F O L I O: Tales for our times

From Our Books of Poems

From Poetry at Midnight

by Ayyappa Paniker

Youth

For one more year

Give me my youth.

Who is the master of all life on earth?

Let him bestow on me a new youthfulness.

I am not content yet with the flowers and fruits

That give sweetness to my zest and lust.

If not for one year, for one year more

Give me my sensual youth.

After that it is vanaprastha.

But till then let me have a fresh youthfulness.

It is not yet time to put out the fire in my gut,

So let it be a dam burst of resurgent youth.

Two eyes are eagerly waiting

To feast on the sight of my tender youth.

Two arms are stretched out for long to hold me tight

And stop the throbbing of my cool youth.

Two lips fill with the sweet fragrance of

The sensual carousel of heady youth.

Who is the master of life on earth ? Let him

Change my term, re-kindle my passions,

Put a spark to the petard of my body, satiate

The hunger of this damp earth, and ,then,

If Death comes any day, let him come.

***

From Late Rains

by M Mohankumar

Arjuna

You too wore tree bark,

and starved alright,

as your siblings did,

and the common wife,

on the final journey;

nevertheless carried

the god-given bow

and the quivers that looked

so incongruous on your

barely-covered body.

Was it the past tugging

at your every step,

trailing like the dog

that brought up the rear-

a past of charmed hearts

and a great battle won

with hard-won weapons?

What use were they

after the aswamedha?

On the perilous journey

from the sinking Dwaraka,

they failed you dismally.

And now, they were

mere tinsel like the titles

carried by a dethroned king

and a drag on you

till you dropped them

into the sea and

your mind was emptied

of the dross.

***

From Writing Again

by Siddhartha Menon

At a Poetry Reading

In Memoriam Wyslawa Szymborska

I turn this poet's pages.

I drift, my anchor snags

and I rock gently above

page fifty-one, where she

utters words to a drowsy

or indulgent audience -

relatives, the idle

curious, some driven in

by the rain - altogether

not more than a dozen or so.

And I am one of them,

heavy in dampness. I strain

to catch her voice in the snores

of the pensioner beside me.

Applause would be disruptive.

I do not know what lifts

and dips me in her wake,

this nudging into a kinship

with she who reads in herself:

phrases cast adrift

but furrowing salt water

O Muse

No Queue

I'd like to jump the queue. May I?

There is just the single, small counter.

The door beside it swings too fast:

you can't see through. No one reveals

how he got here, or when - or now

that he is here, what he'll do, or why.

Where, in fact, is the queue?

Our movement is not so clearly linear.

A joke is doing the rounds:

that we exhibit Brownian slow-motion

to watchers behind one-way glass.

And yet the counter imposes a broad

direction. We give it covert glances,

theorize, with nothing better to do.

We can't quite see the figure behind it.

Someone, randomly it seems,

is drawn to it, hands in pockets, whistling,

then disappears. But some bypass it.

They push to that side before their time

and do not give you a wave, a glance.

Are they adequately equipped?

Perhaps they've had notice in advance

for no one checks them. No one protests.

Is there a consensus on who is next?

Speculation is rife. Link arms, they say,

though entry is strictly one at a time.

Each must have a turn, so be

courteous, allow others ahead.

Rain

As in absurdist plays

its entrances are whimsical.

It happens by, it hesitates, it looks in

assured of being heeded

although its sounds are syncopated

its silences unnerving

and its exits unpredictable.

It is not to be wooed

by drums, prayers and other such,

nor is it amenable to calls of reason.

It refuses to be answerable

for absences, or for the paddies

that have the fadedness

of backdrops for an earlier production.

Nor is its concern the run-down streams,

the bare arenas, the despair

of those who've spent their prime waiting.

It is above all this.

It aspires to high tragedy,

katharsis in each riven heart.

It is disdainful of scripts.

The water below the curved embankment

sinks submissively

as we in the darkening amphitheatre watch

unwilling to accept it's over.

We've seen it rippling; there must

be a deus ex machina:

this isn't what we are here to see.

Bewildered, and yet we have faith in rain

as we do in seers, the ones who've travelled long distances

but chosen to return.

We know that they will do it on their terms,

seldom on cue. When it happens

we are reliably grateful.

From The Scent of Frangipani

by Nayanatara

Glimpses of Paradise

From the balcony of my house,

Strewn with rosy bougainvilleas,

I stare at the vast expanse above.

The night sky appears complacent

Exuding the seductive brightness of a million stars.

Perhaps I could be one among them,

Shedding light from the heavens on the cold earth below.

A bright star in an unfathomed corner of the universe,

Barely visible to the mortal eye,

With a soul so pure, incomprehensible,

Untouched by the waves of grief, of longing,

Of the misery of passing years.

And one day...

I would quietly perish with an exuberant glow,

My last breath emanating the fragrant,

Tranquil warmth of a million years.

***

Tears

Tears-

Glistening pearls woven

Into the sad tapestry of mind.

Small, eloquent beads

Each having an untold story of its own.

Threaded by tales of woe,

Unrequited passion and unspoken regrets,

They quietly guard the secrets of the heart.

When the mind shakes in silent tremors,

When dark clouds of grief cover the eyes,

Unchained from the shallow recesses of the heart

These exquisite pearls roll down the cheeks

In tremulous bursts, relishing

Each moment of their newly found freedom.

***

From What The Night Told Me

by Mary Nirmala

Muezzin's Call

There is something in a muezzin's call

that pricks the mind

in this gorgeous city,

paradise on earth.

I hear it along the contours of my soul...

It is in the breeze that wafts from the parks,

it gently flows into the glitzy malls

and hi-tech cafes,

Soothing,

Chiding

and

Disturbing...

I hear the muezzin's call

in the rise

and fall

of the billowy waves.

Softly does it fall

on moonlit sand dunes

Haunting

Cleansing

and

Lifting the soul.

There is something in a muezzin's call

that bridges the earth to the sky!

***

From Me, My Friend

by Deeya Nayar-Nambiar

I am Sorry

It is never late to say

I am sorry.

Sorry for what?

I think again.

Sorry for hurting someone

Because I was right?

Sorry for telling someone

I believe in myself?

Sorry for accepting others when they blame

For I was being considerate?

Sorry for being a little immature

And laughing when you fell down.

Sorry for not being sensible enough

When you wanted help and I was not by your side.

Sorry for hurting you as you stand by me and

Still I hold you responsible for all what went wrong.

Sorry then,I analyse,

Is not just a word spoken for the sake of it.

Sorry is then also a compromise,

Convenience and a binding force.

For truly it means a lot when my heart aches

To say sorry to all those

Who make my life beautiful....

Therefore, it is never late to say

I am sorry

Before time sweeps the relationships away.

***

How to Order for Copies

For placing orders for books send an e-mail to foliobooks@gmail.com. The prices of the books in stock are listed below in Indian rupees. Actual shipping charges will be extra which will be intimated on receipt of the order.

The Playback in Malayalam Cinema - Rs 400

The Kerala Coast:A Byway in History - Rs 350

Late Rains - Rs 160

Me, My Friend - Rs 150

What the Night Told Me- Rs 150

The Scent of Frangipani - Rs 150

Writing Again Rs 100

Poetry at Midnight Rs 150

Desert Hunt Rs 399

Elements of Plant Protection Rs 350

Elements of Agriculture Rs 250

Hollywood Enna Mareechika Rs 100

Pappante Kathakal Rs 100

F O L I O

Thursday, December 11, 2014

Tales for our times - The Hindu

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