Saturday, October 24, 2009

Breaking the Magic Wand

They ask me how it feels
the day after

Does it hurt?
do you miss it all?

The routine. the role,
the camaraderie
the feel of belonging.

The burden, the deadlines.

The young minds – impressionable
the puzzled frown
the joy of the idea
the starry excitement
the faces volatile as knowledge unfolds

Do I miss all that?

Strangely enough, no.

Didn’t I love it all?
I ask myself.
Where, then, are the pangs?

Ripeness is all.
Stoicism born of a second lease of life !

Life -
to be celebrated
till the last breath

Every change brings a new horizon

So, how does it feel
the day after?

Serene as I scan the new skies
words falling around me like pleasant showers
‘you gave better than your best, mom’.
‘really m'am, we are proud to be your kids - we treasure your classes – sorry if we let you down – thank you’

What more can I ask?

Posted first on on Wednesday, July 02, 2008, the day after i retired from service.

The End of Silence

am no poet.
i know that.

my muse died young
a slow death though
with growing estrangement from my tongue
and my self.

a casualty of imperialism
and acculturation.

but of late I find myself
tinkering with free verse
in the alien tongue.

the genre issues a license
the poetic license
liberation from the strain
of logical exercise,

And offers a mould
that won’t crumble
when loaded with feeling.

minds crippled with entrenched silence
turn to the spirits of the muses

can they be raised from the dead?
will they take kindly
to the strange sounds of broken silence?

posted first in on Thursday, July 10, 2008

Thursday, October 15, 2009

What are you doing, my son

What are you doing, my son?

Counting crowns.

Crowns? What crowns?

King’s crowns.

Where are the crowns?

Can’t you see? The rain is making them.

She looked where he pointed
At the water rising where each drop fell
And saw the crowns
King’s crowns
Thousands of them

I wrote this piece to be published anonymously in the college magazine, in a page dedicated to versification on rain. Most of my students guessed it was my piece ‘cos I used to relate this little episode where my 4 year old son opened my eyes to the crowns that rain drops made - to prove the point that all of us are born poets but our creativity falls by the way side in our struggle with this business called life.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

thank you for the music

talat, denver, rafi
alliyaambal and eleanor rigby
silk route and sindu bhairavi
among others
waft in
flutter in
one after the other - - -
as I sit here and now

the mind plays truant
strays, despite itself.
visits memories
buried under heaps of sunshine and life

the pain of no more music
what sort of heaven can it be?


It moves on
And we, with it.
Insensibly we move
Like the in-flight feel.
Dates and days
Mere figures
Like the in-flight map.

Till the mind
Childhood sunshine
Adolescent love
Toddler offspring
Empty nest
A long race
Breaking the wand

And then you see
And feel
Its unrelenting advance

Like the wind
You ‘see’ from the eleventh floor
As it sweeps the thronging coconut palms
Which bend in unison
In an easterly direction,
And drives the rain too
Like an aerial wave
Moving eastward
Shrouding the distant land
In a misty haze.