The cost of a new life

In millions, Princes

            Into deep sea plunged

For their solitary Princess,

            In their do or die game

And were swimming in a race

            Across the sea to the Arc,

Where she had waited with grace,

            All the way to reach their monarch

In millions the Princes

In their struggle sank

On the march to the Princess,

Save a few hundreds in rank,

Who maneuvered through the gulf

Neck to neck; the fittest,

Past the rest, broke the nest

And shot the Princess; the rest dead.

‘Another life is born’                         

 02.12.98,Palakkad.

END OF 1998 YEAR POEMS

Desire has no merits

To relish your ballet,

I need not be a poet;

To enjoy your melody,

I need not be a singer;

To watch your steps,

No need I am a dancer.

I go after you, Apsaras,

Though I am not an Indra.

00.12.98, Plakkad

IIndra is  the mythological god and Apsaras, the most beautiful heavenly women, are his love mates] 

Be a bud anew

She stands over there a widow,

Aloof, like a barren meadow,

Having lost her stand and beauty,

And is flung to melancholy.

With the loss of solid mountain,

Went away the placid fountain,

Leaving abrupt her cup empty

Of love and sweet, once aplenty.

Her presence is now a bad omen.

Her sari, the rainbow, turned white.

She went graceless lest she must excite.

Is she lust-less, to be sexless?

Ere wedding, was there she alone;

Even now, as a widow, she’s alone.

Once a solitary mansion,

Now she is a lonely grave.

She is set to lament and mourn

Ever-long, without a happy end,

Though in no way can it lighten

The loss of her pair. Why, then, to pretend?

Which widow, save corrupt one, unwept

Over the fate to which she was put,

With choked lust having no outlet,

Other than duress she went through?

Youth in prime, charm is still unshed.

Lust to brim, thirst is still unfed.

Hard would be she to stay the wicked

Were she destined to never re-wed.

Women’s eyes upon her conduct,

Men’s spicy eyes upon her neglects,

If she is to rebel, men will spurn;

If she is to yield, men will rush.

There comes spring to trees, when leaf-less.

Also comes monsoon to grass, when list-less.

None comes to her, who went mate-less,

And was thrown an orphan, name-less.

When a pot is lost another is bought.

When a hut is lost one more is built.

While a mate is lost no one is sought

To tender her lust, otherwise a beast.

A widow is not a left-over,

As a poem read is not leftover.

A portrait is fresh to everyone.

A mother’s breast is alike to her next child.

She is unlike the one as had deserted

Her husband, as furtively flirted,

Or as had her child by him fostered:

A lived villa, not a spit apple.

Over years virgins married widowers.

Without tears they lived in fervour.

For her cheers, let her get the same favour

from a man of choice to restore her flavour.

No animals keep their spouses in widowhood.

Why is, then, this invention on womanhood?

She better be sanctified before having erred

So that she could lead a life, unblurred.

Let her wed, anew,

‘as though a rose shut

and be a bud, again’

11.11.97, Palakkad

Each light illuminates^w

Maybe it is

Two thousand watts Madhuri Dixit

That I utmost coveted,

But in utter dark,

A zero watts neighbour at wait,

I detest not.

16.11.97, Palakkad

Wait for a bait

Each girl takes every care

To lure any man on the earth

And put a check to such men

When they choose to beg her care.

Why?

She is a buyer in the market,

Going around with her wallet

To choose the best of the products

To suit more than her wallet.

Wait!                                                                  

 16.11.97, Palakkad

The nudity, no need

Than the sight of a woman in circus,

Who bares herself save chest and hip,

The sight of a housewife excites more

When she walks through a stream

With her sari tucked up above the knee.

Than the sight of a supple woman in gymnastics,

Who shows her bare limbs and contour,

The sight of a woman next door excites more

When she stoops to sweep the yard,

Her blouse betraying her cleavage.

Than the sight of a virulent woman in swimsuit

Who swims in apparent transparency

The sight of a known woman excites more

When seen behind in front seat of the bus,

Her bra cut seen through beneath the blouse.

To excite, no need to expose

01.11.98, Palakkad.

To allure, need not be a nude

The mere imprint of your bra belt

Beneath the tight-fit voile blouse

That I had scanned on your back,

While sitting behind you in a bus

Was so much to kindle my lust

That even a cabaret dancer at best

Can’t emulate with her half-seen breasts.

Where is the validity of nudity?

