Condemned bondage

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Liberation

August wind is always busy,

howling at window panes

banging the doors and

bellowing over the roofs

of docile and dreamy Velato

checking the progress of the

ox-driven oil mill,

owned by the native doctor

wider mouthed  smile of  cunning.

         He makes a living by hiring

         the mill and selling cures,

         and delighted in delving

         the mysteries of life with

         the neighboring barber,

         in gloomy afternoons, when

         they both miss customers.

They bother often too much over

the liberation of soul;

stealing a little liberty from the chat,

the barber would dare to

suggest on unyoking the tiresome oxen

for their drag went longer.

      The doctor pretending deaf

      pinpoints him the significance of

      missing liberation of soul 

      leads to condemned bondage;

      as a pinch of snuff entering his nostrils 

      brightening his eyes and mood

      until a customer calls on the barber.

He would wait for the barber’s

return, wondering

how busy the August wind

blows over Velato

and how tenacious the bulls are!

 Vaiyavan

Last chance of living and dying

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

A bandicoot, a  father and a son

Finally they captured

the bandicoot which dug

innumerable secret passages

under their neat  tidy home.

          The struggle became tiresome

          for both the  party;

          hunters and the hunted;

          it’s not so merrier to hunt

          and too vigilant to escape.

Later, they were shocked;

the father and  the  son

to learn ; it’s not a capture

but a sheer surrender.

          The bandicoot grew weary at last,

          opting for a come out from the vigil,

          fell kicking its hind legs,

          in the labor of dying.

Son went for a stick,

To  quicken the process.

Father forbade telling “let it

relish the last moment of living”

"Isn't it dying?"

"No, trying a last chance of living.."

         The concern was so puzzling.

         Son looked at father's face,

         reading out the silent meaning

         he left it out , understandingly

 Vaiyavan

Promised light reaching nearer

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Do tunnels have a dialogue with  eternity?

Eternity prone to fix

extra fittings into

the entrance and

exit of every tunnel.

It resembles

a reminder of

how we come and

how we go.

Tunnel signals for more cravings;

at the entrance and heaves up

dejections at the exit

allowing petty concessions.

You can hug, caress

offer and share

as many flighty kisses

as the distance and

your companion yields to.

Yet it's hard to avoid

 the despair generated

 by the roar of the locomotive

and  rhythm of the wheels

May be the hoot of the

driver’s whistle foretells,

of promised light

reaching nearer.

   

A tunnel wriggles through

the  hose named hope,

having double holes

and double ends.

A tunnel does actually

connect and disconnect

us with a meaning,

nearer something

to nothing.

Vaiyavan

Names loss meaning

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

The nameless Avenue

The brand new spokes of

your bicycle start singing,

as you pedal along

with silence, entering

the avenue of  no name.

Names loss meaning

when they wheel around

the memory lane as

charm alone lifts up

the entire faculty of teaching and learning

A short while ago,

nostalgia pulled its

brake legs  hard

almost to a standstill;

reflecting on how you

learnt your cycling;

how you taught her

who drives an airplane now

exchanging learning and teaching

from the nameless avenue of love

on early mornings

and late evenings 

Are you attentive now

to a brief shower,

fanning cool thrills as

a mellow wind found

basking in the

golden light of  sun

combined strangely?

No, you’re absent totally

to everything around you.

as memories glorify

even any gloom or bloom

still life remains a celebration

of any stamping it has,

start pedaling your way

on the nameless avenue.

Vaiyavan

To bear the Cross of Sins

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Wisdom visited by north east monsoon 

 So many volumes of

October rain pours

over those barren hills,

in sequence after sequence.

media exaggerates the tales of

submerged streets,

water locked houses, 

water shredded down somewhere.

        Yet all the distant thunders

         unsheathed lightning

         decried Velato’s appeals

         for  few more showers       

How many mouths cry for water,

And how heart breaking

it finds many other  directions

commanding to  bear the cross of sins

           Repetition is the crux

           of the real matter ;

           it’s sickening to accept it

           facing my own people.

        

After all it's wisdom

visited by the north-east

monsoon’s confirm,

Gulp it down Countrymen!

Vaiyavan

A lock of lost keys

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Reflections of a recent bride- hood

It’s a mirror of rare registry;

the lake brimming;

a lantern’s wick flame dance reflecting from

the hand of a recent bride,

dancing down below

the furling sheets,

wipes off a

a little corner

of darkness in water.

     She homes her buffaloes

     back from the freedom

     of the mountain

     and adjoining woods

It’s a little late;

just enough to

boost the impatience

of her woodcutter.

      A smile succulent

      reviewed by her

      own profile’s reflection,

      how she has been

       trapped!

Lost something

to attain something,

to respond, to revolt

to yield, to possess, 

how many new cares!.

