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WINGED REASON (Poems)

WINGED REASON

(Poems)

By

K. V. DOMINIC

 

 

In Memoriam George Joson

(elegy written on a colleague who died

 in a car accident on 14. 05. 2004)

 

Why did you leave us dear Joson?

We are unable to find any reason.

How unbearable is the grief

you caused to your dear wife!

How miserable are your little daughters!

Yet your youngest kid,

not knowing what has happened,

kissed your face often

and plucked flowers

from your wreath;

tossed them to her sisters,

who were weeping and crying.

How cruel is the Fate!

When He comes with His chariot,

none can say,

“wait”.

Joson dear,

you were bit fast;

fast in your words;

fast in your walk;

fast in your action,

and fast unto death.

If life is so uncertain

why should life all labour be?

But for the ones

who depend on us,

can we risk them

like birds in the sky?

Great is your loss

to our academic circle!

You haunt our minds

with your majestic walk.

We find it hard

to console our minds.

It is He who created us,

who led us all these days.

As the great poet sang:

We are all puppets in His hands,

dancing to His various tunes.

Yet He who sent us to the world

has the right to call us back.

And that is the only consolation

which we find

for such untimely deaths.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Long Live E. K. Nayanar

 

(elegy written on E. K. Nayanar

who passed away on 15. 05. 2004)

“Long live E. K. Nayanar!”

This mantra is being muttered

by millions of your comrades.

We are in a trance

since you bade us “Good bye.”

It is impossible to believe

our dearest CM is no more.

How millions loved you

could be clearly seen

when you had your ‘final journey.’

No rain could stop them;

no sleep could retreat them.

Thus mourning with the Nature,

your people swarmed round your body,

bidding “Lal Salaam, Lal Salaam.’

You were a true Communist;

a Communist in all aspects;

an epitome of Socialism.

Yet did give due respect

to others who differed from you.

How memorable are your speeches!

Deep sounding like a bassoon,

it stirred and the public cheered.

Was it mere rhetoric

that enchanted your audience?

Nay, the words came from your heart;

you meant what you spoke.

The public never doubted

even a word you uttered.

Such was your charisma;

reminds us of Gandhi.

You were truly a patriot;

had no foes but friends.

The tears of the poor,

the miseries of the wretched,

the sufferings of the downtrodden,

pricked your heart often.

As a champion of the proletariat,

truly followed AKG and EMS.

What makes you different

is your sense of  humour;

very few Socialists possess.

Though we missed you on this planet,

still we gaze you in the sky.

You are our polestar

who saves us from the Darkness.

We do firmly believe

you will continue to guide us

to a Socialist nation tomorrow.

E. K. Nayanar: Thrice Chief Minister of Kerala, India

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Blissful Voyage

 

 

Let my mind soar high

on the wings of the Muses

and visit the places

where my body

fails to reach.

Had I the wings of a mallard

I could fly to the States,

shake the hand of Obama,

and thank my American sisters and brothers.

I wish I had the claws of a vulture

to fetch the skeletons from Iraq

and build a bone-palace

to imprison Bush in it.

If I could fly like an angel,

would plead Christ, Muhammad and Krishna

to exterminate the high priests

who inject communal venom

to millions’ innocent minds.

I would meet Gandhi too

who is weeping at his shattered dreams.

I wish I were a bullet

and shoot into the chest of that terrorist

who compels that teen age boy

to explode and kill that innocent mob.

 

 

A Nightmare

 

I had a nightmare the overnight;

turned into a hawk, I was hovering in the sky.

I could view the cry of an obese boy

whose mother was beating him to eat more.

A cry of a different note was heard from the next door,

where a bony child was crying out of hunger.

A wedding feast was served in the town hall,

where expensive delicacies heaped on the plates.

I could see two ragged girls outside

struggling with the dogs in the garbage bin.

My wings took me to a public school;

A boy in tears stood on the verandah:

A punishment for not wearing his tie!

In the humid weather of forty degree

a slavish mimic, a legacy of the West.

What’s that long queue I find before that shop?

Like a line of ants before their hole.

God! It’s a liquor shop run by the government!

That leper who begged at my door is also in the line!

A similar queue is found on the other side,

where poor women wait for their  rations.

Then I found a public water tap

that changed the road to a black coloured river.

Elsewhere I noticed a waterless tap

which could draw like a magnet

all the pots of the neighbourhood.

See, what a mansion that double-storeyed edifice!

