August 30, 2008

An Island Mystery

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.

August 23, 2008

A Fine Medley of Poetry

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’!



August 16, 2008

Goodbye Examination

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 warfare
With 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 of
Literature. 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.


August 08, 2008

The Mystery Girl

(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.


August 04, 2008

A Drowned Man’s Reminiscence

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.


LinkWithin

Related Posts with Thumbnails