If there is no ink in the pen… Don’t worry, my love. I’ll dip my fingers in the blood of my soul, To write a poem for you!!!
HOT GUN
Flame of death
Till the tip
Of the butt
Burns
To the fag end,
Ending altogether
Into ashes
Leaving behind
The filter,
Tipped with
Stained sponge.
Five minutes
In your life’s total
Vanishes
And evaporates,
With the wind
Erupting lava
Of ringed smokes,
From your mouth’s crater
And the face looks
An ugly volcano,
When sucked in
From the death pipe.
Juxtaposed
With the heat of
Passion and fashion,
And to the effects
It eats away
Your lungs’ pancreas,
The air sacs and alveoli
Dusting down
The rudiments of
Nicotine,
Cankering your nucleus
To cancer
Storing behind
Tonnes of
Pus and tumour,
Symptoms persist
And you go unswallowed
Swaying and swinging
To the death bed.
For months
With capsules and
A syringe plugged
Into the intra veins,
With liquid chemicals
And finally
Garnished with surgeries,
An attempt
To de-root the cankered tumour
And scrape out
The stuffed and stuck pus
From the lungs,
Bronchi
And from where not?
Nothing helps
Let us pray
Says the doctor,
And people around
Watch you with sympathy
Mixed with contempt.
Your foes
Inwardly laugh
And take a break
To have a fag.
From the death cot
You look at them,
And pull up a smile
Bitterly crying inside
Feigning you can live.
But what next?
Your suicide attempt
Comes to a pompous end,
Stepping upon the
Victory stand,
Declaring your
Ultimate journey without ease.
You lie in the grave
Yet unrelieved
From cosmic pressure
And people’s pleasure.
All you left behind
Was polluted air
And polluted fame,
Just because of
The fifteen milli-metered
Hot gun.
Ode to Poppy Tears
Like a petty star laying over the Neptune
The flower flowering upon you, my everybody’s moon
Dews on your cheeks is the milk of Heaven
I drunk deep the dews over-driven
Drugstore of your leafy wet lips’ each kiss cured my pain
And never let me and my torpid mind loiter in vain
Your love-making through my nerves elevated me in ecstasy
And serenely spelled my psyche rest in fantasy
You stole the muse I had once
And placed yourself over there since
The seeds that sowed on the lawn of my brain
Never be reaped without reasonable rain
Is there any poet has ever become great without your consent?
What a mighty lurky demon, in truth, do you represent?
Is it you the la belle dame sans merci, My Keats warned
And dragged himself into the misery state of mind after everything earned?
No complaint, We traveled tour over Xanadu in merry
But why fortook My dear Coleridge to Hades at last in hurry
I loved floating around the million stars by your company
But now, no longer, wish to live in devil’s harmony
Leave me for I readily sacrifice even my treasure of fame
As I do not want anymore to be tame

WHY NOW???

I did hear bursting of crackers when the clock struck 12.00 a.m. today. No funeral ceremony nor religious festival at the least. A group of young men in the neighborhood, were celebrating their jubilation. Their much awaited victory. The unlocking ceremony. Yes, the government has lifted the ban on the sale of liquor in TASMAC retails. When only a few hours is left for the pompous mob to rush towards their favorite wine shop to buy their favorite brands of liquor and as common men, responsible citizens of this privileged nation, some of us are left with bewilderment of what is happening around. The formidable government and the intimidating situation needs serious questioning. The very first question will be a simple why? Is it for revenue? Or reversal of economic stability? If the answer is yes, then it’s an evident lie. When thousands of crores were written off as bad loans, a mere 350 crores never sounds a lump sump amount of dire emergency. By and large, a huge amount of money was donated from every sector, from public to private, from one day salaries to deferred six days salary. From the savings of common man to the savings of tax scooped money. From our children’s piggy bank and from the sleeves of the beggars. All those money were responsibilities that we took in charge to unburden the government, only to save and tune the country’s wealth to protect a generation from its extinct.