Luxury rooms with A/C, lawn and swimming pool;

An old man and his wife resided there;

sitting at the phone with sighs and moans,

longed for the calls from their sons abroad.

Not far away were the slums of the city;

three generations lived in each hut;

grandpa, grandma, their sons and their wives,

and their little kids sleep in a room!

The terrible sights filled my eyes with tears;

I could see nothing more;

nor did I wish for it;

The siren sounded at five

and I woke up from the nightmare.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Sheep’s Wail

 

 

Hark, you Man

to my wail,

your enslaved sheep’s.

You are possessed with

some special powers

that we do not have.

With you brain

and with your tongue

you conquered us.

superior you boast,

but inferior you become

to the microbes that kill you.

The fur God gave me,

mercilessly you shear

to make you cosy.

The milk for my lamb

you suck and drain

and grow fat and cruel.

I have seen with my eyes

and heard with my ears

the last cries of my parents.

When they became old

you cut their heads

and ate their flesh.

Man, you are the cruelest,

you are the most ungrateful

of all God’s creations.

Yet you find justification

and bring false philosophies

to make you His choicest.

Some of you believe

that you are the centre

and all other beings for you.

You say God did send His son

to redeem you from your sins

and thus penance for your crimes.

Nothing can be more absurd!

Aren’t we His children?

How can He forgive you?

If a heaven is there

we will reach there first

and pray to God to shut you out.

 

 

Anand’s Lot

 

Anand’s eyes were immersed

on the pupils in tempting uniforms;

compares with his shabby ragged dress.

Longed to be one of them again.

How happy were those days!

Mummy gave me kiss and ta-ta;

like butterflies flew to the school

with Rajesh, Praveen and Smitha

chattering, singing, dancing, running.

Alas! Like a vulture came the car then;

picked me in and dashed away.

A bearded-man with a black towel

hushed my helpless wail for help;

brought into a house and shut in a room.

I was fed with cold dry bread

and slept on the floor dead tired.

The car picked me again in the morning

and brought me to this strange city.

They changed my dress

and dressed me this rags.

They threatened to kill me

if I disobeyed their orders.

I have to sleep in their hut,

eat dry bread which I hate;

always wear this stinky rags.

They scold me and beat me

for not earning much as they dreamed.

How many months have passed now

since I left my mummy, dad and Smitha?

Are they still crying at my loss?

Tears ran like a stream from Anand’s cheeks.

“Bloody dog, why are you standing still?”

The bearded-man slapped on his face.

“Go to the shops and beg or I’ll kill you.”

Crying, Anand stretched his hand

and begged for alms shop after shop

Beauty

 

Why do you murmur lass looking at the mirror?

Ma, why didn’t God create me a little more beautiful?

Who told you dear that you are not beautiful?

Bodily beauty is only one among the beauties;

It fades and decays as a flower does.

Who thinks of a flower when it is decayed?

The sun is beautiful but can you enjoy it at noon?

But it radiates its beauty through the objects of nature.

Eternal beauty is in achievements eternal.

Have a look at the great men of the world:

Gandhi, Lincoln, Shakespeare, Shaw,

Mother Teresa, Navratilova, Venus, Sereena…

Who is more popular, Venus or Aiswarya?

What makes Kalam our dearest President?

Bodily beauty is all subjective and relative;

Some like white, some like black.

No child is ugly to its mother;

Nothing can be ugly, for God created it.

Didn’t you feel the snake’s beauty

when Lawrence sang in praise of it?

Keats has taught you “beauty is truth”

and “a thing of beauty is a joy for ever.”

Only spiritual beauty gives eternal joy.

My dear lass, be like the sun,

brightening this dark world with your inner beauty.

Connubial Bliss

 

 

Proton, electron; positive, negative;

male, female; made for each other.

Pains and pleasures: God’s own gifts.

None can reject them.

Divine sex, divine organs;

instincts divine, divine pleasures;

who can abstain them?

The dancing of the plant;

the smiling of the flower;

the chirping of the bird;

and all merry cries of other beings,

herald Life’s march here.

Celibacy is never superior;

nor married life inferior;

let me repeat Dr. Johnson:

the former has no pleasure;

and the latter full of pains.

Cuckoo Singing

 

 

4.30 a.m.

Cuckoos’ songs echo:

waking call

for dreaming day.

Sweetest song in Nature;

sweeter than any

man-made music;

Orpheus, Beethovan,

none before it.

Ku, ku, khu, khhu, khhoo;

the note goes

up and up and up and up.

