The last poem is not a complete one. Disrupted by the awareness that I was turning up a little late on reaching office and amidst the traffic our Cab had been always on the junctions at wrong time.
But I couldn't resist loading it to blog, as this had become my diary actually. Whether one reads it or not , it s my personal notebook.
I am not sure about whether I will be able to complete those lines.
But it was towards the end of the travel that it came over to me about how even my style has changed.
yesterday I tried to scribble on my note book some lines in Malayalam. But I couldn't proceed after three lines. A kind of block has occurred to my natural style ( language as well as tone).
but surely I do want to get back at my mother tongue very seriously as it can determine my fortunes with in 3 years if everything is going as planned.
Any way I am diverging my focal point about the transformation. As I had talked with Shabin that day there is going to be some love poems on my blog. I could foresee my style of writing. Even in the 'after the dry run' the style has clearly denoted this change, I believe.
From a poet who fumed and repented at everything, wanted to burn away the last vestige of vanity I am turning into something else.
Does it matter or not ? Who cares about the rumbles of an unknown confused guy anyway!!!
Friday, March 30, 2007
On My Change!
When you laugh, the dreams are unleashed in me
We liberate words from the chained sentences,
Letters from the words
And syllables from each letters;
And only the voice will freely graze over the vast plains of love.
Your words ,although of the other world
Fill in me, crystals of fine snow.
A desert mist comes down on the parched cracks.
I am turning into a balladeer of love
From the fiery rebellious man of fury.
And I become the sculptor who hide in the carvings, his love,
A ghazal singer who frame the words of beauty.
I really wonder
Where is the fist of fury I once settled into;
Moments of meaningless despair;
The words which I imagined to burn the universe.
We liberate words from the chained sentences,
Letters from the words
And syllables from each letters;
And only the voice will freely graze over the vast plains of love.
Your words ,although of the other world
Fill in me, crystals of fine snow.
A desert mist comes down on the parched cracks.
I am turning into a balladeer of love
From the fiery rebellious man of fury.
And I become the sculptor who hide in the carvings, his love,
A ghazal singer who frame the words of beauty.
I really wonder
Where is the fist of fury I once settled into;
Moments of meaningless despair;
The words which I imagined to burn the universe.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Nazir Qabbani
I came to know of this Arab poet only recently. A Syrian Poet who strived his wholelife for the cause of Arab unity and liberation. His words were too harsh it didnt please never its leaders nor its sultans.
I came across two of his poems recently ; just posting two lines from them
"Our enemies did not cross our borders
They crept through our weakness like ants "
Following lines shattered my consciousness even.
" My grieved country,
In a flash
You changed me from a poet who wrote love poems
To a poet who writes with a knife."
Do expect some more posts from me intertwined by couplets of him .
I came across two of his poems recently ; just posting two lines from them
"Our enemies did not cross our borders
They crept through our weakness like ants "
Following lines shattered my consciousness even.
" My grieved country,
In a flash
You changed me from a poet who wrote love poems
To a poet who writes with a knife."
Do expect some more posts from me intertwined by couplets of him .
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
After the dry run
When a poem starts winding down your aged heart
When you receive it from the unknown air
After the lean seasons of words which hide in strange valleys
When a silence condense down to drops of poem.
Then you remember the sweat at her nape
The wonder she sets the swirling hair
And how she canonizes the long dead images
And their cemeteries in draught hit time.
When words starts dripping through your pen
And paper turns its zestful curve to finest tone,
I can forget the groaning words and dreams
And sing a lullaby to the new born kid.
I can feel your throb of vain
And write it down the rhythm of heart
And as you walk along with me
Hand in hand as I wished it all time
Chirping voice sings my words
Foggy morning paints my images.
Share this spring of thousand dreams
As this theatre warms it soon
Touch my words and do a kiss .
When a poem is being born,
Stars add to its lust
A thousand glitter of twinkling words.
When words flow through the dried up patches
And kiss up the dreary banks with fervent bubbles
I forget it all and deeply lost in kiss of love
And relish myself in eternal truths of world.
When you receive it from the unknown air
After the lean seasons of words which hide in strange valleys
When a silence condense down to drops of poem.
Then you remember the sweat at her nape
The wonder she sets the swirling hair
And how she canonizes the long dead images
And their cemeteries in draught hit time.
When words starts dripping through your pen
And paper turns its zestful curve to finest tone,
I can forget the groaning words and dreams
And sing a lullaby to the new born kid.
I can feel your throb of vain
And write it down the rhythm of heart
And as you walk along with me
Hand in hand as I wished it all time
Chirping voice sings my words
Foggy morning paints my images.
Share this spring of thousand dreams
As this theatre warms it soon
Touch my words and do a kiss .
When a poem is being born,
Stars add to its lust
A thousand glitter of twinkling words.
When words flow through the dried up patches
And kiss up the dreary banks with fervent bubbles
I forget it all and deeply lost in kiss of love
And relish myself in eternal truths of world.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Final Visions
That gun starts pointing at me again
The curse from the Babel has struck its blow
I stay here on the cold ground waiting for the last trumpet
The trail of the final trumpet is approaching!
We celebrate the Doomsday here
Wish my baby a diabolic smile
To do a gentle trick of the beheaded lizard
The dreams are worth the frightening end
The screams are squashing me to end
Spare no time!!
Spare no words!!
Keep on growling on the ground
Keep on feeling the cold world
Dream wilter has come already
Submit to him our final challenges
Let him preside over our silly qualms!
Let him decide what rolls first
Our heads or our hands!
