Sunday, November 1, 2009

c p aboobacker
ezhuth/ dec . 2009

The Corpses

(Edited by Joneve Mc Cormick)

The Emperor called his opponent
Corpse-eating animal!
The Emperor killed, despising corpses.
Every corpse once had a life
Once warm and loving, and hating too.
We read a biography that thrills us, and enthralls
With a history of a locale different from ours
The corpse is calm and composed,
The clock needles rhyme,
Time has a silent rhythm.
In the mortuary
Corpses are a phenomenonLandless, nameless,.
The old mother moans in my dreams
How her beloved son strangled her
For a tiny piece of gold
So that he could go to a bar
Or to a local whore.
Corpses from the train crash
Drowned in the river
Were recovered by a finger raised above water level
Or from hair floating aloft.
Corpses from the tongues of flames
Deliberately caused by unfaithful men
Clotheless, skinless, they reverberate.
Corpses tell us how they diedFrom a stab, a shot, a fall,
A knock or strangulation;
Their wounds bleed even after petrifaction.
Surgeons stitch the wounds with grave respect,
With grim remorse on the death of young dreams,
The withering of the buds
Corpses smell differently,
A drowned one from a burnt one
Corpses petrified among rocks smell fear and agony.
Dead girls chuckle with bangles,
A ripe woman sings of the well where she drowned;
Death is not remorse, but a wound
To not only man, but to all creatures
Plants are felled, they cry, we don't hear.
Animals are killed but are not wept or sung for
And there are many people who have died unsung and unlamented
Who were rulers for long periods of time,
Who were singers while alive
Many deaths go unheard
Ignored by columns and notes,
Still they had lived their livesAs we live
Emperors are no moreA disheveled community
Disappeared into archives
Motioning to each other at the sight of a tourist
Or vending fish at the gates of great tombs
They had crowns, loved and hated
Feared and acted bravely.
Had a bowl of love been opened
The string of suicide would break,
Fathoms would come up to plains,
Flames would become breezes.
Every suicide was unwanted,
The surgeon and the poet know it.
Love is life and hate is death,
But life often hates.
Death can never hate...
A corpse is a calm, peaceful symbol
Of how life was