Glopowrimo #18 Elegy 1 For Tina from her brother immediately elder to her

Someone put some mud in his extended left hand
He looked at it, uncomprehending
Put it in, down there, a voice said
He looked down at his feet
And as his eyes travelled, from left foot forward
There it was
A two foot by one foot hole, dug in the ground
Holding the small box of wood
In a shape he could not describe
Not having the word for it
Ten years old is too young to know much
(Elongated, hexagonal, it was, he knows now)
He could no longer see that face
Only the clean, almost white, yellow of the wood's grain
Around him the voices which he could not make out, in refrain
of sad song or funereal chant of prayer
Around him the milling crowd of people, people, faceless, faces, known ,unknown, everywhere when all he wanted was to be left alone, by everyone
What had drawn so many there?
He opened his hand and let fall the earth
Watched it fall with no sound he could hear
And disperse into its tiny particles
Along with other clods of earth
'Dust thou art and to dust thou dost return'
Then he understood
Something wet his cheeks burned
He wondered had she discerned
The sound of the sand
Hitting her roof
That it was different
And from his hand
Then jerked
Out of that mad reverie
She was gone
Under, forever
Even her tiny face
Tiny, how funny, so close to her name
You just change one letter and a whole world shrinks and a person is gone
Only the hope was left
Of meeting in eternity or heaven
Or some other life
Or the memory
Or both, or whichever
Was more true
So with Nothing left to do
He left
Before they covered her and the box up
With spades and shovels and picks
Gravely, as befits a new grave
He does not remember if he turned and looked
One last time -
How lame! -
The scene to frame
Not knowing it would never fade...

Lost and found

If no one writes it is okay by me
I can write enough to make up for the rest
If some don't read it is okay by me
There is always someone else who will and tell me he or she
likes it all the same, and that is all one needs
to keep going on in the way I used to do or be 
when you were there. I just pretend it is still the past
close my eyes. It's yesterday and your poems and comments
Come in waves and memories
Like perfumes of Araby 
To soothe the fears in the child; the little, lost, and lonely me.

Just a blurb

Seventeen days - 21 poems.

Muse, I finally feel your presence with me
I am back in the flow, I am raring to go
I miss you as much as you miss me
Together we made such a team
Five each day if you were there
Now I have mellowed and come down to two
But today as the pressures increase
I may write five, and this is now two!

Glopowrimo 17 - Shifting points of view/ for Leonardo di Caprio and Kate Winslet

In the movie she was nude
In reality it was only to the waist

In the movie he drew her
In reality he was just getting to know her

In the movie they made passionate love
In reality it was rather hot in the studio

In the movie and out of it
He could not resist telling her her breasts were hot

In the movie they stood on the prow of the ship
In reality she was scared of how

In the movie they fell in love
In reality they told each other of their loves

In the movie the water filled the ship
In reality she wept at the tragedy of the Titanic

In the movie he died and she was left
In reality they were happy it was a huge hit

You can replay but not change
the ending, but in reality they did.

Glopowrimo Dramatic Monologue 2

Fateful women - Dramatic monologue of Vincent talking to Dr Gachet for the last time in his absence

So where was I, Dr Gachet?
May.
Yes, then I was not a painter.
But I was. Already. Effects appeared to me in colours
So when she rejected me I felt everything swallowed up in browns.
The Dutch school is very dull and full of dark and turgid colours and that must have influenced me unconsciously.
The miners at Rouen were all shades of black, green, and gold but strangely vivid like the night sky seen when one is having a fit of epilepsy
The women looked out of shape or carrying.
Perhaps there was something wrong with meto see them as they are, suffering, and try to draw them to evoke sympathy for them.
Later, there was that model Christine but she tortured me.
So I painted her in venomous blues and yellows that were not sun or sunflower or cornflower sky blue.
I painted my impressions, my thoughts, my feelings, I never looked at the brush or the colour something exact
I applied knife to canvas or squeezed the paint directly on
It lay thick on the world like a bad case of rash
like semen or food, left-overs at that
delicious and sometimes gone bad
And Rachel, she was orange and red
"Fou-rou" she called me but I made her bronzed
While I bled, tired of prostitutes and every one else
Strange sounds buzzed in my ears corresponding to colours
My head reeled as in the days of sun-stroke and heat haze and of my fights with Gauguin
I missed my brother, Theo
I missed my painter friends
I missed my miners
I missed May most pitiably
I missed my childhood and my family
I missed Paris but loved Arles more
I missed even the commune and the gospel
Now I have come to the end of days
This is my shot gun
I am in a daze
Talking to you
And will put things in place
The sun is in a mighty blaze
But even you are not here
Let me pull the trigger

Glopowrimo #17 (another one presenting another point of view)

For Antonie de Saint Exupery.