What did not we see in these forty days of pandemonium. We witnessed brutal attacks on the common man by your law enforcement. We saw vegetables in garbages. We did see communalised cornering. We saw poor labourers, tramping thousand miles with no food nor water. Yet we stood with your stupid policies, only with the hope that human and humanity still be preserved and that which can happen only if this generation survives. We stood with you for our survival and your survival. And to a large extent, humanity was persisting unlike the other periods. We saw people extending helping hands to the poor, while your hands were clapping and lighting lamps. We took care of each other, when your pittance of thousand rupees was not sufficient to feed our children. We ignored every amusement, we did not protest, we kept to ourselves, all that we wanted to do. We invented virtual platforms, and we did everything virtual in reality.
Many a things changed in our lives. Our lives itself changed. We took to the most significant aspect of keeping ourselves home, and gave ourselves to our families, when many a times we were not able to, just because to pay your imposed loathsome taxes. Most importantly we quit many of our habits. We were about to appreciate you for the utmost care offered in helping our husbands quit this evil habit of drinking and instead kiss and play with our children. We were ready to appreciate your gesture of helping our mothers in feeling happy for their sons, who stopped drinking and started doing household chores. We were about to thank you on behalf of our women, who finally were able to attain peaceful sleep at nights. We were about to show our respect to you for curbing domestic violence and innumerable murders, whose prime cause was liquor consumption. We were about to cherish this golden quarantine. But no, we will remain the old vice.
Our sons, fathers and brothers will qeue up before the sunrise in front of TASMAC wine shops today and they are about to lockhorns with many a things, including the virus. When we all ran the race together, and when the victory line is clearly visible and still with thumping heart and clear focus and conscience, when the youth and middle aged men of this nation were about to understand to shoulder the responsibility of stabilising this great nation, you gave them a baton to run backwards, a reversal race, whose track they cannot see from the front. And by running backward, there is going to be much chaos than a victory line. In fact it is no victory line, but a line from were everything started. Some of them may even cross the starting line, but they may go even behind the line, taking us back and into the dark. Now we hear the wailing wives, sobbing mothers and frightened children, looking at a demon in a husband, son and a father. We will witness deaths. A bigger pandemonium out in the streets and inside the once peaceful homes.
You did not give an answer for the simple why? We know it is just by filling the pockets of those pilfering politicians, the restless Al Capones of India have started the game of breaking the chain. Yes we do know, that it is to break the recent habit of not drinking. Breaking the chain of all those goodness culminating in us. You don’t want us good. Our goodness doesn’t hold your distilleries. Your pockets won’t be filled, unless our livers burn. You can’t sleep on your spring mattresses, unless we lie topsy turvy in the gutters. Your children shall not have sophisticated education abroad, unless our children are forced to work in match industries. You shall not become leaders, unless we become alcoholics. You brew your luxury liquor fermenting our sweat, blood and morale. When we don’t drink, you cannot survive. If we drink, only you survive. We won’t ask you why you let us die ? We simply ask WHY NOW???

CUT OPEN A PAPAYA

CUT OPEN A PAPAYA
Cut, open a papaya.
The seeds are you in my brain
Each is you and every neuron.
The black seeds are black board
Your name is written
Class room door left open
In every emergence of your evocation
Comes cool breeze
The letters freeze
I overwrite again and again —
Dwindling as a chalk pen
The cool breeze moisten
The letters,
Causing me trouble:
It became unrubbable
My tears not enough
To make the duster wet
It’s a threat! It’s a threat!
My system alarms:
Malware found!
It’s too late. So strong is bond.
It says
“Disk format
Or keep it corrupt”
It’s like
“You want your memory
Or amnesia?” Misery!
Tranquilized thought…
A tranquilized thought
At the foliage of a tree
A casuarina in fact
With a carcoon in its bough.
I dilly – dally often
In the heart of the woods.
Wild black woods
Swampy with red pine leaves
Fully shed and
Obscure in foggy dews.
This tranquilized thought
Pre-ponders over the conscience
And I feel scared and scary
With a lubbard friend
Grasping each noise for hell.
I move lief
Like a dottard
Stepping each step
Hoping to slip and fall
Holding the breath for posterity.
A black boar
Crosses the parallel lined pines
Flashing its sharp tongue
As if to eat the whole nature.
It limps and runs
Only frightened but frightening.
I turn to see
And my friend is lost.
He goes through the meadows
While I still tramp
Over the swampy thorn bushes.
Trying to leap a steep
I broke my limbs
Finally to crawl with hands;
Still I whistled that old song
With painful moans as a backdrop.
The hill top is seen clearly
And I need to crawl some miles.
Well I still hummed with pain
And looked back
To find him going home
That friend of mine.
I fell to sleep
But that tranquilized thought
Pushed my weakened limbs
To crawl for glory.
BUFFET TO STARVING


