who’d ve thought it would come to this ? #poem #poetry #Covid19 #CoronaVirus #India
*my Teachers said …*
My routine broke, as they hushed “Don’t !!”,
Muffled voices echoing faintly across time,
Didn’t care listen, in a hurry, who has time ?
Am in hustle to put one upon my fellowmen,
To Conquer .. the conquest and the victory,
Surrender and subjugation, The Happiness …
But nature cares, for a mother can’t but,
When she sees her child wandering thus,
Her patience for the truants runs short,
Her rebuke, a gentle slap of no avail as she,
Unleashes pestilence, her stormtroopers,
To sweep, clean the home; they do, ruthless,
It seems best is to stay put, clear off streets,
Voice low, no splurge and abide in quiet self,
Closetted with partners and one’s own clan,
Coccooned in quiet contemplation on the ills,
Waiting for her anger to wash over the kind,
It’s message is to mend ; stark one too ..
Seems my teachers said, about this too,
The material, evanescent like the wealth,
It seems he said a time would come, when,
The money is not worth the paper it’s in print,
What to say of success, more than the King,
Who’s mortal hand, as empty as a newborn,
As his mortal was led down the street lined,
Seems they said much more ; now real too…
It is time to hear those faint echoes of time,
Ancients, strange habits seem so in tune,
Let’s put our ears on the ground, let’s listen,
To the faint voices of teachers across time,
For we can hear it better as troopers near..
The existential crisis, rudderless feeling one gets as one’s not sure what this body is, what’s to do with this and essentially how to map the world with this, or indeed whether to at all….. In the end one plays his/her part and vanishes but world exhumes the dead for post-truth – buries and burns it again. None is spared from this post-truth. Gods, Goddesses, great men and women are all queued up and exhumed for this ritual. What then one ……
Ode to The Monkey:
India’s tryst with Yoga is deep rooted in symbolism and runs deep into its spiritual classics, poetry, theory, ritualistic practice, grand-mother story telling and visual art forms.
I am Shiva : A tribute to an unmoving belief. An examination of ones belief in these testing times of Kerala Floods, Death and Destruction.
It was late in the day, i was standing at driveway gate turning off the lights to my clinic. I just glanced across the road where the indoor stadia is. This is where young college kids are working round the clock , selflessly for the flood victims. They receive relief materials sent across the border and sort it. Authorities are scant, but I’m told the work is supervised.
I was struck how a fracturing society had gelled by a near cataclysm.
My two lines worth were penned then
I titled it my kerala (ente keralam )