"kuzhur" poems - Hello Poetry

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. Then, I will get angry Even if the gentlest Of breezes Passes that way. She will turn livid Even if a ***** Passes that way. If Single Single Memories Or sighs Or their scars Appear on the face She will Wipe them off With Kisses. 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 Sorambi! Go away Soramba! Go away Soorambi! Go away Kooramba! Go away Koorambi! Go away …… At a loss For words She will Change the tune. Goaway Slate! Goaway Bag! Goaway Tree! Goaway Pencil! Goaway Pen! Goaway, Ant Goaway Mosquito! Goaway Matchbox! Goaway Straw! Goaway Book! Goaway Cot! Goaway Chair! Goaway Window! Goaway Door! Goaway Mobile! Goaway Button! Goaway Computer! Goaway Trousers! Goaway Shirt! Goaway Sky! Goaway Puppy! Goaway Star! Goaway Well! Goaway Girl! Goaway Boy! Goaway Calendar! Goaway Fan! Goazway Doll! Goaway Broom! Goaway Tiffin box! Goaway Poetry! Goaway Annakutty! Goaway Appakutta! Goaway Ammikkalli! Goaway Appakkalla! About to lose, I will show the Trump card. Go away Agnus Anna! Her face will change. Hesitantly, She will say Go away Kuzhur Wilson! Then An Intolerable Silence Will Spread There. When Ammini Turns back To Kochu TV, I will Enter The bathroom Shut The door And Puff on A cigarette. Then Another Kind of Game That Makes Life Intolerable To live Will Pool Around me There. Translation : Ra Sha

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Mar 11, 2014

Mar 11, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC

kuzhur

eleven thirty when two people make a world to play in

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. Then, I will get angry Even if the gentlest Of breezes Passes that way. She will turn livid Even if a ***** Passes that way. If Single Single Memories Or sighs Or their scars Appear on the face She will Wipe them off With Kisses. 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 Sorambi! Go away Soramba! Go away Soorambi! Go away Kooramba! Go away Koorambi! Go away …… At a loss For words She will Change the tune. Goaway Slate! Goaway Bag! Goaway Tree! Goaway Pencil! Goaway Pen! Goaway, Ant Goaway Mosquito! Goaway Matchbox! Goaway Straw! Goaway Book! Goaway Cot! Goaway Chair! Goaway Window! Goaway Door! Goaway Mobile! Goaway Button! Goaway Computer! Goaway Trousers! Goaway Shirt! Goaway Sky! Goaway Puppy! Goaway Star! Goaway Well! Goaway Girl! Goaway Boy! Goaway Calendar! Goaway Fan! Goazway Doll! Goaway Broom! Goaway Tiffin box! Goaway Poetry! Goaway Annakutty! Goaway Appakutta! Goaway Ammikkalli! Goaway Appakkalla! About to lose, I will show the Trump card. Go away Agnus Anna! Her face will change. Hesitantly, She will say Go away Kuzhur Wilson! Then An Intolerable Silence Will Spread There. When Ammini Turns back To Kochu TV, I will Enter The bathroom Shut The door And Puff on A cigarette. Then Another Kind of Game That Makes Life Intolerable To live Will Pool Around me There. Translation : Ra Sha

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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. frequently, 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)

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Sep 4, 2016

Sep 4, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC

kuzhur

Luna

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. frequently, 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)

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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. What? Sir, its what the dead wear! Aha 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.

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Apr 21, 2018

Apr 21, 2018 at 10:02 PM UTC

kuzhur

The White Shirt

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. What? Sir, its what the dead wear! Aha 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.

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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

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Mar 26, 2019

Mar 26, 2019 at 1:04 AM UTC

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.

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Oct 7, 2013

Oct 7, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC

ra-sh

varghese has no home ( translated poem)

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.

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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.

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Nov 23, 2014

Nov 23, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC

kuzhur

4.35 PM

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.

32

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! Now, 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

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May 20, 2018

May 20, 2018 at 10:07 AM UTC

kuzhur

Fortune

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! Now, 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

31

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 Discontentedly. 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. But You must not Alter my name Jere It's my prayer And 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

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Sep 18, 2018

Sep 18, 2018 at 2:50 AM UTC

kuzhur

Dairy notes of Miss Web World beauty Jere on an ordinary day

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 Discontentedly. 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. But You must not Alter my name Jere It's my prayer And 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

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