BUFFET TO STARVING
I wrote like eating buffet out of passion
I sipped the soup out of your mouth.
To set the mood, get appetized.
Starters, lovely: I pick one by one, all veg:
The meat balls, the chick’s leg and thigh,
The unbarbequed steak of flesh with a button
And finally the whole undulating mermaid of a fish.
Unlike starters, the main course available here,
To the contrary, is just two in which I chose one.
For the Blazing blazons of starters
And panegyry of main course
You were the reason ofcourse.
Slowly I rejoice every morsel
Filling, burping, filling, burping
Water, now and then to lube.
I eat for body and eat for soul.
Nutrition to body, satisfaction to soul.
I eat body and I eat soul.
Your literal body and your unmatchably tasty soul.
The food, I am the food to you for
My starvation quenches your hunger.
The food, you are the food to me
To keep the libido running for pages.
Does even the immortal ink drains to crack?
Cause I’m deserted before the desserts
And no more buffet here after!
I wrote buffet out of passion.
Now out of hunger, Out of passion.
Between you and me

The Cut of Cord

He, the admirer of my imperfections!
Never ever my days are bloomed without him_
And, his every night has never missed my lyrical lullabies
Ever to give its ears to hear.
My imperfections helped me
To shape him out with perfections.
I did, I did it! yes! passionately I shouted inwardly.
Years passed.
Now,
The umbilical cord has been severed!
He introduced me into his family,
‘His’, yes, he cheerfully welcomed ,”Here, My family Mom”.
I got understood well that My Son has become a Man.
My world is ‘He’,
But, in His world ‘I am NIL’.
Spending life in orphanage,
By thinking of the past and with
The bliss in imaging how He would be, now,
just grown or full-grown man?
during this 15 years of separation.
The pain of separation is tormenting me,
Taking me near the end.
I still firmly believe in that he would arrive
Ensuing my death to do the essential rites.
At last!
The charioteer of dreams, Time has brought my son
In front of me for one last-time.
Bed-Ridden me:
Difficult to breathe,
Trying to utter a word_
With my Son, the Sun of my life.
I reminisce, by stuffing my pupil with his presence,
Those special 10 months for every mother-to-be.
He dwelt in my womb where
He was stayed for 10 months. And, did
Some mischievous movements and unforgettable kicks.
Rare kind of jubilation I felt from
Whatever He had offered when He was inside me.
The best Of me offered,
Beyond the best is,
He to me.
The coward heart has no guts to beat anymore,
To see the tears in his eyes
even with my blurring eyes.
O!! How can I bear that the reason for his pain is me?
He is the treasure who came from me,
How can I let him feel the pain?
Heart of mine has been torn before it gets halted
by seeing his tears.
The muted ears boosted up with
The lullaby he has sung for me,
To have an interminable Sleep.
It is the one, His favourite,
It is the one, I used to sing,
Till when he was around five.
Sensing gratefulness to have
Him as My Son,
My eyelashes are gradually hugging together.
His voice is a pain killer to me,
My Grief-filled heart cannot tolerate,
The sin of being the cause of His painful tears.
So, nothing more to do,
As a retribution, I myself hold my breathe.
Blessed to be His mother…
The few seconds before
When all getting black in vision,
He is the last image fallen into my eyes.
Feel the Peace after the successful penalty,
Death greets me and avow:
The buried Love of your son
is what spouting as tears by him for you.
Death trumpets:
“Mother is pawning her whole life
To Death to raise her offsprings;
and, as well,
Every Father has sold his soul out
To God to fulfil his offsprings’ requisites”.
- Aswini Sivadasan
Song on a voyage


When all the lands on the earth is asleep,
As they were given sedative to sleep,
An Ameture crew of paddlers, often fought
With their restless ocean of thoughts,
From the city where kaveri spilts into two,
Among them a commanding sailor too,
They gallantly approach the endless ocean
To tame its unruly tides in motion.
Flag of fame is, seen far, fluttering in slow- motion.
Million thoughts flash on their mind’s screen
Those are fresh and green.
As they embark in a boat for undestinied land,
“Who knows untill their breath stops they may sail without an isle to land”
The fearless comander faces all the faces
Before him, to trace if there is any fear’s trace on their faces,
Admiral-like comander can observe the firmness on them
So he firmly believes.
His eyes comand them to get on to the board
And take the paddles:
More familiar, more grippy as their own paddles.
As the sailor places his right leg on the bow,
The boat moves and the marking on the hands of the paddles read: Kilk.













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