What do the sounds mean?

“Wake up mate,

let’s start love” or

“Wake up man and

sweat for your bread”?

Yes, cuckoo lives

singing and loving,

while man lives

sweating and crying.

 

Gayatri’s Solitude

Gayatri aged eighty two,

widowed at thirty five,

mother of five children:

three sons and two daughters;

all in the States.

Old-age home her haven.

The palatial house

her children built

remains empty at town.

Her room in old-age home

modern with AC.

She will get any food;

all left to her choice.

Her children under illusion:

their mother is cozy.

Poor, miserable mother,

she has no hunger,

she has no sleep.

An old lily flower

pale and faded.

Dawn to dusk,

sitting in an armchair,

looking at the far West,

longing for her children’s calls,

she remains in solitude.

How lucky were her parents!

Lived happy, died happy;

always with their children:

sons, daughters,

daughters-in-law,

sons-in-law,

a dozen grand children,

a house full of mirth.

The depth of maternal love,

and the pangs of separation

no child can gauge.

Gods will be Pleased

 

Sacred ornaments

of Krishna

are stolen.

Elsewhere,

the golden rosary

of Our Lady

was missing.

Sleeplessness for the police.

No trace

was found.

The devotees say

the gods are

angry hence.

The gods must be

gold crazy!

How foolishly

people attribute

their weaknesses

to their gods!

The priests in golden robes

dressing gods

in golden clothes

exploit

people’s weaknesses.

Take all ornaments

from temples and churches,

turn them food

and serve

to hungry mouths;

AND GODS

WILL BE PLEASED.

 

Tsunami Camps

 

How dreadful the life in Tsunami camps!

People burnt in man-made hells;

gods crazy seeing their sufferings.

Months have passed

since Tsunami tossed them from their houses.

Nothing left but mind and body;

counting days for their salvation.

Lost their dear ones

and fight against destiny.

Camps built of GI sheet

melt inmates trapped in the cells.

A furnace inside, a furnace outside;

mind and body burn with agony.

Each family has a cell in the camp;

they cook and dine and sleep at night;

grown-ups sleep outside, risking nightly rains.

Government gave kits and boxes;

kits don’t contain essential things;

hearth produces smoke than flames.

None hears their cries and complaints:

“Where have gone the crores

collected for our relief?”

Money is hoarded in the government exchequer,

or diverted for some other purposes.

“It’s better to kill us than torture like this.”

“We don’t have sufficient food,

we don’t have pure water.”

“The filthy atmosphere of the camp

will bring several epidemics.”

“Give us boats and nets,

and we will earn our livelihood.”

“We don’t get any help

either from the Right or from the Left.”

Unending wails and unending sobs;

not even gods listen to their cries.

Harvest Feast

That photograph in the newspaper

flashes to my mind very often;

Those little pupils from Kozhikode,

avidly feasting rice and payasam;

The harvest banquet of their sweated labour.

Nothing can be tastier than this.

Those nimble, soft feet,

which ran after butterflies;

Those little velvety hands

which caressed plants and flowers,

moved through the rough fields;

ploughed the land; sowed the seed;

plucked the weed; reaped the corn;

carried sheaves on their tender heads;

threshed, husked, cooked.

Their teachers taught them the great lessons:

how education can be vocational;

and the beauty and dignity of labour;

a lesson too to the adult world:

the way to solve the food crisis,

and save the world from poverty.

Haves and Have-nots

Haves and Have-nots:

man-made categories;

never in creator’s dream.

Abundant Nature

feeds plants and animals.

Greedy selfish man disrupts

Mother Nature’s feeding;

uproots millions of trees,

exterminates thousands of animals.

His deadly weapons

pose great threat

to life itself.

Man is a wonderful work;

Unimaginable his achievements;

Equally heart-rending his destructions.

Achievements prove beneficial

only to Haves a minority.

When millions die of hunger,

thousands compete for delicacies.

Minority always luxuriates

at the cost of

majorities’ necessities.

Plants and animals never divide

the earth among themselves;

What right has the mortal man

to divide and own this immortal planet?

What justice is there for the minority

to starve the majority to death?

It seems very pitiable

that religions fail to give

solace to the needy majority.

The Have-nots found a haven

in socialism and communism;

no private property;

state-owned wealth;

selfless work for the society.

But power corrupted;

leaders turned tyrants;

the philosophy failed.

Equality to man utopian.

Capitalism rules the day;

have-nots number increases;

their dreams are shattered.