      By wedlock , a lock

      of  lost keys

      chased on forever

       not alone in Velato.

Her anklets jingle

as her paces

grow faster,

driving echoes,

on the route

to silence.

Vaiyavan

To accompany monotony

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Joy

Let the mowing cattle

mow in the jungle of desolation,

leaving the bamboo coup

to rustle a complaint

over grim seasons while

emptiness masons the vacant river

The summer’s temper

pursues, beckons and

woos the sojourning bird

to make a cajoling call

for joy is always gingerly!

Look, how the Velato  cowherd

tackles boredom 

and the bird’s innocence

replies him

joy blooms up

his face beaming

         in choosing a partner

         to accompany monotony

         Some times joy

         behaves gingerly

        Vaiyavan

Fulfilled missions

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Little Missions

On an ever washing

seashore where

layers of time

accede and recede,

       a tiny violet shell,

       traces of two tender feet,

       an abandoned jasmine

       found designed together;

       as visible marks

       of the passage of time

 what if they’re little

and go washed away?

They had their

little missions

Fulfilled

Vaiyavan

Gained wisdom

                        (From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Gains

A parade of umbrellas

Passes my window view

Sometime back

thunders rehearsed

a terrible slaughter,

found flashing with

crucial wrath;

predicting a total ruin

of this poor kiddy earth.

  

Now the distant tree

trickles down

some vain hopes;

gutters began to

heave lengthy sighs.

the rain is humbled.

It mumbles gently

on my house top,

telling of gained wisdom,

the Velako brand .

Vaiyavan

Pathway beds

                        (From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Doubts

Blue necked grey pigeons,

       cooing above the

minarets of a mosque

        observe the silent,

sleeping city beneath them;

        men and women

sleep on the pathways

         surrounded by

constructions of

         several structures;.

the birds look

         always puzzled

whose homes the paths

         are in real?

since thousands of feet

        pass them in daylight

to redress others for night.

 Vaiyavan

The seething humanity disposes

                        (From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

A garbage-bin on the highway

You avoid leaning too much

over the low built

parapet wall ; while enjoy

listening traffic over the highway

down under many

storey and open shutters

posing like angels indicating heaven.

The sanitation staff

cleans the garbage bin.

down beneath; dumping up

used and unused relics of

manyy reflective yesterdays,

into the yellow wagon.

Day after day,

some parts of many fashion loss vanity

got packed off  

any inflated claim,

generous garbage bins

invite all redundant stuff .

The seething humanity passes on,

with no leisure to notice

how many parts of itself or

anyone disposed of there.

It is so sure of garbage keep

a vigil for the growth,

on restless highways

         away from  gloomy Velako
          Vaiyavan

Dejection and junction

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Ahead lies the junction

I rest a while on the stone slab laid

for a way-farer’s head-load;

it’s an entangled route of

withering woods  and  faltering brooks.

I thought the terminus was nearer;

but the road made it a mess.

the reaching evening accumulates

the tedium of the journey.

I know I’m not lost;

for Velako always assures, ahead lies

a junction to ask for direction,

with someone waiting to lead.

evening breeze grazing over

this dead wood refreshes me.

Stars will light my way;

guide along, on the bay.

Faith implants a stone slab

as the junction lies ahead;

and lend a long rope to

hold until stars awake.

The rain -starved Velako

train you to keep up guts

with its silent message of

dejection and junction

 Vaiyavan

Time is always short

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Delight and the drums

The drummer in the rear

of a festive gait

prefers a briefing pause,

abrupt without a cause.

Mood of the marching crowd

finds  a void in the tiresome road

of  approach to a shrine;

carrying a goddess  to Her domain.

“Drum it up, drum it up ; they cry;

don’t allow a brawl to pry;

free us from being grim,

fitting to temporal trim."

The drum  strikes an influence,

binding them in confluence.

When delight fingers the drum

mind is full to the brim.

Whole thought is a theatre

where wars seek a matter,

threatening men to shatter;

curtain follows later.

Better drum better dance

to the rhythm of beats

to forget we're beasts

Velako demands feats 

Delight summons dancing

concord offers  chancing;

the drummer begins a start;

for time is always short.

to raise  the goddess on dais

Vaiyavan

Horses and power

(From my poetry collection 'The Nameless Avenue') 

Horsepower

Horses denote power

But power never substitutes horse

though it kicks more powerfully

than a horse

People harness power with horse

to  run their water pumps

for sucking out water

from their  agonic wells

Velako witness the hiccup

of the kicking pumps

echoing the grief of  drying up wells

They have pumps

They have motors

measured by horsepower

as they don’t have  water

their horse loses power

 looking higher up

with no complaints to

any bloody God , they

go to switch off

all the hopes for a while.

Come on it’s the way

of horse-powered living.

Vaiyavan

.