Tuesday, October 21, 2008

She who sells oranges-poem by m k harikumar

She came down
to a super-specialty street
to sell oranges.

The street kids who were sate
with too much oranges
had her skinned like an orange.

And they even had her dress off her
Just for the orange colour.
Without smelling or feeling it
They wrapped her face
With that yellow drape.

And for the red, the kids
went for her inner wears.
Still not feeling satiated
They exerted her breasts
and bled them out to their fill.

Who ever wasn’t able to scribble in
What all letters of their personal prowess
Right on her tongue!!!!
At last the sour and bitter
she spate out, alas,
did not have any colour.

Out of their dealings of alphabets,
Beguiling all the other colours,
she somehow learnt a thing or two.

It is with a little primitive fear
and anxiety that she learnt those scripts of the ancient tribes

The Tigers -poem by m k harikumar


Those tigers go to the river
In groups, and drink water
and raise their heads in unison.

When they fall upon some prey
They eat it the same way, together.
But before this rare fiat
They would look at each other
As if they were up for a race.
They defecate together too.

However, they do not know how to eat.
But their master must keep them spoon-fed.
Thus roaring, mating, begetting, together,
and voicing lofty ideals in between
They kept on indulging themselves there.

The global committee constituted to study--
How man and woman could take a stance,
To claim for maternity allowances
and try vasectomy at the same time,
all the while stay cohabiting,
And thus bring in a closed world of theirs--
Has come in search of these tigers straight.

And these tigers stood
taking great pride, and laughed:
Describing their rare sterility
and the asexually obsequious humility
As an honour of some rare order.

The stink that laughter emitted
Left the whole ambience rejuvenated.

Then they thought ‘it makes sense’, somehow,
To manipulate their way into some textbooks.
They needn’t be afraid of anyone, in that case.


The best way to tide over
Chengaras* of any order
Is to be silent and sleeping deeply,
By reading every trash of news:
They took a firm resolve.

Chengara*

A state-citizen land dispute in Kerala which took proportions beyond civilized human endurance and comprehension. The State, instead of protecting the life and property of the citizens, took an inhuman stance wrecking untold misery to the affected poor.

Tigers don’t bite -poem by m k harikumar

Tigers don’t bite these days.
Instead they keep on coming
In search of zoos thinking,
It is better be living in cells.

At a time when biting and roaring
Are of no value, to be all out en masse΄
in search of tigers is revolutionary.

And what is breaking news today?
It’s the tigers’ effort to be a neo breed.
By being not biting and not roaring.

They went on seeking fresher traits
Even in their eating and sleeping patterns.
They broke lighter moments with kids
And mistook themselves to be a newer race.

Even when kids groped deep in their mouths
They did not bite, but just laughed assuredly.
And their fight now is to invent pseudo jokes.

Thus they fell upon a major finding
That there is not a self-indulging thing
As much pleasing as realizing that
they themselves are a laughing stock.

Sun, what it is…- poem by m k harikumar

Sun, it is a threshold.

It somehow poked its face up
Out of the thickets that got swollen
With the dead and decaying leaves
Of yesterday’s rains.

The moment it got surfaced,
it stood burning in full fire.
Still it had in it a few cares
That its wings might get
Shattered all over again
At the slanting surge
of fresher rains.

And piercing right on the day
The sun went on, wasting no time,
And did a course of acupuncture even.

See how longing this sun is
To be living and flourishing!

Though it managed to succeed
in proving its identity all by itself,
of course, being scared of modernism
And post modernism, sun got its life
Recorded by simply sending SMS
To some TV Reality Shows.

No bird is singing -poem by m k harikumar

No bird is singing.
It is our agenda that
We must get them singing.

It is just an inner energy
that forms in them,
As the pressing need of living,
Happens to be songs.

However, at some occasions,
certain frantic noises, that we make
on the harsher terrains of our life,
may turn out to sound music.

An idiot of any order
would feast on it, and even rate it.

m k harikumar