The little prince
sat on the beach
made sand castles so many, many
for the waves whom he loved.

The waves came up to him
surrounded
licked liked loved
embraced
caressed
washed bathed wetted pampered him
then withdrew
leaving
taking the sand-castles
with them.

Only
bubbles sinking
of froth into the darkening sand
as his companions, remained.

The sun, of another planet not his, in front of him
into the wine-dark alien sea, sank.

Glopowrimo #17 (mixing up two prompts from yesterday and today.)

I could say they reminded him of his mother

I could say they made him reach out for a cigarette

I could say they made his mouth develop a nervous tic

I could say they made his hands agitated

They wired his brain and unwired his mind

They made him lick his attractive lips

They made him lick his meaty chops

They made him run his tongue over his lips

They made him go mad

Did it want him like that?

Did it want him vulnerable, and dangerous?

Did it want him down on his knees, begging me please?

Did it want him to take them in his hands?

Did it long for his mouth and his lips and his tongue?

Did everything hang around this centre of bliss?

Did it or didn't it, Freud be hanged!?

It wanted a head to rest on it

It wanted a hand to be gentle to it

It wanted hands, later, to be harsh to it

It wanted whispers to run tremors through it

It wanted attention, it screamed for it

It wanted to be freed, to be seen, to be appreciated

It wanted to be taken or left to be. Just as it is.

It wanted more than the whole world could give

It was the tip of his unexplored planets

He was the waiter and he wanted his tips

It was an obsession, lack of control, possession

Was it only lust or more than it?

It wanted to be wet, to blow hot, and hot-cold

It was a poem with no end to it

"Oh, do not ask what is it."

If it lets you, come, go, make your visit.

Glopowrimo #16 - An Alarm Clock and a Glow Toy Sends You all a Poem :)

I begin teetiteetittiteetiteeing
at him
at six
Sometimes he lets me go on
for an hour
before he stirs

My numbers glow green
in the brightening...
before his hand
stops me
hitting me on the raised promontory of the back of my head
white
square
glass-faced
CASIO box
that I am
from 'alarming'!

When he was a new
father
at night from the open carboard or wooden toy-box
would climb out
Glo
and glow
see him and her
sleeping
with their two girls
all somehow squeezed rough and tumble
in on a small bed rumble toss turn and mumble snore
turn toss and grumble snort
Glo would laugh
as in the day time
he had heard him tell them
stories
of how in the night
the toys
would come out of the box
playing
in the moonlight
and starlight
and Glo's light
if there was no light
on a dark night
not knowing
it was so
nightly!

The fluorescent Glo
&
the phosphorescent hands of his alarm clock know
things are not as they seem

We, not them, seen from what they are
who they are
their side
their eyelessness
their non-being;
are illumined, luminous
joyful, joyous
weird
us human
beings
defamiliarizing our 'mundane'
and listing
our antics.

Teetiteetititeetiteeing.

Glopowrimo #15

An Elegy and an Ode to Notre Dame as a monologue
"Paris is burning" - Dominique Lapierre and Larry Collins

If a church burns
it can be rebuilt
but if faith is lost
it is difficult to retrieve

A place of worship
can be big or small
here or there
great or humble
but it can be replaced
or even not...

It is fragile and imperfect
like the people in it
and a work always in progress
with a sign on its knocker:
construction and alteration going on

There have been churches
built with love
and churches built
with hatred too
love to those within
love to those without
hatred to those within
hatred to those without
and different combos of these four

A church is not
just a major, historical, significant, cultural landmark!
or only a mythical, archetypal warehouse you can ransack for images
but living
It is supposedly
a refuge for humans
made of people whose hearts are temples
given to
the service of God, and all

The bells and spires
the stained-glass art
the naves and kneelers
the pews and pianos
the pulpit and the  baptismal font
the cross and the hanged man
the rock and the Rock
the martyrs and saints
& all that aspire
to a higher eminence
came much later
only, into being
as symbols and icons
of something much deeper

First they - were - lived
and, yes, greater
which truth was also
found in the East
in the sermons of Buddha
in the words of Nanak
in the wandering minstrels
and their madrigals
in the sages who wrote
the Vedas and the Upanishads

All who aspire for the Light of God
and towards it
know that a church
is a place that is for it
open and skywards
founded in the earth
the symbol for Nature
and reaching for the sky
which is a symbol of heaven and the Universe
and full of treasures
made by man
to show his longing for the Divine

The art work in the Notre Dame
the writings of Hugo
and his hunchback
and the bishop and his candlesticks
are treasures
that will live on
never die
as long as time...

