Friday, April 4, 2008


ഏതു രൂപത്തെയും വണങ്ങണം.
എല്ലാ വീടുകള്‍ക്കു മുമ്പിലും തൊഴണം.
എല്ലാ മനുഷ്യരെയും ആരാധിക്കാം.
തെരുവില്‍ ഏതു കൃമിയെയും
മനസ്സുകൊണ്ട് നമിക്കണം.
അപ്പോഴാണ്‌ നാം ഉള്ളില്‍
കൊണ്ടു നടക്കുന്ന
ദൈവികതയെ തിരിച്ചറിയാനകുന്നത്/

Flowers yellow, leaves green

The poets were debating on the sequence of death;
Who died first whether the poet or the poem?
He stood there listening to the wailings
of both the poets and their verses

Inside there were chairs
with swollen belly,
tables that have gone crazy,
sensual shadows
and junk of books,
even as the sales and discussions
went on an on

Then he got scared of death
He was not ready to
become a corpse

Instantly he felt the urgency
of poetic metaphors
to break away from the confines
of the bookshop

In a trance he recalled the days when
snake charmers, poets and teachers
were suffering for want of lovers
It flashed back how the poetic talent
in his molecules began to blow apart
since ages

And how love was orphaned
denied of the right to survival and fortunes
The poet in him was born by chronicling
the erosion of culture and meanness of the past

He tried his best to see that the carcass
of his desires did not turn into poetic imageries

Meanwhile even his corpse
was on the look out for a safe haven
outside the world of verses
to avoid molestation,
and to escape from
the lusty glare of the poets

The trees and insects resorted
to futile rituals to possess
the life of poets
but got back nothing but grief

He couldn’t resist the temptation to
hold on to his moral right for existence
outside the realm of history.

The debate of the poets went on unabated

As the book of night remained wide open
they began unwrapping
the cartons of lust and liquor