Helen and Her World

 

Helen, her restless eyes

pierce my heart very often;

Those lovely eyes of hers,

searching for a ray of light

from the very first day

she came to this world:

a world without

the sun and the moon;

prick my heart and

it bleeds in the class.

The analogy of the lamp and the pot

I lectured for the Rasa theory;

how the lamp reveals the pot;

sparkled the eyes of others,

while her eyes were still

searching for the lamp and its light.

When she takes down notes,

faster than any typewriter,

ticked, ticked moves her hand

line after line on the Braille;

as I speed to her ticks

others struggle to keep her pace.

She is the brightest in the class;

reads books after books

through her brother’s eyes.

Had her scribe known

spelling of all her words,

she could have won a rank

in her degree examinations.

She is the light of the class,

light of the family,

light of the village,

but alas the light never sees itself.

The way she conquers her darkness

had others learnt from her,

they could rise to any height.

Helen, her challenging life;

her eternal fight with darkness,

should open the eyes of the government,

and give her a job she likes most.

I am just a Mango Tree

 

 

I am just a Mango Tree;

still an accomplished life;

I’ve fulfilled my Creator’s plan.

Standing like a Himalayan umbrella,

I shelter my student-friends

waiting for the buses.

The Sun can’t wither them,

nor Rain wets them.

Their innocent smiles and laughter;

the lovers sighs and sobs,

tickle me or weep me.

When my friend the Wind comes,

I welcome him with myriad hands.

My saviour Sun fosters me;

his rays cook food for me;

I grow and bear fruits for others.

When I blossom, flies kiss me.

My branches are the beds for birds;

cuckoos, crows and mynahs come;

when my fruits are ripe, a feast to them.

Their chirps and songs lull me often;

when night comes they sleep on my lap;

I too sleep standing on my feet.

Nightly breeze and dews caress me;

I drop mellow yellow fruits

to my beggar friend who sleeps below.

My God, how happy I am!

A happiness gained by service alone.

Hark! What’s that boy telling the girl?

“Darling, where shall we wait

when they cut this tree?”

“Dear, why do they cut this tree,

a harbour to hundreds of us?”

“They plan to build a waiting shed here.”

God, what do I hear? Is it true?

‘True, my daughter, I am helpless.’

Can’t they spare me and

build it somewhere else?

Don’t I do them good

as I do to other fellow beings?

Haven’t I feelings and pains

though I bear them mute?

Haven’t I the right to live

as they legally claim here?

God, why is your Man so selfish and cruel?

Why did you create him,

who topples this earth’s balance?

This planet would be a paradise

if you kindly withdraw him.

‘My child, it was a blunder, a Himalayan blunder;

I shouldn’t have created this human species;

But how can a father kill his sons?’

International Women’s Day

(Composed on 8 March 2009)

International Women’s Day;

celebrations all over the world;

meetings held;

programmes chalked out;

promises showered;

fund allotted;

celebrities honoured;

All echoes of previous years.

Problems remain the same!

Birth to death,

sexism omnipresent.

Her very birth ill omen:

only an accident.

No guilt in foeticide;

foeticide is matricide;

no life without mother.

Sexism in childhood;

priority to her brother;

her food, his leftover.

Chained in kitchen,

she rarely goes out.

No toys, no plays;

always envies him.

Mum and dad love him;

she gets only reproaches;

beat her very often.

Seldom educated;

hence no employment,

and always dependant.

No choice of her partner;

her individuality

never honoured.

Born to be dictated;

tyranny everywhere:

slave to her husband,

servant to her in-laws.

Bears the burden of birth;

lives for her children.

Dawn to dusk,

blood turns sweat.

Her love never returned.

Has no place in politics:

councils, assemblies, parliaments,

she has no voice.

Religions also dishonour her:

she has no right

to enter her Father’s abode;

no place in clergy.

She is always the Other.

Patriarchy is his product;

he dictates the world;

dictates even God,

and corrupts the religion.

He writes the scriptures,

makes sexism predestinate.

Venerable is woman,

for she is your mother;

she is you sister;

she is your wife;

she is your guide;

she is your teacher;

she is your nurse;

and above all,

she is your angel.

Lal Salaam to Labourers

 

Lal Salaam to Labourers,

the backbone of the country!

They sow the seed;

reap the corn;

and we eat and sleep.

They spin and weave;

make beautiful clothes;

and we wear and ‘shine.’

They build houses

where they never rest,

and there we live and snore.