The mere sight of your covered breasts

That I stole from your robust chest

As you, to serve me tea, stooped,

With your sari end no sooner slipping

Than your hand upon it restoring,

Had so much current to conduct

Than could a girl, exposed in a bath suit.

Where is validity of nudity?

The mere sight of your knee made me mad

When you waded across a brook,

Lifting your sari to the raising water,

Your legs being visible up to knee,

The sight even a circus woman can’t beat,

With arms and thighs fully naked

And the body springy and supple.

Where is the validity of nudity?

No need of nudity

to produce acidity

13.11.97, Palakkad

You have a taker.

They say you are dark,

And yet would care

Their lashes and lock

Ever to be black.

They like to their heart

The Koel and the Tusker,

Dark though they are,

And would rather admire

The dark horse in race

And the black bull in fight.

To me you look no dark.

The solitary diamond

That radiates on your nose

Is far shining –

Like a lonely star –

From your new-moon face.

Whenever you grin

There forms a crescent

Across your cheek,

Flashing like a lightening

From the rain-cloud sky.

Your teeth are far milky.

Draped in lime-white voile,

With jasmine weaving your tress

And silver anklet

Circling your limbs,

You are a snow-clad peak.

No more are you dark.

I like you to my heart

Only because you are dark

And not though you’re dark.

Be assured you have a taker.

08.01.97, Palakkad

The gift of the Go

The God is blind

In distribution of fortunes,

But is kind

In giving away a gift

To all alike,

Which is that no one knows

When he will die,

Which is why each one lives,

Till he dies,

With hopes kept alive.

22.10.97, Palakkad.

For the fair deal

Your thumb and index

Only labour most

To deliver you the best.

But which finger do you adorn

With a golden ring?

Why should you, then,

Cry for fair deal from others?

22.10.97, Palakkad

Regrets stored

Uncle, aunt and granny,

All poured me love in plenty.

They were gone before I could repay.

There were a great many

Who lent their hands and money.

They were gone before I could repay.

Parents gave me love and blood

And guarded me from any crash.

They were done in benevolent neglect.

Cousins, nieces and nephews,

On whom I showered honey.

Had licked it and slipped away.

There were scattered peers,

Whom I pleased in all spheres.

Ere my asking, they vanished.

Daughter and son were the hopes,

Who too, as grown up, broke their rope

And had no time to repay.

I leave as much debtors

As I had creditors in my life.

Kindly tally, my Creator.       

21.10.97, Palakkad 

Pleasant to admire

My dear Honey!

Upon you, your radiant eyes,

Sharp nose, pouty lips,

Pointed chin and raised cheeks,

I focused my look.

You were illuminated,

But I was shaded,

‘Cause beams of light

Never illuminate the part

They arise from.

My dear Honey!

Into you, your hidden ear,

Slender neck, beating heart,

Throbbing lungs and tender ribs,

I shall breathe out a song.

It will resonate in you,

But won’t deafen me

‘Cause waves of sound

Would vibrate the parts

They arise from.

28.08.97, Agartala

Who is my God?

At a new moon in the jungle

Was brought to an altar

A roaring goat, fully black,

By an awesome peasant

To the fearsome Kali,

Made of granite, red in cloak,

Under arbour of a peepul.

Before the Goddes stood

At dawn of death, the poor goat

Like a bull in a fight,

Arresting the attention

Of everyone, unknown of his fate.

The beast was put to rites,

Smeared with sandal paste      

And fully drenched in water

Till he shivered a jerk,

Which was taken as a token of nod

By the grace of Goddess for her feast.

The peasant was pleased;

The priest was pleased;

So were all, as though they’re blest.

One held his hind-legs,

Stretching them well behind,

The other bending up his front one,

The third locking his head

Hard onto the altar

For the priest to accomplish.

The act was done at a stroke

By the learned priest, merciless,

For the Goddess, all merciful.

Many-wards squirted the blood

Like a carpet, red,

Before the Goddess, her tongue dripping.

All felt that they had met

The thirst of Ma, full

As did a mother her child, ere asking.

The agony that was undergone,

Murder they committed,

And pathos that prevailed, who noticed?

The beheaded beast went straight,

To the feet of the Goddess,

“Ma, am I not your child?

If not, who is my Mother?”

Her lids dripped,

She cursed for having been chiseled

25.07.97, Agartala.      

Love that is lost.

Brick by brick was built our love over years;

A crack was unearthed. My heart broke away

And we were thrown apart miles away.

Yes, ‘A little less and what world away!’

20.06.97, Agartala