WHET STONE

Good times make, fed men weak

While hard times make good men great

Wildflowers easy-bloom all around

But a flower from a rock, there stories abound

A tree standing alone gets right and rain

But a giant in the thicket conquered all that he reign

A house cat may be pampered and fed

But glory to the tiger prey-folk dread

Hot steel in the furnace, purpose awake

While cold steel simply bend to break

Breath is free but bread is not

Make fleeting pleasure an afterthought

Flavor your bread with the sweat of your brows

Make sure you reap what your hard work ploughs

Each number you crunch and the lyric you write

Makes your own future that much bright

Suffering is not a part of life, its life itself

You can either survive or start to live

To live is to stand, to smile and to start again.

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How the night and fog blinds

I crossed the fence to my best friend's house and walked in without a purpose. His sister smiled at me, taking a break from sweeping. Her smile was gentle and warm, but those who knew her well knew she had teeth behind those lips. A long time ago, she caught me and him touching each other. I returned her smile genuinely and went in search of him in his room. I never needed permission to enter this house. Having my second breakfast with him, we went out, as we always do. But what we do always changes. Sometimes we smoke in the abandoned roofing tile factory, sometimes we play cricket with the other kids till the owner of the paddy field chases us away. One time we even walked to the nearest town on a whim, which was about 50 km away. We did everything together since we were children. Today the adventure was of a romantic nature. The new love of his life was going to the temple, and obviously, like any other "naadan lover-boy" we stalked her. He already wrote a disgusti...

In Defence of the Humble Lie

Many may distinctly remember from their childhood a scene, where they realized that their mother (and/or) father will eventually die. Many may have asked their parents if they would die. I remember asking my mother that question and she told me the truth. Seeing me cry my eyes out and suffered my first broken heart she confessed that she was playing a prank on me and that parents don’t die. I never been hastier to believe anything and I deliberately refused myself to ever ask or think that question again. But when my sister became around the same age as me, she also had the same query. And my curious and analyzing eyes scanned every feature of my mother’s face. Without missing a beat she said parents don’t ever die. And my sister resumed her play content with the answer. I needed to become a big brother to understand why lies are important. That lie may have protected me from losing my childhood more than necessary and incurring any more trauma than we all get our fair share of. Ou...

White Pickett Fence

Behind this fence I stand Waiting for an invite, in. So late did I understand This white picket fence is not that thin I stare through these wooden boards, The keyhole on a broken glass door To catch a glimpse of that which is; in. Hour hands broke the clock And away, did it ran While i pick this paper lock With a stolen compass needle. Little did I know This lock I can't break And this hope I must forsake. Thus here I stand, outside this fence, Looking at my would have been friends. Earning for the other side Cursing at this damned divide. Forever must I stay outside With my aching heart still denied A chance to see the world outside my head?

Green Dreams

Ashes for sale. Ashes for sale. Ashes of the person who You wanted to be. And ashes of the person who you came to be Ashes of your dreams You forgot to live. And ashes of your dreams You should have believed. Ashes of your children You forgot to raise. And ashes of your children You forgot to chase. Ashes of your parents You left so far behind. And ashes of your parents Whom you were assigned. Ashes of everything you could have been And everything you had lost. Ashes of everything you dreamed you had. With this sacrificial rites to your everyday ghost.

ഇരുട്ട് കണ്ടതിനു ശേഷം

ഈ കവിതയൊരെന്ത്രമോ എൻ മനസ്സിന്റെ തന്ത്രമോ ഭ്രാന്തമാം ലോകത്തിൻ കാഴ്ച മറയ്ക്കുന്ന മായാ മന്ത്രമോ കാമമോ കാലമോ അജ്ഞതാ- ക്ഷേത്രമോ. ഞാൻ സ്വയം പറയുന്ന കള്ളമോ കഥകളോ. ചോരയാൽ ചേറിൽ വരഞ്ഞ ഈ ചിത്രങ്ങളെൻ അന്ധതാ ബാക്കിപത്രങ്ങൾ. കലികാലലോകത്തെ കളിയായിക്കണ്ടവൾ ഒളിക്കാതെ വാഴുന്നു എൻ്റെ വീട്ടിൽ കരിവേഷമാടുന്ന നരഭോജിനാടിൻ്റെ കണ്ണിലിരുപ്പു ഞാൻ ഷണ്ടനായി.

