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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

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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
Child,
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?

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ezhuth/dec.2009

And my soul claims her wholesome

Today morning
Birds lost their feathers
Plants their flowers
Mountains their dales
Deer its horns
And I lost my pen

Piercing out of my heart
The lark has flown away
Heavens have claimed her songs
Angels her smiles
God her soul
And my soul claims her wholesome

She had a bird in the cage
A falcon with screeching cries
And with a sharp beak
Ready to break love and ties
It had a fragrance
Spread everywhere in the labyrinth

The tree is still there tall and high
With a lightness of cool and warmth
Standing sentinel to soldiers of love
Shading a roof for fighters of lust
Beyond the hamlets of stags
Orchards of butterflies
And slums of values and priests.

The Shepherd of flames
The shepherd of flames
Eats with his tongue extended
He has no hands
In the end
He has only the will to destroy
In the oven
In the chamber of suicide
On the battle fields
And in wild fires
Black tongues remain
That can't be seen.
He has limitless wealth
But it's of no use to him
Soon
He will combust
And after
Fly in ashes
In breezes.
His spouse
Will bring sticks to the fire
They will crack and burn
She will romanticize the fire
Pouring olive oil
And after
She will wear
A rope of hemp grass
Or of crushed palm leaves
Around her neck.

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ezhuth/dec.2009

when death is imminent

In the threads hanging from heaven
Fly butterflies
Sun and Earth
Join together
Within the dense pores
Creation of truth and equality
Has begun on the mountain slopes
Sculptor has begun meditation
Before the heaps of clay
New fields of struggle
Are in formation
With kindliness and love
As weapons
Along the paths to heaven
Sights of the army of love
Marching forward
The final moments of
Ecstasy
Until I dissolve in my end
Through wind, rain and sun



in wait
Waiting for the tram
By this narrow lane
I spent a seed to germinate,
To grow into a tree,
To flower and fruition
Waiting for the train
By the blue lake
I spent an egg to hatch,
To wing into a sparrow
And fly awayWaiting for the ship
By the hillI spent a sperm to be born
As myself as helpless,
To grow into a tall buffoonery
Vain, vain are the waiting,
Silence and loudness
And the hugs and cuddles;
Vain, vain are the waiting,
Cruelty and roar,
And frowns and spasms of porn
Foaming in the lake
Swimming and dipping into ponds
Tasting the wetted flesh
I would satiate
As if a lion
With a live stag eaten;
Or a tiger roaring gratified
With lots of venison tasted.

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ezhuth/dec.2009

motherland
When the poet says to me
that we can speak about birds
I become restless
Because I suspect whether it is not our own epic bird
When my spouse says to me
That we can sing about limits
I am aware of a dervish who lost his tongue and land
Twirling and twirling and dancing
And saw a world without frontiers.
The stormy petrels harp that
The alleys would include the west bank
Those who lost shelters
Got dressed and wore their ornaments

Might get ready for their last journey
The children who ask where their birth land is
Would be taken to their schools
And served sweets
And called "darlings"
Then they would be shot on their chests
Without surprise or fear
They would fall dead calling their moms

In the end they would all be stamped terrorists.
Falcons and foxes would eat a tasty meat.


Intoxicated Singing

Intoxicated with the spirit of poetry
I sang in the dialects of hamlets,
Pasted with cow dung
And decorated with straw
A ruffian among the crowd
Often speaking things unheard
To laymen and folks
I sang in the dialects of hamlets
I was singing things not known to me
Sacrifice, struggles, and martyrdom
I wanted to demolish the church
To make a new one, and
I would make it from the ruins of the old one
But I would run my sermons in the old one
I would cut the plantain trunk
And plant the leafy part
And I would sing about my leaves
Flying in breeze
MY spouse is away
In her comely attire
Of love and affection
In the paradise of life
I wish to sit singing
Lonely in the valley
With a reverberating note
To please her round the clock
But my singing always betrays me
It sings of lives gone
Into the fathoms
Where martyrs live
And paradise
Where songs are made
Trees without leaves
Embrace me in harmonious horror
Into their bony branches
Screeching in silent tones
Rains fail mankind
Into an infernal battle of life
And bleed the emotions
Into fluid maggots
Merci… merci… plead the buns
We can’t enter the juicy dirt
Of human mouths in the battle field
Merci… merci…
And I am intoxicated with the spirit of poetry!