monoliths 2

What ran through your mind, ye anonymous sculptor,
When you chiselled poetry from stone?
When you breathed life into the eyes,
And the lust for life into the myriad nubile forms?
Did you dream before you built them,
Or did they come to you as you carved?
Did you look back to admire your work,
Or were you too bruised to think of it at all?
What were you like and where was your family
Whilst you worked through night and day?
Why didn’t you leave a little of your history behind,
For us to peer into,
Like you did those of your king?

You didn’t think of course,
that when you were done,
Dead and gone,
You would still remain immortal
Despite your anonymity.


it's hard not to be inspired after seeing the work of the anonymous at Mahabalipuram

monoliths

There they stand,the stone carvings,
Monoliths.
Moved by elephantine visions,
And chiselled by bare hands,
And a tool or two,
To etch the glory of a king and his gods.

The bare hands must have won a woman
In turn,
Possibly even a bag of gold,
A house and enough patronage
To fill coffers of the next few generations.

And the elephants -
The elephants may have got
Their sugar cane
And hay.
They would have been egged on
Until they forgot their own histories.
Until every memory of that legacy
lay etched in their own skin.

red.light.

The red light blinks to life.
Stopping traffic that is waiting to get home
For a few seconds, may be a minute or more,
Tired minds take their feet off accelerators,
Ponder on the myriad chores done.
And the many more
That remain unfinished.
Beggars clamour.
Vendors beg.
Window cleaners begin
Their tasks.
Earnestly.
Until it’s time for green again.

Somewhere else in the city,
The red light comes alive,
Bringing morality to a stop.
Cleavages clamour.
Cat calls beckon.
Men close doors on their homes.
Work begins.
Earnestly.
Until it’s time for day again.


have always been intrigued by the origin of the word 'red light area.' found that sometime in the 1890s, working girls used to shade their candles/lamps red, to advertise their trade. written sometime in jan 2012.

pledge

he feels the earth beneath his feet,
picks up the broken lumps
and sieves it through his hands,
she smells of freshly turned soil
vestiges of fallen leaves.
she brings alive the stories
of countless miniature beings
that have made their homes in her.

He holds her close to his face,
And she talks to him,
Like a long-lost friend.

She tells him of the days
when he played on her as a small child,
Helping his mother pull out weeds,
With his clumsy, little hands.
She shows him the new pair of shorts
that her rich crop bought his father,
She weeps as she reminds him of
a large corner of her being sacrificed,
To the pawn broker,
who later became the keeper
Of his mother’s gold, and their home.
She shows him her barren womb
year after year
And how more of her disappeared.

And then, she is silent.
For the time has come
When he must leave her.
Forever.
There is no reproach in her.
Just sadness. And silence.
For despite all that she gave him,
he has pledged her all,
for a computer education
For his son.

He holds her once more,
Close to his heart.
And breaks down,
weeping like a child.
She smells of him,
his father and his grandfather,
And yet, he has no choice,
But to surrender an unforgettable past
To an unknown future.

Unmask

the drama of love
peels away
layer by layer
unmasking the charade of chastity.

the taste of infidelity is delicious.
sin always is.

but the after taste lingers
longer, longer than the ecstasy.
it lingers, bitter
in the eyes.

the drama of betrayal
peels away,
layer by layer
unmasking the charade of love.





published in kritya, october 2012 (poetry in our time):
http://kritya.in/0803/En/poetry_at_our_time8.html


am amazed at the number of poems that appear in some online publications on lust, extra-marital relationships and so on. this is my take on it.

homes from the homeless

For the first few months, selvi will carry bricks,
Heaped upon rusted iron bowls,
That are placed on her tender head,
Whilst her lame son plays in the sand,
Building castles of his own.

Muthu will cement the dreams of eager young couples,
Who have pledged their salaries, on this hope of concrete.
When evening comes, the dreamers will visit, smiling
At their home, being built brick by brick.
When evening comes, selvi will carry her lame child back,
To their rickety shack.
The dwelling, hastily built for them
And seventy five other beings.

In some time, floor tiles will appear, mirroring the dreams
Of the dreamers. The tiles will be polished until they shine,
Like the sweat that glistens on the survivors.
In a year or two, the grand dream will appear, put together
Hand by hand, sweat by sweat, human by human.
And people will visit the freshly painted homes,
Pat the dreamers on their backs and raise a toast
To the good life.

selvi and muthu will then pick up the remains of their shack,
And move on to the next dream that they will build.
And their little lame son will begin building castles
In the sand.
That will crumble again.



written in july 2007. truth, as i saw my home being built by the homeless

time waits

Rickety. this sight, that passes the eye,
Of a village that seems to hang precariously
To a perilous past.
And treads, slowly on the wheels of time.

For time does stop here,
to listen more often,
To watch more closely,
A life that the rest of the world has forgotten.

Time watches the neatly whitewashed huts,
Homes, yes.
But huts that huddle together,
And share common walls,
Even share conversations of the nights,
And then empty themselves into open sewer pipes,
wash their dirty linen
In the light of day.

Time watches people lower their heads
to enter their homes,
their ceilings barely above their heads,
Possibly to keep dreams from flying too high.
And heavy brass locks that far outweigh
The weight of their meagre treasures.

And then, there are the evening smells
That time inhales.
Slowly.
For often, these smells last longer than the food,
And they, the people must quench their bellies
With just those smells.

Time waits in this village,
For nothing in special.
Because it is only here that time herself sits,
Laid back,
not hurrying herself against
The city clocks.