My Asylum Walls

There is a world shaped hole in my window pane With cracks and breaks like spider web, like the word shaped pain in my shattered soul. Virgin sights outside my doors Veil of lust inside my bones. Something calming about that broken glass. A broken world outside those jagged bars. Smeared out moons and snuffed out stars, Those i still see through these broken glass. A gust of wind or a drop of sound, I still look through these broken glass Swirling trees and flying brooks Those i still see through my broken glass So long within these asylum walls I cant help looking through these window less halls

സ്വാഭാവിക മരണം

കഥകൾ എന്നെ കബളിപ്പിച്ചു. അവളതിമനോഹരിയാണ്. അളന്ന് വയ്ക്കുന്ന കാലടികൾ. കാറ്റിൽ കവിത കോറിയിടുന്ന വിരലുകൾ. അവൾക്കാഭരണങ്ങളും ആടകളും ചേർച്ചയല്ല. ആദ്യനക്ഷത്രം പിറവികൊള്ളുമ്പോൾ, അവളുടെ കണ്ണുകൾ അവിടെയുണ്ടായിരുന്നു. അവസാന തിരി തണുക്കുമ്പോഴും, അവൾ അവിടെയുണ്ടാകും. ആ കൽവിളക്ക് തൊട്ട് കണ്ണെഴുതാൻ. മുടി. ഇരുട്ടിന്റെ കറുപ്പാണ്, കെട്ടിയിട്ടില്ല മുഖത്തേക്ക് വീഴുന്നവയെ വകഞ്ഞു മാറ്റുന്നുമില്ല. ആ കൈ പിടിച്ച് ഞാൻ നടന്നു. അവൾക്കനുകമ്പയും അറപ്പുമില്ല അവളെങ്ങോട്ടും പോവുകയുമില്ല എവിടെ നിന്നും വന്നതുമല്ല. അവൾക്കർത്ഥവും നിർവചനവുമില്ല അതിൻ്റെ ആവശ്യവുമില്ല. അവൾ മരണമാണ്, പക്ഷെ... കഥകളിലെ പോലെ അല്ല.

TWO HALVES OF A MAN

Lazarus, that's my name. I was trapped on an island in 1944, for fifteen years. An Earthquake destroyed many underwater mountains making fishing possible for the region I was trapped in. It led to my rescue. When I was deployed in the war, my beloved wife and four-year-old son were heartbroken. After years of prayer, did we get our son. I couldn't see him grow up and become a man. I couldn't teach him how to shave or how to do basic repairs of a car or teach him how to ride a bike or shoot. I couldn't be there for my wife. She might have suffered a lot. Some part of me wishes that she remarried yet, my soul prays she is still waiting for me. I miss her smile when I would be cutting the firewood or sweeping the yard. She needed me for everything in the house. My heart melts when I think of how she had to take care of the house and raise our son alone. My son would be a man by now. The man of the house. I hope he is good to his mother. I hope he does well in school. I...

SINS OF THE FORGETTER

It was a perfectly ordinary day by all means. The sun was shining on him, radiating warmth. The ground beneath his feet, a sense of security. Sometimes the most extraordinary things happen on days like these. For instance, the death of God. Joy walked into his new high school. Head held high with an invisible effort and his smile constantly changing and correcting itself. He knew no one would dare tell him that he only got into this school because of his father, Archangel Gabriel, but he knew. Lucian Academy for Angels and Demons. Here the best and brightest of celestial offspring learn and, once in a while, get the opportunity to be an archangel, an honour of the highest order. Archangel Remiel was old enough to die soon and the students would jump at the chance to be him. When an old angel dies, his body is destroyed but his soul remains with all his knowledge and memories concerning himself. A new student is selected and his body is offered as host to the soul. And his young...

A Song Stolen From Time

The broken winged wild bird is Trying for one last song, again. Sitting alone on a woody carcass left behind by an axe Preening her unbroken wing. And an arduous search for notes Between thin staves of pain. Cursed with the fate to sing it alone, No mate or flock to sing it along. Children who drank her warmth Have long gone, pecking and pricking. As the night flower blooms in hopes of seeing the twilight. With light, songs and wind in her heart, not for anyone, The broken winged wild bird is Breathing slowly one last song, again. To hear this song that shines in the dark Trees, rain and night chill stood mourning, around While the shadows, rivers and weeds kept the rhythm aground. Even if no one is here, there are flowers and stars around to hear it, Because the song is cheery as honey, kind as dreams And tears to bear it. The pain of her wing; so dry, Melts away in her one last song As she embrace th...

Ego's perspective

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