance towards udders. The blood stains from the udders that were slashed down emerged on my hands, legs, back and under belly.

Once again I felt revulsion for bitter strong tea. The driver sipped the hot bitter tea. I hated the moment when I asked him to have tea. I loathed the words that I used to say that. I despised even the words that I had kept in reserve to say that.

Then, I watched the people etching tattoos by the roadside. I wondered how it will be if I got a tattoo for myself.  I tried to recall how deep I was to get a tattoo done.

A person I liked.
A name I liked.
A place I liked.
A digit I liked.
A syllable I liked.
A memory I liked.

I felt a lot of aversion. Wondered if I should tattoo my mother’s name on my shoulder. I found it amusing that when I die people may identify me by my mother’s name. But, I felt sad when I thought that stranger women may plant their kisses on it. ****! I felt so sad.  I abhorred those bitter cups of tea and narrow ways. I lit up one more cigarette.  Then, I, who tattooed my mother’s name on my shoulder, started decaying on the spot.  Rotting with a terrible stench. The people, the cows and the goats that I did not mention before bolted.  Abruptly, the driver came and told me that we could move from there.  I felt so bitter towards even the bitter tea that was inside him.

Somehow, we reached Karaikkal. Yes, at 630 in the evening. Even though I had never been to Karaikkal, a Union Territory, I sat on the same chair in the same corner of the same bar. The bearer poured me the wine.

He kept pouring the wine.
He kept pouring the wine.
The wine kept emptying.
The wine kept emptying.
The wine kept unraveling.
The wine kept unraveling.

It was a Dutch woman who gathered me up and took me with her when I got totally unraveled. She was older than me. There was no power in her room. The way she washed my body in lukewarm water could have put to shame even the midwives giving a bath to babies. When I rose up sometimes and asked her name, she sealed my lips with hers. When it was repeated many times, I thought that her name must mean something like a kiss. And, she never spoke a word except with lips.

Unraveling wine, lukewarm water, the nonstop conversation by lips. Though lips got tired, I heard the murmur from my pelvis. She too must have heard that. She touched my *****. Quite a guy she exclaimed cracking a joke. Told her I salvaged it from the sea at Tanjore and it was some temple mast some sculptor abandoned. If it’s a temple mast, let the festival begin she said.

It was some festival.
Festival of festivals.
Black lacquer bangles, vermilion, ribbons
Hydrogen balloons
Spinning tops
It was some festival.
Festival of festivals.

A simile as washed out as a festival ground emptied of crowds. For the lack of a better one.  Returned from Karaikkal, a Union Territory, at some hour.  I dumped that taxi driver on the way. Not only because I was disgusted with bitter tea, but also because his name was not Thintharoo.

I can never again put up with a driver whose name is not Thintharoo.

**(trans by Ra Sh)
Thintharoo - it is also my poetry collection name. will come soon
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