Nortre Dame will be rebuilt
as a call to all people
to return from their sins
of colonialism
imperialism
racism
patriarchy
gender bias
class differences
linguistic chauvinism
paedophilia, nun abuse, excesses in poverty, celibacy and obedience among and to the clergy
instead of purity, marriage and co existence while loving God
misguided nationalism, jingoism, fascism, fanaticism or zealotry
hatred of other sects and denominations
and other religions
all to be washed away

Again it will be filled
with songs and choristers
with incense and candelabra
with the signs of newness
for even our evil times
and the old Notre Dame in the mind
in memories
unvisited, but remembered
continue to be a hope
that what was can again come to be
to be a beacon of a lighthouse
of culture for the world
without its stains
but full of faith and love.

Copyright Koshy AV

I wanted to put two pictures of before and right now but poetry is/speaks better.

Glopowrimo #14 :)

His name was Dick. Now don't laugh. Isn't it better than Dirk, or Dirt, you carp? A single syllable is enough, it seems. To make some people want to barf. Barf it is, not bard, I swear. And her surname, it was Kant, not C*nt. Yes, as in the philosopher Kant. Don't know what you will do with such a dirty mind! If I said wussy, you would hear *ussy. What can I do if English is crazy? Now Dick and Daisy, - yes, it was not *ussy! - were about each other totally crazy. He was a square and she, well, a skirt. He, crazy about her skirt, and she, about his shirt. He was quite flirty, and she pretended to be shirty, till he lifted her skirt and she took off his shirt. They were a pair, and she had two pears he wanted to eat, so she gave him her seat. When it was night he said "I am your knight", and she gave him a slap on the tip of his... cap. Nightcap, I mean, you reader who can't keep your thoughts to yourself, and want me to write what is not right, to laugh at my gaffe. Now Dick and Daisy went for a ride, as Dick was 'in' Daisy's.., car, not care. Dick was a poet and Daisy a stripper, so to the bar they cavorting went, where Dick would read homonyms and homophones and Daisy let folks write homographs on her while they stuffed her stockings with cash as she suspendered herself or upended her legs on a pole. They play Johnny Cash in that joint and smoke joints.
Then a man called Sick tried to put coins in her bra. Sick, not sic. Dick had a gun and he took it out. He knew where to show his beef. A gun, dear reader, not his wussy, in truth! He shot Sick in his potbelly and Sick died. Sic. And sick! Daisy did not know whether to laugh or to cry. They took Dick away to the gaol next day, but he swore he would reach his goal next time. Sick to the morgue they took in a hearse driven by a horse  for his last rite and Daisy was left. But Daisy was right, to love Dick and not Sick, though the course of true love runs wrong pretty quick. What's with that and homonyms, and homographs and homophones we write? No telling, but no one can help standing and staring when beauty cums by. You gotta  hold on to it, through thick and thin, you gotta ride it, baby, hard and fast.

Long, long ago I had put a story on storymirror on Gaza which also came in my short story book Scream and Other Urbane Legends by Dr Koshy AV

Today was amazed to get this stats from story mirror - can't say I am not pleased! Would be lying - I am damn pleased! I mean 26225 reads and 540 likes! What on earth! Though it took a long time!

STORYMIRROR
LITERARY REPORT
11th April, 2019
Dear Ampat Koshy,

We are glad that sometime back you stepped into our army of literary warriors and began your journey to protect literature and reach out to millions of civilians. Your journey so far in the literary army battalion has been highly appreciated and we would love to share a glimpse of the same with you:

1. Number of contents written:
1
Contents Submitted

2. Number of views [All contents]:
26225
Total views

3. Number of likes [All contents]:
540
Total likes

4. Total minutes your contents have been read on SM [All contents]:
131125
Total reads

5. Average Editorial Score:
8
Average Score

After taking your work into consideration, we would like to formally designate you as our Literary Colonel.

Congratulations for the same.

As the Literary Colonel you are responsible to keep promoting heartfelt literature to millions of civilians and preserve it for the endless years to come.

