Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kuzhur Wilson Apr 12
In your place,

I planted a *******.

On the southern border

Of a dilapidated, porous house.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I used leaves that have decayed

More than the usual

As manure.

I took handfuls of the sand,

That was measured out

For construction of the house,

And spread over its base,

Without any measure.

I diverted the rain,

That was flowing away lazily,

To its base.

******* trembled

As love swelled up within.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I kissed every leaf,

Without anyone seeing it.

Its veins looked like yours,

When I read them gently.

And when the eyes welled up

I made a ridge under them

With my soiled hands.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I will nurture it with love.

I will fight with ants and beetles

And even butterflies.

If it ever droops,

I will pamper it with sweet talks

And pet names uttered in its ear.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I will stand guard to it

In rain and shine.

I will tattoo on my palm

Its green, branches and leaves.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

Tears

Spittle

*****

I will pour out the soul of life

Just for it.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

In nights, when I really lose it,

I will hug it and cry my heart out.

I will shower it with kisses,

Drenched with tears and spittle.

I will lie down on its lap,

When the eleven bells crumble.

And when I feel naughtier

I will close my eyes

Get inside it

And hide in there.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

One day,

It will flower.

And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.

The wind, birds and all creepers around

Will take up that song.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

One day.



One day

I will open my day

With its sight

And fade away to next life.

It will wait for me

Till the next life.







‘ When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.’

A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.
Kuzhur Wilson

trans. Anand Haridas
Wrote
Seed
Ten times.
Dug in
Nine of them.
(One
Fell on
The rock.
I saw
You count
Even
Before
The poem
Started.)

I wrote
Water
And poured
On its foot.
I wrote
Organic Manure
And put it
there,
But it
smelt
Furadan.

Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves
Leaves

Before I
Wrote
Leaves,
I placed
A board
Saying
Don’t Touch Leaves.

Butterflies
Who cannot read
Fluttered
Around
everywhere.

I was
About to write
Flowerflies
Flowerflies
Next.

Butterflies
Got in
Between.
Kuzhur Wilson
Translated by Anand Haridas
Kuzhur Wilson Mar 26
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,
So,
I stepped in
Without a sound
Or even a thought.

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

I moved on.
There was no one.

Where did those two cat eyes go?

I pushed
The window
Open
Gently
And looked in.

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

Brother, brother
I called
Without the birds hearing it.

That
Unknown language
Blinked awake
And walked up to me.

I felt so sad for him.

I asked,
Softly,
Weighed down by guilt.

Birds?

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
Sang
In many languages.

That
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.
Andrew Dec 2018
Sports fans love dichotomies
Brady or Montana?
James or Jordan?
The NHL is aware of this
And possesses two generational players
Alexander Ovechkin and Sydney Crosby
Ovechkin plays for the Washington Capitals
And Crosby plays for the Pittsburgh Penguins
One of the most notable team rivalries in sports
So the NHL asks fans to pick a side for marketing purposes
Ovechkin is sold as strength while Crosby is sold as finesse
Which would be a reasonable way to advertise their league
But like every sports league they are dealing with safety concerns
And the NHL is trying to escape the ignorant assumption
That hockey revolves around brutality and is of a primitive nature
So they don’t want to highlight the sports’ physicality
During this delicate and uncertain time
So more often than not Crosby is favored over Ovechkin
Through officiating, commentating, administrating and marketing
Which implicitly sells Crosby over Ovechkin
To the lowest common denominator
Who are interested in those kind of dichotomies

Since the Capitals are the highest profile team
That plays especially physical
The NHL feels the need to treat them with particular austerity
To show they are serious about safety
But this results in massively inconsistent actions by the league

Tom Wilson is one of the Capitals’ best players and their best checker
He was suspended for 20 games for a slightly late hit
He was in proper checking form
Shoulder down and leading, feet planted on the ice
But made incidental contact with Oskar Sundqvist’s head
Giving Sundqvist a concussion so the NHL suspended Wilson
Meanwhile...
Tom Wilson is attacked from behind by Ryan Reaves
On a very ***** hit that had no athletic function or basis in hockey
Launching himself at the back of Wilson’s head on a cheap shot
Giving Wilson a concussion
Reaves was very proud of himself
Selling autographed pictures of an injured Tom Wilson
And the NHL had nothing to say

