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Our village home




Our home was soft corners, diaphanous shadows,
A ghost-home tamarind tree of dark midnights
That used to shed many tiny leaves and bird-twigs,
A well deep in darkness and shrieking night crickets,
A wet coconut rope slithering on its stone rim.

The water shivered on its perked up surface
At the dark touch of the dimpled metal pail.
The pail got pulled up quickly spilling water
To the banana which squealed with green joy.
The thorny fence wound its way in the moonlight
Quietly disappearing in the hillock without trace.

Unspent spring


In the lagoon birds sit in threes,
In black and white complacency,
On sticks as though they were there
By somebody’s design, not surely
Of the government tourism bosses.
These are the golden ships with masts
Floating about in unspent spring
Which is my wealth for this season.
An ebony body is etched against
The amorphous green of coconuts
The moist green that spills all over
My camera lens and luminous monitor.
It is the body that is ridding the lagoon
Of the water hyacinths on the boat
For stomach and more stomachs.
A little white girl crawls all over the grass
Behind the sinuous coconut tree
Chasing the white-leaping rabbit
As though she came out of storybook.
In the evening a flute plays high notes
On the sun-gold of the boat’s head
And a tabla in a red shirt shakes head
In perfect musical agreement and nod.

Photographing the cranes in the lake

On a summer afternoon


A white-striped bushy-tailed
Squeaking noisy nut-gatherer
Runs up the rain-ravaged bark.
A ghost-faced tamarind shrieks
In terrifying tartaric eeriness
In the mangled remains of the sky.

Weird thoughts come crawling over
The rockscape like shadows of clouds
Sauntering in the parched plains .
Low-slung acacias spread canopies
Hiding umpteen urban decadent follies.
Deathless plastic bags come flying
In dusty heat declining to degrade
Or to depart, just embellishing bushes.
Desultory thoughts swarm the mind,
Presaging monochromatic experiences.

Soul change


In the river there was utter confusion
The boulders were not all that sure
And the hot brown sand felt disoriented
They saw the Sunday bazaar on the banks
The images were there, those shadows
That played in the walls of the dug holes
Filled with darkness where sand was
That removes fear of darkness elsewhere.


The shallow waters dealt with the bridge
On which people went up and down.
The grass swayed gently on the bed
When the wind called in the noon.
Everything was the same, even the buffalos
And their eyes were vacant as always.

The still water was green and cool
Only the machines no longer whirred
And their men no more shouted in the wind.
The boulders wondered, everything the same,
Why only the water felt different this time.

A train journey through Kerala

A sea of coconuts smothered, sultrily,
The most unwilling moss-painted houses
The banyan raised its feet high enough
For hundreds of creepy monsoon-creatures
The journey then began in white rain
Waiting for streaks of silver sunshine
To crawl through upright areca nut barks
As the telephone wires went up and down
A floating bird quickly froze in the sky
First the coconut fronds ran to the hills
Then the chilly plants go red in the face.

Hail

Now the rains are here ,balls of snow
We catch them in our palms ready
Only they are slipping through the spaces
We cannot hold our fingers together
And our white- clouded glory fizzles soon.

Afraid


The rain beat the lake, in rising shrapnel
A girl hid there under the rain shelter
In the eye –shadows of the afraid lover
He that was afraid of the lens’ blinding light.

Thinking poems

Thinking poems are autumn-falling
In criss-cross patches of golden sun,
Actually these are pallid ghosts
Pulled out of unlit eastern skies.

The breeze


A certain breeze
Blew in my being
I looked at the banyan
Its shadows played
With yesterday’s leaves
Words were leaves
My shadows played with.