Once again, congratulations on your new designation!
We look forward to keep reading and listening your stories & poems.

Here is the story if you want to read it.

"https://storymirror.com/…/sto…/english/33cutfnq/gaza-s-child"

# Glopowrimo #13/2 Vodoo doll :D

Brenda was a very cute and very pretty doll
When her owner grew up, a girl would come to call
Her name was Zelda, and she made Brenda rather cross
That Tom no longer wanted her but Zelda, after all
Brenda made a small girl, who was still rather tall
Stuck her full of pins, and, oh yeah, she looked like Zelda Koll
You could hear Zelda scream throughout that fall
As the pins went in, to make her creep and crawl
And Tom had to leave her, as they thought her mad an' all
Tom returned to Brenda, or being all alone:
Brenda smiled her cute, cute smile, and made lil' Zelda drown
As a fitting finale, to invert the usual tale
Of the vodoo doll. She killed her human doll.

Glopowrimo #13

Believe it or not
there are ghostly incantations
spells that are cast
at midnight, and in graveyards
tantric ones, some chants
invoking the help of spirits
that can bind a man or woman
to another
in strange charms
if done aright -
believe it or not!

There once lay a maid
on a perfumed bed
Her eyes were closed
her dreams were sweet
when suddenly she felt
a man standing by her
who reached for her breast
and said, "do not move",
who slid under her coverlet -
She froze into a trance
did she wake or sleep? -
while the stranger, at the chance
did his bidding, & left
When she woke up, next
there was nothing in the room
except for the curtains moving
moving, not at rest!

There once slept a man
in a flowery bower -
a king or prince, they said -
when a white light entered
his sleeping tower
took the form of a woman
floating 'bove the ground
beautiful, and then she laughed
taking off her wrap
He watched, transfixed, unable to move
as she climbed into his bed
When he woke up, she was gone
but the bedsheet was sweat-wet!

There are stranger stories
of love made to the dead
of necrophilia in a boat
to an old lover's corpse
by a man who had turned
to the left-hand
path, it was rumoured -
a rumour full of dread!

But the strangest one of all
was of a lady who, 'twas said
turned into a snake
to clasp to herself, in coils
her lover who'd just died
and with her forked tongue kissed him
often, in the neck
while his 'corse' she dragged along
to the sea, to sink
into its deep crevices
with him, fore'er, but cleft!

There are other tales too
of deeds done after death
of spirits meeting in the air
commingling in the sky
restless, restless in the heart
and to the end, beware!
Going through some turbulence
caused in this life, to them
ne'er able to cease from wand'ring
spirits wanting yet
union with other sprites or souls
cut from the same breath
tossing, turning, waiting for,
bodies to possess
to go, & try to fulfill then
their longings best left unexpressed!
Yes! There are other tales!

A short story, for a change.

A friend of his had got an award. It was a very big one. He went along as they were like Leonardo and Kate. The program was in the night and at the VJT Hall. There were a lot of luminaries coming, and so she wanted him to be there. It was fun to be back in the VJT again, where he had gone long ago as a child and played TT, and run up the rickety, wooden stairs to the bell tower at the top. Red brick painting with white lines on the walls as most of the buildings in TVM had been then giving it a distinctive edge. She looked resplendent in a chiffon and there were the usual speeches in which they got some things wrong like the name of one of her books etc. But it was all grist for the mill. Usual. You were given an award by the Governor who had never heard of you before that day and would give the book you gave him as a complimentary copy to an aide who would keep it in the shelf in his home library or office. End of story, usually, unless what you had written was so extraordinary that it compelled people to read it. Age of democratization and at the same time every book, almost, was worth reading once. However the photographs would fetch you a thousand likes on fb, she in her resplendent sari and the Guv., not to mention the Sec. of Culture and Arts, IAS, and the writers, grey, old, bald, grizzled, spectacled, and the publisher and journalists.

After the meet and greet, and the usual party and wine and dine after it, she insisted he drop her home and then go which he dutifully did, where he laughed at her in the cab for the book the Guv. would not read. Awards given by people who hadn't read them and didn't know what was really significant about them as writers but given mainly on hearsay or some such untoward thing. The world of the surface. He was the only one she would let do that, laugh at her, she knew he was incorrigible and hearltess, and she brushed it off after laughing first with an impatient wave of her hand, as both she and he knew that all these were things that only mattered temporarily, he being the confirmed rebel not interested in them, and she being the sensible one knowing that it was all part of life and needed too.