Tom Wilson received a 20 game suspension
Losing hundreds of thousands of dollars
For an overzealous check
But when he is maliciously attacked with the intent to injure
There is no suspension handed down

A wise man once said
“An injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere”
And I agree
So I can’t stand seeing someone treated with a blatant bias
If it’s on Capitol Hill or in the Capitals’ stadium
And don’t want to live in a world where that’s acceptable

If I could say something to Tom Wilson
I’d say thank you for handling the situation with grace
And not to pay too much attention
To the biased elite or the mindless masses
Because all they try to do is dip you in molasses
They’re not going to protect you on the ice
That’s something you must do on your own
And there’s a lot of people who’ll try to give themselves importance
By eliminating those of higher value
You just have to be able to take their hits
And hit back harder than they ever could
Kuzhur Wilson Jul 2018
This poem
Allows no entry
For other poets.

Whatever you pontificated
About a jungle with no trespassers
Applies to this poem too.

We were hobnobbing about
A poetry factory that produces
Value added poetry products.
It was then that you started blabbering
“Neruda … Neruda.”

There’s only one way to
Chop Neruda.

Write “Neruda.”

Raise a hack knife and
One chop
Two Cantos.

Now,
I watch you getting shocked
At the sight of two Nerudas
In two Cantos
And laughter erupts in me.

(Note
With the permission of the author, the translator has tweaked the poem at this point.)
Neruda/ Kuzhur Wilson/ Trans by Ra Sh
Kuzhur Wilson Jan 2018
We have a family tomb. Elder brother bought it for dad. I renovated it when mom slept for the last time. It is pleasant to go there and stay for a while.

I have never seen dad and mom in bed together. Now, it’s nice to watch them do so. A tranquil feeling.

If I do not die in a distant land I too will sleep in this tomb. Gives me a nice kick to think so. Also a sick feeling that I cannot be there to watch myself.

I picked up a candle and lit it on my tomb. Gathered some flowers from the ground and strew them on it. Stuck incense sticks all around, Knelt down before the dead me.

Then, The familiar ones in the cemetery rose up To ask me when I had come over. Someone from among us got up and left without answering.

Behold, a girl runs along the alley in front of the cemetery.
Kuzhur Wilson

Trans by Ra Sh
Everyone has a story to tell; An-
Xiety is a "fickle *****," but one that --
Possibly- tell you when something bad might happen.
Each day that goes by
Never stop dreaming, never
Stop saying "you can't,"
Instead say "you can" and make your dreams come true.
Victory can be your's and
Everyone's, you just gotta believe!

Mmhmmm...
"
I* became such a strange shape,
Such a strange shape From
Trying to fit it."*
And
Kindness will win all!
Everyone has a story to tell,
So please listen to them. (Just listen.)
McNally/Flanders, Inc.
2018.
Quotes (italics) from LOST and Fall Out Boy-- my biggest inspirations.
Everyone needs someone to listen to them,so just keep an open ear and be their friend they can lean on when their in need and maybe they will return the favor for you when you need someone to listen.
A May Evening ...
Skies of rouge
Coral clouds
Purple figurines
Black oak backgrounds
Jet trails
****** starlight
The steady beat of a maple rocker
An Alabama breeze
A cicada chorus
An evening made for us ....
Song Filled Hour ....
*A song from the bush , a cry at the prequel to dusk ,                               Agents of change that ride mercurial winds through evenings golden hour
Sing to me* ...
TD May 2016
The dark pitch of night
swallows a white beach whole.


A light tower, a beacon,

holds hope captive, as it searches

wide-eyed, the waves beyond.


A volley ball named Wilson

teases the fickle, peeking shore,

with an open-handed face.


His rounded neck bobs, at the waves' inclination,

his gaze straining, lifting,

alighting on a striped base.


The perfect storm

laughs at the irony.

It is beneath him.


Rescue would've been imminent,
if Wilson had just been served.
Next page