They sweat in factories;

produce numberless goods;

and we use and enjoy.

They tar the road;

melt in the furnace;

and we ride and drive.

They clean roads and markets;

are shunned by us very often;

and we make them filthier and filthier.

They envy our lives;

nurse bubbles of dreams;

but reality pricks them of,

and many find haven in tavern.

Lal Salaam to Labourers,

for without them we have no life.

Let us not be stingy

when we pay them wages,

for we can’t do what they do.

Give them more than what is due;

the more we give, the more we get;

a spiritual bliss that never dies.

Laxmi’s Plea

Rekha’s wedding today;

my youngest colleague

junior by ten years.

To be or not to be;

present or absent;

a terrible trance!

Auspicious occasion;

jocund jolly hall;

a fish out of water;

I can’t slither there.

“Laxmi, when is your wedding?”

“Laxmi, you alone remain.”

Can’t bear these arrows;

heart full of such arrows;

bleeding day after day.

It’s none my fault

single at thirty three.

“Laxmi looks very handsome.”

“She is a lamp to any house.”

A lamp destined to burn out

under a hot pot.

Plenty of proposals;

appeared with tea

before many young men.

None complained my looks.

“What’s the dowry?”

A stumbling block to all proposals.

Father died when I was ten;

mother bed-ridden with cancer;

a thatched house in five cents;

an elder sister married off.

My meagre salary two thousand

hardly meets our food and medicine.

I have pricked my bubble of dreams;

let none dream for me.

Leave me alone;

leave me single.

My Teen-Age Hobby

 

 

Angling, my teen-age hobby;

evenings at river bank

with Joseph till early night.

Long waiting for the catch;

fighting with mosquitoes.

Each fish a great thrill;

pulling the fish out of water:

a heavenly experience!

The death struggle

of the innocent fish.

Unreasonable happiness!

Once when I pulled a fish,

flashed a horrible vision:

I am pulled from the sky;

death struggle on the line.

Awestruck and repentant,

I unhooked the fish

and dropped in the water.

No more did I angle;

reading became my hobby

Nature’s Bounties

(Haiku)

The song of cuckoo

Night’s dirge

Day’s trumpet

The birth of morn

Hymns from temples and mosques

Heaven on earth

The sun kisses

The eye opens

Lotus blooms

Fragrance of the rose

Intoxication to the fly

Dancing round the plant

Jasmine’s hand

Touches my neck

Utter dilemma

Mellow yellow papaya

Longing violent kisses

Feasting to crows and mynahs

Lightening and thunder

God’s fire works

Man fears!

Summer showers

Roof of GI sheet

Divine fingers on drums

Parched fields

Rain in summer

Honey to the lips

Refreshing downpour

Child’s temptation

Drenched dancing

Road filled with rainwater

Child on bicycle

Splashing in ecstasy

Snow-capped mountain

Multi-coloured sky

God with the brush

Road filled with rainwater

Child on bicycle

Splashing in ecstasy

Snow-capped mountain

Multi-coloured sky

God with the brush

Old Age

 

 

Human life is a cycle:

born to the earth

with a shrieking cry;

life’s first breath.

Bed-ridden first year,

dependent childhood,

independent youth;

gives birth to children;

health wanes;

dependent old age;

body week;

but mind strong;

bed-ridden at last;

goes back to the earth

with a painful breath.

Childhood is memorable;

full of energy;

happiness dominates;

one with Nature;

an angel on earth;

darling to all.

Old age is terrible;

dependence unbearable.

The monarch of yesterday,

humiliated today

as a chained prisoner;

doomed to obey;

weak to resist;

unyielding mind.

The dearest children,

for whom life spent,

show ingratitude.

They hate her/him,

curse her/him,

never care for her/him.

Ageism is contemptible;

unpardonable too.

Today’s torturer

tomorrow’s victim;

irony of human life.

Onam

 

Onam, a national festival;

Keralites celebrate

every part of the world.

Ten days celebrations

starting with Atham:

a harvest festival.

Feasting with new rice

after three months of

continuous monsoon.

Clear sky and bright sunlight;

fragrance and colours

of flowers everywhere.

Early mornings

children run for flowers,

make pookalams

at the front yards.

Pookalams with

myriads of flowers

in circular pattern:

a fantastic sight!

People in new dress;

gay and spirited;

eating vegetarian food;

engage in Onam songs,

Onam plays and Onam dances.

Different types of competitions:

sports, games and arts;

a familiar sight.

