I hold the umbrella opened
The cuckoo sings a bhajan,
perhaps
learnt from its mother.
The river adjusts its course
swaying to and fro
falling back into its origin.
The destination still surges up,
the traveller forgets his way.
He seeks stars to cross his path:
nevertheless they are strolling around
asteroids.
The beloved lover of earth
pours out his cacophony,
the saga still blemishes on his face.
A black raven stalks its prey,
the victim vanishes into thin air.
Unmindful, raven courses down
plunges into a play home.
A rally of parrots flock into field,
the farmer rushes a sea of dandelions.
Scarecrow still searches for flies,
mourning its past of arrogant upbeats.
Orchards still bear lost apples,
the hanging fruits love to meet
ancestors.
I said to the boy.
We marched into battlefields
singing war songs,
our mothers cheered tearfully.
Our fathers’ prayed pensively.
We met many
and let many.
Stood on the ground,
butchered our enemies.
Not that we had to,
but we did it.
I tell my son.
The tree in the field
still holds the arrows,
broken and petrified.
I ask him to look at it.
Not to mention,
the very urge of pacifism.
I hold the umbrella open.
Gandhiji stands open to rain.
I know
he will not enjoy it.
The dust and termites
all cook him well.
My mind vexes me.
I run with my umbrella.
Gandhiji is soaked in rain.
Let me guard my
father well.
The soldier in me
rises into action.
You still live in me…
I still feel the scent of jasmine agarbattis you used to keep for fragrance,
I wake up early now without alarm bell just to listen to the voice of morning silence,
I do not jam any doors now.
I have stopped opening the fridge door from time to time to check: you have said so.
No more sandwiches with tea now.
My tea is sugar free, I am Forty now, my hair has started to grey,but still you are missing out dear mother.
I still wish your scoldings are too high for me to laugh at.
I want you to make round chapatis with dal.
I do not watch horror movies now, I miss my partner.
You used to laugh out of fear at horror scenes,
clutching tightly to my arms,eating chips.
I do not talk to my neighbours now, you used to talk with them for hours.
I miss my tea with cardamom, no more biryanis with flavoured aromas.
I barely open windows now, no more sunsets with sweet laughter.
I know I am alone.
The rocking chair is still now, my washed clothes are piled up, utensils are misplaced, rooms are devoid of sunlight, tv remote is broken, only news channels are played, no more guava and lemon juices,your favourite dog has gone.
Mother
The house and I need repairment
You have left me a void only to enlarge by now.
I never put my glasses in place,
They too are feeling lost.
I sit in the void now only to find more nullifying moments.
A Coffee For a New Horizon
I laughed at the masses, melancholy
of peonage engraved them a lot:
for they could survive only with that.
Their means and sustenance were fenced
all between the daily routines.
They could no longer think different
nor could they survive a new mode.
I laughed at them
They all were the same, not a milieu distinct.
They were mere packages
To be delivered to homes as soon as possible.
No more exciting talks,
no more awesome conversations,
no new breeds of coffee.
All alike…
I talked with the protesters, non conformists
Even to the lunatics.
I found them more laudatory than the
vainglory masses of earth.
How come the world is full of these bragging dudes?
The coffee still smells of narcissism.
Let me shift it to irrational, idiotic, insane talkers
And doers.
They can make a new tomorrow, I believe.
I dig deep into the coffee mug to melt the smell.
A new horizon needs a new hoi polloi.
A new coffee that tastes the new alignments.
My laugh will be more echoing ever than before,
for it is an era shifting.
The Himalayas hum the old song.
The visible pack of wolves
delve into a cave,
for new species to retract their pathways.
Ancient trees bearing wisdoms
sway to and fro,
they know to produce new tales of enlightenment.
The dark potholes brim into
tyres of madness.
The sphinx can make a comeback,
for miles are rather demolished out.
The souvenir of Himalayas
play a tune of reverence.
The golden beams address
new glory of sunken delights.
The night calms into dense woods,
new lullabies engage out
the old tales of reveries.
The traveller stands aloof in great canyon
for his breath falls out
into a vast canvas of snowflakes.
The moment holds a vibration with
mind and matter
submerges out.
New portraits play their tunes,
cuckoo and hummingbird
lashes out an unsung breed of melodies.
The raven swims into light flakes
for life surrounds there.
An array of cattle flocks into green vegetation.
The shepherd lost of sheep,
submerged into bottomless fathoms.
The unsung flute charges mild
melodies.
New refrains must collapse into
vast valleys.
Here
time subdues into dimensions,
a monk visits the unlisted pathways,
listens to phantoms of past,
mingles with lost souls,
choruses with carcasses,
converses the beasts-
All with dignity and pureness.
His words and chords
signals a past runway
channeling folks of
unheard biographies.
History has woven its dignity
with concord and magnanimity,
new sagas of eclipses tune into
older moons now.
Full moons sing enchantment.
The yeti is still searched out,
but he lies beneath the snow dugouts.
Monk purges out all these
dimensions.
He chooses to reveal all.
His mind and body
waters the Himalayas.
He seems to rest on the mountain
his thoughts cocooning vast mountains.
The Himalayas sing a tune,
after many centuries,
merging the age old saga into
crown of audacity.
The monk smiles a little,
he gets what he wants.
The chant can vibrate rhythms in many
souls.
The loneliness of great mountain is
extinct now.
The monk can sleep well now.
About the Author
Anusha U, a poet and orator, works as an Assistant Professor of English at Mother Theresa College,Trivandrum. Her poems have been published in anthologies – Cascade, Limerence, Nobody knows but You, Roses and Flames and also in online literary magazines.
