Of the several known Mystery lyrics, which I had heard and learned a few, Allan Poe with his rhythmic Rhymes and Flannan Isle of Gibson Are topped.
Here is my story, Set in a peaceful island village Surrounded by some discoloured Fuming waters, foul smelled, To which the only inward way was A silver-tanned rusted bridge, iron made, And both the lightest footsteps, and The jumbo treads alike had turned It into violent shakes with Crackling sounds.
After passing this wayward bridge I drove my bike further Through a shattered way With gutters and all, As directed by my artist friend Who dwells somewhere In one of those Rustic gloomy ghostly homes Made by time-eaten Bricks and clay.
As I moved forward In those shadow cast evening With my curious mind In search of a hermit's house Where my thoughtful friend resides, The darkened broken path became More and more damp-like, and The greenish fusty trees began to wore Some puzzling smell and growing dark as well.
In the end of all, When I reached his dwelling place, Set in an enclosure Made of time-worn Degenerated bricks covered by terracotta, Dipped in a smell of ancientness, By throwing open its wooden cave-like door, Partly disintegrated, I stepped into the courtyard Dense with plantains and coco palms, And with stinking smell of snakes. From the old perishing house My friend appeared By opening an ancient door, about to decay With his usual hearty smile And with flashing eyes.
Time ran swiftly In his closed antique room Where we discussed the popular things, As well as the heartfelt tales, The politics, cinema and literature, And some of our genuine experiences. In between this, what I missed to notice Was a touch of eerie air, that Made his dwelling place a little bit congested. The creepy air, and the darkness grown Together made me to ask About his experiences with ghosts And unknown spirits in his Dreadful dreary den. His answer made me to shock As he mentioned certain queer experiences With an invisible thing, that Beat him occasionally, During sleeps or his busy Writing schedule.
Let me tell you first, These creepy damned things, Called ghosts and spirits Had never made an appearance In front of me before, As I have a strong distaste for both.
Soon, I heard a voice, Rather thump like one, and with a start When I looked at him, what I saw was His gleaming glossy eyes, and he said In a pensive voice, 'You know the old mango tree near? Where it had happened, that cold blood murder Of a pregnant girl, Ah! who was A little comely girl.'
With no delay And with no further telling of tales, I took my leave By grabbing my soaked cap, and While running out I noticed His meditative dubious eyes, Now covered by a pair of specs. I ran through the open courtyard, Now wet due to the drizzling rain, By tramping the weeds and plants Under my quivering feet, Towards the closed cave-like door Of the outer wall, where I had stopped my sidekick, My sincere motorbike.
Now at a distance, After drove my bike through The similar way, I looked back with My eyes protruded, and I saw In the night, That old ghostly figure of house, Stands, by emitting an air of eeriness And with its genuine touch of ancientness.
Some sudden temptations are freaky, Those occasionally make me to write Like a genuine rush of hopping thoughts Or like the actualization of dream wishes. Sometimes I wrote, rhythmically, as a flow, And at times like a knotted string of words. But whenever longing for a gush of outpouring, What I get is the mimicking of known lines. Sometimes it creates, with unusual clarity Certain unknown coinages from subconscious Like a compilation of speckled oval pebbles Piled up on a blissful shore of waving thoughts. What thing makes you touched, whatever be Process them on a pure sheet of white paper With the genuine tint of heart’s feelings, and What you get is called ‘a fine medley of poetry’!
Once again I have prepared For an examination By picking up some dust-ridden olden Carriers of the knowledge Those have been adorning my chaotic table For many a long academic eras! My preparations lasted for several years With several not-so-long months, Sleepless nights and Chilly early mornings Those provoked me some time To curse the unending warfareWith the black-inked Tiny pack of letters Stamped on cheap white papers, and Many a times it made some of My fellow beings envious And made some of them to appreciate With heart felt admiration! Shakespeare, the bard came In my visions many times In the late night, Sometimes, Eliot and Dickens came In the early morning with Their portrait-like amusing smiles That even made them alive in between The quests for a theme from the Random paths of life that they trod. Certain Women writers of the West Amazed me with their mastery over The flowery fiction Covered in their long term sufferings of Diseases and isolation - Like Austen and Bronte sisters.