Boat races with

dozens of rowers

in bright uniforms,

rowing in perfect rhythm,

singing boat songs,

a rare beauty in the world.

Onam has a legend:

a remembrance of

the golden rule of Maveli

an icon of the just king.

Equality prevailed in society;

no lies, no crimes, no deceits;

no poverty, no child death.

All were happy;

heaven on earth.

Envious of Maveli

Vishnu in disguise

stamped on his head

and sent to the underworld.

But granted him a boon

to visit his people

once in a year.

Maveli visits on Onam;

his people please him,

appearing gay and content.

Keralites: People of Kerala, the southern state of India. Known as God’s own land it has pleasant, equable climate and high density of population. Full of natural beauties it is dear to the foreign tourists.

Pookalams: Flower designs

 

Vishnu: One of the trinities of Hindu religion.

 

 

Rahul’s World

 

“Rahul, get out,”

teacher roared,

class shuddered.

Rahul wept,

stood outside.

Couldn’t study

yesterday’s portion.

Whose fault?

Drunken father

beat mother,

beat Rahul;

kicked away supper,

none could sleep.

Cruel father,

Cruel teacher,

Cruel world,

Poor Rahul

longs for love.

 

 

Sleepless Nights

The Cuckoo through his divine flute

used to wake me up at every dawn;

but lately having little sleep,

I lie restless for hours and hours,

longing vainly to wake him up.

The Cuckoo lies on his God-given bed;

the gentle breeze always caresses him;

the nocturnal music lulls him throughout,

and he sleeps having no worries.

I lie in my concrete house,

fighting against the man-made heat,

and the dreary sound of the hot-wave fan.

The late and heavy supper in stomach,

and all such unnatural ways of life

take away that God’s own gift.

Ah, the Cuckoo finally calls me out;

let me get up, get out of my cell,

and have a bath in the pool of morning beauty.

Vrinda

 

Vrinda, twelve or thirteen

on the TV yesterday.

angelic her appearance,

dancing like a peacock

to Hindi film tunes.

Ha! Dancing just on one leg.

The other leg?

Folded under skirt?

Eyes searched for it.

God, only one leg!

Skipping like kangaroo.

Pricked my heart;

started aching.

Why destiny so cruel?

She illumines this world;

entertains millions.

Who can console her?

Who will please her?

Her life only begun;

has suffered much.

Thousands of miles ahead

to tread with lone leg.

She turned her handicap

to strength and success.

Teaches the world

the value of organs.

What a Birth!

 

Just returned

from the furnace

after the tarring work.

Burning body

longing cooling haven

but a frozen house.

A thatched hut

cardboard walls

boltless door.

Bed-ridden mother

hungry mouth

beckoning me.

Daughter from school

empty stomach

longing for food.

Rice in the pot

lunch for ma and daughter

stray dogs feasted.

Drunkard husband

will come at night

to resume beats and kicks.

Dawn for doom

Dusk to damn

What a birth!

 

 

Work is Worship

 

My parish priest advised me once:

“Sir, I rarely meet you at Sunday Services.”

“Right, Father, I have little time to waste;

IGNOU students wait for my classes,

for they are free only on Sundays,

and for me work is worship.”

(“You are right, my son,”

whispered God to my ears,

“I’ve never asked my children

to waste a day flattering me.”)

“Waste? Prayer is waste?

And work on Sabbath days?”

“Father, when God is with me

why should I seek him else where?”

Aham Brahmasmi.”

“But collective prayer is

stronger than a single voice.”

“Prayer? If prayer is communication with God,

don’t we need some silence?

How can I talk to Him,

when hundreds roar stale words?”

(“You are right again, son,”

whispered God to my ears,

“I am shuddered by their cries,

which never come from their minds.

My dear son, live in Karma,

love all creations,

for I am in everything.”)

 

Human Brain

 

Human brain;

the centre of

pleasures and pains;

that which makes man

distinct from other beings;

a boon or bane?

Birds of the sky;

all beings of the land;

fishes in water;

past never haunts,

nor their future.

No worries;

no dreams;

content always.

If heaven is happiness,

and happiness heaven,

they are in

and we are out.

Indian Democracy

 

Indian democracy:

the largest on the planet;

a wonder to the world.

Parliament elections:

several billions business;

stage of heinous means.

Secularism butchered;

caste and religion

raise their hood;

regionalism and parochialism

devour

nationalism and patriotism.

National parties play

trump cards with communalism;

bow their heads before priests.

The real issues of the country

never discussed among people.

