Sunday, November 1, 2009

c p aboobacker

ezhuth/dec. 2009

Trees of The City Park

The cold dawns of winter
Wrapped themselves
On the trees of the city park
The morning walkers
Created spiral circles
Peacock feathers
With their wide open eyes
Shone in lustrous circles
In the inkpot of poetry
Rose a c minor from scale of octave;
In the wild forest
Peacocks, stags and reeds;
Go ahead,
Before the untamed, wild elephants
Come to cross the road,
Go forward.
Royal courts remain in wait for you,
Life and drowsiness are creeping
Through the way faring towns.
Bullocks are tormenting water and mud
In paddy fields.
Sunflower blossoms,
Thick breasts of plateaus
Secrete sorrows;
Drown not in them, Go forward.
Winter is a mere beginning,
Not an end.
Beginning of a revolution,
An epoch, a history,
And an end.
The secretions of the medicinal plants
Destroyed in the war marches
Come to you along the mountain slopes
Oh, ocean, to you.
Seasons creep again,
In the end winter raise its hoods
On the Christmas trees;
Again trees of the city park.

The Blind

If you are born blind,
Remain blind
The world is an ugly phenomenon

You have milky ways in your eyes
Numberless, my child,
You have garlanded yourself
With umpteen colours invisible

You are lucky
Not to see the bloodshed
Around in the neighbourhoods
Smelling caramel and milk,
Darling, you are fortunate
Not to view men eating men
And women eating women

Love has no parallel
Love is a very selfish thought
You cry loud
And see naught
Because the Creator willed it
That way

Nonsense, says my brethren
Why must he will that way?

There is at least one
That escapes
The sights of slaughter
And the heat of explosions

Your eyes are filed with milk
Vision the beauties
Innocent as they are
You smell good or bad
And avoid seeing
What is not to be seen

Why? Why?

Do we have to cry aloud,
If sad about the troubles
of the world around?

Do we have to shout aloud
If we speak about the horrors
We experience?

Do we have to torch a light
To seek a man in our midst
Drowning in dearth of words?

Do we have to burn logs
To cook the fowl we caught
If we have fire inside?

Do we have to fiddle the string
In the cool flowery spring
If we have music inside?

Do we have to smile around
About the graze of love and calf
In the wilderness of poetry?
About the chewed up grass?
About the saliva drops fallen?
About dew drops sprinkling in eyes?

Do we have to cry aloud
About the corpses around
Hanging on the wayside posts
Cockroached into atomic wombs
Destruction beyond their reach
Extinction ready for man?