Indians too were there Who made me stun at the word power. Tagore came first with His Song offerings, Later Toru, with her short-term life And her homesick writings Too had made even the owners of the language Stuck at the thorns of amusement. Arundhati and many more Supplied me with wonder at Their imagination power.
Many a days in the morning I rode my bike through an endless way Covering several kilometers Touching city struggles as well as village virtues To a center where I let drop The burden of language Wasted by those masters ofLiterature. And I returned, throughSome familiar paths after A three hours struggle with the University paper and clutched pen With aching sinews of palm.
Now it is all over, The struggle with the forced yawns, The read through the lines without a blink, and The speedy revision just before The last bell, The tension on the hall ticket, and The agony on the finishing moments, all! And occupied now with an effort to Gain the longing sleeps and lost dreams.
(Dedicated to my friend known among the bloggers as Cracks, who gave the sudden inspiration for this poem narrating about a girl he used to see on the way to his office)
There is Mr. Cracks, a real life crack Who helps me to break, the themelessness track Now the theme is this, that of a pretty Miss Who daily does not miss his inadvertent aerial kiss!
It’s the Thiruvananthapuram city, with morning’s gaiety. You know its eminent deity, Sri Padmanabha almighty. Where she stands daily, waiting for her college bus shyly My friend gets her glance slyly, that she gives him daily.
You know this girl? She’s a belle, with lovely kiss curl Like a golden whorl, gilds her rosy cheeks in roll. Did you see she smiles? Ah, that’s like an angel smiles! Wears churidar with frills, Does the black one for her inner wails?
Why does she cry, or pretend? For the young beaus to tempt? Or is she really in lament? If so, what’s the cause of her plaint? My friend Cracks, with tender heart, does not see her apart Plans to a conversation start, and to break the rampart.
You know this guy Cracks? Man, you should know his pranks With his existential remarks, his rivals, get some open attacks. He likes social fillip and seldom breaks friendship, Has no scholarship, though, he’s a man with some leadership.
Moving aside the city flock, my friend goes to talk, “Tell me with no shock, with no playful mock, Tell me hey babe you, with your shyness few What dreadful thing makes you, to cry happiness in lieu?”
Blinking dreamy eyes, she tries to stop her sighs. With a sigh she says, “Not any more, I can control this, Hey you gentle jaan, I will tell you man, What is in my lifespan puts my mind in san,
I will share you my sorrow, not now, only morrow For there comes my bus in a row, see you soon you hero!” Then she goes as planned, with her waving hand, Looking back forth and like in a journey errand.
Several days had came, several belles came Not our Cracks’ dame, came the spot that same. None of Cracks’ team, thinks her as it does seem Thus here ends the theme, like a genuine dream.
Gradually began the submerging. So slowly, Hands shook and struggled with The hardened water. Damn agitation with craving fear for life. Life-sick. A date with death, unspecified. My legs crouched. Chilled a little Due to the freezing cold. Snowdrops fallen on the water surface. White. And dark. Underwater. The limbs stopped for a silent enslavement I fagged. Stopped motion. Eyes protruded. Hands wavered, Heart chill cold. Decreasing energy. Breathed. Breathed. Exhausted. Choked Starving Oxygen. The water drank me, As I Drank the water. Salty Fainting fortunes, feverishly. The silken thread connecting the Conscious and unconscious broke. A few eras elapsed.... Pavements on a path towards an unknown land Where apparitions move forth. Dirty smell of sinking ships. Algae. Amphibians. A conscious blackout. Apparition again. Pavements clean. Bluish tinted fog. Blurring images. A palace ahead. A hooded figure of a man, I thought Death comes for a row. An encounter with death. Inviting charm and a coarse voice of ancientness. Total Blackout. I drowned.