Election campaigns:

fire works of lies and abuses.

Terrorists try to sabotage,

killing civilians, police, soldiers.

Thus democracy reigns

drinking tears of thousands!

Criminal MPs,

brought from jails

to prove majority on floor;

horse-trade of billions!

Corruptive governments,

draining the blood of people.

Gratitude to the voters!

Gullible people,

they vote them again and again;

no other options.

Still democracy shall prevail

or tyranny will

sit on the Chair.

Ammini’s Lament

 

How to expiate

the merciless sin

committed to my cat?

Ammini’s heart-broken wails,

her unnatural reverberating cry,

shooting like arrows

through my heart,

and then to my wife.

Ammini can’t forget

even after ten days

the loss of her darlings.

Day in and day out

she wanders on all sides

seeking the twins of her triplet.

When troubles increased,

in a weak moment

I had to sell them.

Ammini’s incessant cry,

like Gandhari’s wails,

echoes my premises.

The pangs of my heart,

a laughingstock to my guests;

Inhumane to animals,

they do believe,

all creations are for men,

since they are born

in God’s own image.

Ammini’s changed a lot;

no greed for food;

no frolic with her son.

How long will she go on wailing?

Will she curse me as Gandhari did?

Destined like the ‘Ancient Mariner’

I’m desperate for the purging amends.

Ammini’s Demise

 

My Ammini cat’s demise

steals my sleep.

Day in day out,

her snow white figure,

her emerald eyes,

black bushy tail,

her gentle demeanour,

her sleep on my lap,

throng my heart,

and hangs me down.

Let me add to Keats’:

A thing of beauty

is a joy for ever;

and its loss

is sorrow for ever.

Poisoned to death

Ammini’s struggle

for breath and water;

our effort in vain

to keep her alive;

and her final adieu

without even a sound;

wife’s moans and wails,

haunt me and

my mind bleeds,

pricked by thorns around.

God, why did you

call her back?

Lived only one year;

gave only happiness.

She was a friend

to my lonely mother;

gave solace to her

when gasping for breath.

How could that fiend

poison this angel?

What harm had it

done to him?

When he was sleeping sound

my darling was

struggling for breath.

Thousands of fiends

inhabit this planet,

turning the earth

to a big slaughter house,

as if man alone has

 the right to live here.

God, make them humane

and turn them angels.

Om

Om, the birth-cry of this world;

the very first sound echoing everywhere;

the rhythm of all creations;

from atoms to stars

Om goes on ringing.

Combination of three letters,

representing Vishnu, Shiva, Brahma,

and meaning Brahman.

Father of all mantras;

past and future live in this sound.

Once monopoly of the high caste;

low-caste people were denied

it’s listening and muttering;

destined to recite ‘On.’

Worm-like man challenges the Creator;

Om, the holiest mantra of mantras;

key to all problems of the world;

Om is our breath;

a tonic to mind and body.

It’s a celestial music

showering manna on the earth;

it gives us peace and happiness;

Om shanty, Om shanty, Om shanty.

 

 

 

 

Solar Eclipse

The moon tried hard

to hide the sun;

but the radiant brilliance

spilled over the moon.

Humiliated and frightened

she slid from his presence.

The sun of knowledge

can never be concealed

by the moon of ignorance.

Moons of the world here

seduce suns of virtue.

Corrupt governments devour

suns of innocence.

Fair is foul here

and foul is fair.

Pleasures and Pains

 

Pleasures and pains:

two sides of a coin.

We toss it early morning;

majority gets the pains side.

Pleasures come like sprinkle,

while pains fall like deluge

and continue like monsoon.

Happiness is a mist

while sorrows shower like snow.

In the Name of God

 

Criminal actions done

in the name of God

outnumber

philanthropic services done

in the name of God.

Millions were killed in crusades

in the name of God.

Tens of millions died in World Wars

in the name of God.

Clergies thrive and dictate

in the name of God.

Laymen frightened surrender

in the name of God.

Religions rival each other

in the name of God.

Democracy is devalued

in the name of God.

Nepotism is supported

in the name of God.

Superstitions survive

in the name of God.

Communalism poisons

in the name of God.

Communism is strangled

in the name of God.

Terrorists butcher thousands

in the name of God.

Teens become terrorists

in the name of God.

Sexism prevails

in the name of God.

Higher castes exploit

in the name of God.

Secularism is nullified

in the name of God.

Corruptions are promoted

in the name of God.

God is dethroned

in the name of God.