I scribbled the lines on to the mobile . That time I was about to explode. The stifling emotions wanted a valve to escape. My words were not reaching anywhere. Language was becoming a barrier infront of me. I thought human emotions could permeate through all the linguistic superficialities. But my convictions failed me. I couldn’t break through the protective layer of language and words.
Resigning to my own shell I could feel the burning heat of furnace. Back to lyrics of Jim Morrision my alter ego I felt like crying. I wanted to sing ‘Spanish Caravan’ to instill in me the peculiar stage of hope. I couldn’t , all I listen was the nightmarish visions about the end.The image of a revolver pointing at me was recurring all the time. I wanted to write a rock lyrics for Jim if he could sing in the other world. And this poem resulted.
I wont call this one a poem either , ‘poetry.com’ kept it for one week and purged it afterwards and still I could see many trivial and useless web of poetry hanging still there. Chronogically this poem must have come first on the blog, but it happened otherwise.
The curse from the Babel has struck its blow
I stay here on the cold ground waiting for the last trumpet
The trail of the final trumpet is approaching!
We celebrate the Doomsday here
Wish my baby a diabolic smile
To do a gentle trick of the beheaded lizard
The dreams are worth the frightening end
The screams are squashing me to end
Spare no time!!
Spare no words!!
Keep on growling on the ground
Keep on feeling the cold world
Dream wilter has come already
Submit to him our final challenges
Let him preside over our silly qualms!
Let him decide what rolls first
Our heads or our hands!
I scribbled the lines on to the mobile . That time I was about to explode. The stifling emotions wanted a valve to escape. My words were not reaching anywhere. Language was becoming a barrier infront of me. I thought human emotions could permeate through all the linguistic superficialities. But my convictions failed me. I couldn’t break through the protective layer of language and words.
Resigning to my own shell I could feel the burning heat of furnace. Back to lyrics of Jim Morrision my alter ego I felt like crying. I wanted to sing ‘Spanish Caravan’ to instill in me the peculiar stage of hope. I couldn’t , all I listen was the nightmarish visions about the end.The image of a revolver pointing at me was recurring all the time. I wanted to write a rock lyrics for Jim if he could sing in the other world. And this poem resulted.
I wont call this one a poem either , ‘poetry.com’ kept it for one week and purged it afterwards and still I could see many trivial and useless web of poetry hanging still there. Chronogically this poem must have come first on the blog, but it happened otherwise.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
An Ode to Nandigram
The above poem came to my mind after hearing Budhadeb s new industrialization plans bull dozed over the lives of hapless residents in Nandigram.
Being a leftist I felt ashamed of him , who sided with the Salim Group of Indonesia ( I cant ever forget the extermination of PKI in Suhartos Indonesia .PKI was the largest communist party outside the socialist world. And with in an year Fundamentalists in collusion with Suharto s Military massacred millions of Comrades and hung their genitals as public display!!).
So far I could proclaim myself being a sympathizer of a movement which had taken side with the oppressed on every issues and fought against the establishments which always favored the Oppressor. Now I despise you Buddha ( I admired him for being a poet among the communist and an avid film lover) , But now I hate to write like him and watch film like him!!
Being a leftist I felt ashamed of him , who sided with the Salim Group of Indonesia ( I cant ever forget the extermination of PKI in Suhartos Indonesia .PKI was the largest communist party outside the socialist world. And with in an year Fundamentalists in collusion with Suharto s Military massacred millions of Comrades and hung their genitals as public display!!).
So far I could proclaim myself being a sympathizer of a movement which had taken side with the oppressed on every issues and fought against the establishments which always favored the Oppressor. Now I despise you Buddha ( I admired him for being a poet among the communist and an avid film lover) , But now I hate to write like him and watch film like him!!
Smiling Budha
When Buddha smiles again I am trembling
I always imagined
My mind as calm and peaceful as a meditating Buddha
But now when Buddha meditates I look for covers
Vultures start swooping down
Villages let out a groaning song,
which gets stuck under their spastic throat
The thunder of heaven flashes the world
Specialties sweep the ground
The land of our dead,
Now lit with neon lamps
is no more ours.
Take your shelter, my wounded human creature
Buddha is meditating once again.
Buddha speaks from the enlightenment
‘Colors do not exist’
‘History didn’t live’
Comrades from the past over an archipelago were all some hallucinations
Their bloodbath was only a sanctifier
for a colorless world.
[ This land is dead, colorless rotten with hollowness
Here exists no grave of our fathers
They are empty as our dream
The seeds are swollen with those empty wishes
Haunting winds just walk across the stunted soil.
]
Thus spake ,meditating Buddha
I wonder what films you adore
I wonder what poetry you appreciated!
I always imagined
My mind as calm and peaceful as a meditating Buddha
But now when Buddha meditates I look for covers
Vultures start swooping down
Villages let out a groaning song,
which gets stuck under their spastic throat
The thunder of heaven flashes the world
Specialties sweep the ground
The land of our dead,
Now lit with neon lamps
is no more ours.
Take your shelter, my wounded human creature
Buddha is meditating once again.
Buddha speaks from the enlightenment
‘Colors do not exist’
‘History didn’t live’
Comrades from the past over an archipelago were all some hallucinations
Their bloodbath was only a sanctifier
for a colorless world.
[ This land is dead, colorless rotten with hollowness
Here exists no grave of our fathers
They are empty as our dream
The seeds are swollen with those empty wishes
Haunting winds just walk across the stunted soil.
]
Thus spake ,meditating Buddha
I wonder what films you adore
I wonder what poetry you appreciated!
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