And human gods are crowned

in the name of God.

City versus Village

 

“Dear, it seems some neighbour is dead.”

“Yea, the dirge is from a close house.

Just go and seek,” my wife said.

The mournful song

came from a rented house.

Though near by a hundred metres,

we’ve never went there,

nor they visited our house.

The head of the house lay dead

in a flower covered freezer.

While alive might have dreamed

of an AC bed room.

Alas, he got it with high interest;

his body shrunken to the bones.

Isn’t this an insult to a dead body?

I pretend to grieve with

the bereaved family,

though none is known to me.

How hard-hearted become

the city dwellers!

Busy, selfish, unsociable.

Each one lives

in his own island.

A crow in the city is

friendly to other crows.

A dog on the street is

friendly to other dogs.

How innocent is

the life in the village!

Thousands live as

brothers and sisters.

The gullible people are

fooled, ignored, cheated

and looted by the city men.

Cry of My Child

 

God, can’t bear that

heart-rending cry,

piercing like an arrow

through my heart.

She is hungry

and needs feeding;

breasts are swelling with milk.

How will I complete the exam?

Two more hours left;

easy questions;

know all answers;

but can’t concentrate;

the pen isn’t moving.

Graduate and unemployed;

took my BA five years back;

applied for many jobs;

wrote tests after tests.

Husband daily labourer;

sole earner of the family;

has to feed seven members;

his aged parents

and his younger sisters.

Oh, my child is still crying;

sister-in-law finds helpless.

Shall I quit and feed my child?

God, don’t you hear my cry?

Kaumudi Teacher is no More

Kaumudi Teacher is no more with us;

that light has gone out on fourth August.

The beacon which guided many women

was destroyed by the wave of Time.

A lone fighter, a role model;

A single woman to fulfill her mission.

Driven by her father’s vision,

joined Congress in her teen age.

Gandhi’s charisma drew her like a magnet;

attended Gandhi’s address at Vadakara;

A meeting to raise fund for Harijan.

Exhorted men and women to be generous;

women might donate their ornaments.

Kaumudi, only sixteen, mounted the stage;

gave her golden bangles first;

then gave the chain on her neck;

and finally the jewel studs.

Gandhi, moved and pleased,

supressed his wonder.

Asked if she sought her parents’ consent.

Her father present, approved her sacrifice.

Kaumudi pledged to wear no ornament;

she led a simple humble life;

taught Hindi in the schools at Malabar;

closely followed Gandhi’s feet;

spread the national language

till her death at ninety two.

Kaumudi’s dazzle without any ornament

dims all womens’ jewels and ornaments.

Let’s bow our head to the rarest gem.

Vadakara, Malabar are places in the State of Kerala in India.

 

How I Became a Vegetarian

My mind used to taunt me:

“Hey Mister, incongruous

are your words and actions;

what do you write and teach?

The relation between

Man and Nature and God;

human beings and other beings,

all children of God;

Man has no right

to torture any other being.

Hey Mister, have you no shame

to eat the flesh of

innocent animals and fish?”

Born a Christian,

lived a non-veg life;

believed the teachings

that man is the centre of universe;

God made other beings

for his food and assistance.

Millions live in illusions.

Gandhi is my role model;

my eyes are opened at last

and I have become

a pure vegetarian.

Michael Jackson, King of Kings

 

Michael Jackson,

thou art gone;

beckoned back

to feast His senses.

Angels sing and dance

to your lightening steps.

You were the king of kings,

both of music and dance.

Reigned the world

for several decades;

risked your body,

and challenged the White.

Could win millions’ hearts,

both White and Black;

sacrificed your health

for the fulfilment of art.

Irreplaceable is the loss

which none will fill.

The chasm grows

in width and depth;

many who try to

fill your gap

will lose their lives

drowned in the deep.

 

 

 

 

The Editor

Indian Journal of Postcolonial Literatures

(IJPCL) ISSN 0974 – 7370

Newman College,

Thodupuzha East P. O.

Idukki Dist., Kerala – 685585

Email: kdominicnewman@gmail.com

Mob: 9947949159

21 August 2009

 

 

 

Sri. Pronob Kumar Majumdar

Editor, Bridge-in-Making

P-233, Block-B

Lake Town

Kolkata

Pin: 700 089

 

Dear and esteemed Sir,

 

          I am sending my poetry collection for your invaluable ‘Forward.’ The book will be published by Authors Press.

 

Thanking you,

Love,

 

K. V. Dominic