The taxi felt empty as he went home in it after dropping her. He tried remembering occasions when he had been given awards, lesser ones, and could hardly remember them. He wondered what had really mattered to him in his career. There had been moments when a writer he respected or honoured had come to him and said you are really something as a writer, Nobel Prize nominees and such like. Perhaps those moments had mattered, yes, definitely they had, but not as much as the one memory he cherished, not having another one he had wanted. His mother had passed away before all his books came and he had instead only his father left to show them to. So when his first or third book came his sister had taken it as a large print-out and given it to his Dad who had read it and that was to him the most poignant memory he had which he felt was a real achievement as the book had been dedicated to him. Later had come the one dedicated to his Mom, though written earlier, but she was no longer there to see it. It comforted him that his Dad had read the one dedicated to him, before passing away. No award could match that feeling. His friend had no mother or father to show them to, maybe that was why he mattered so much to her. We all need someone who will actually read us, understand us, appreciate, weigh, assess, judge and value us, assign or give us our real value, and that someone should be someone whose word we count significant, not someone superficial or from the rabble and the riff-raff.

Show and tell #Glopowrimo12 (The signficant and the dull)

God told Abraham or Ibrahim
Take your son
and kill him at once
The father said, What the ....?
God said, if you don't want me on your tail, go on
Where do you want this murder done?
God said, you crazy man, it can't be done!
Instead of Isaac or Ismail, a ram was killed

Oedipus came into the big town
Seeking his mother and father he'd come
The king came down the road in a rush
In a carriage, and would stop for none
Oedipus, enraged, threw a spear at him
That was the first case of fratricide
Where the son had killed his dad
Without knowing it, Delphic oracle decreed

Mary or Mirian gave birth to a boy
Some people took him and nailed him to a cross
for saying he was a/The son/Son of God
whom he called "Abba"", which was pretty odd
He also said he knew Abraham or Ibrahim
My God, nothing stopped them from killing him
for being different from them all
But where he was, said Estragon
"It was warm, and they crucified quick"
Estragon who always compared himself to him
Waiting for Godot who never came in

Stories about fathers and sons
Fathers kill sons
Sons kill fathers
Stories of God and gods and their unreasonable demands
Men and women look on, feeling dim and dull
Fathers love sons
Sons love fathers
Afterwards the irrational God or gods make amends
In the margins, a ram was killed
Did that ram have a kid?
A curse came on the land because Oedipus was quick
To throw a spear, to kill the Sphinx
To marry Jocasta, his mother, and to end up punished
His crime being wanting to know the truth
wanting to know who his parents are
Millions have died or spoken true in the name of Christ
Millions have killed or been killed or lied in the name of Christ
All this is, no doubt, significant

I come to tell you now of the dull
What of daughters, and of rams' and their kids?
What of mothers who lose children to war, hunger, famine or disease?
What of sons who lose their fathers?
What of fathers away from their sons?
What of fathers who are away from their daughters?
What of daughters who lose their fathers?
What of daughters who lose their mothers?
What of mothers who lose their daughters?
What of the orphans and the widows?
What of siblings left alone to care for each other?
Oh, this list of questions is very dull
But in it is hid my real treasure
Beyond the stories is an impenetrable silence
That only asks what have you done
Not not done
for each stone that you threw at someone
or each hand you gave to lift up the fallen
who was carrying his own or her own
weight or burden
transforming the dull
putting an end to the insistent tom-tom
of the what of of my innumerable boring questions
at least once or for a while
making the dull shine, in a trice
What of the questions, if there are no attempts
made to allay the fears of one
or some or a few or many
made to allay the fears of all?

Glopowrimo #11

Home away from homes after homes after homes...

Being born into a rented house
home was to me four people
not brick, stone and mortar
The four became five, then six
then five
and then finally a house
where the five became four
and then two were left
and here I finally start to include me
who became six
but we had to leave
five of us
back to rented houses
Then five became just me
in another country
and again in rented places
while four remained back
We occasionally meet
Life, a game of numbers
additions, subtractions, multiplications, divisions, tired miscalculations
and uncountable nouns
like joy, laughter, tears...

Where was home, ever?
In the arms of my mother?
In all those houses we stayed
or in that home my father bought
in Thiruvanathapuram?
In our ancestral dwelling in Punnaveli
or where ancestors and relatives dwelt
or later, in Alwaye and Banglalore
or in two places in Saudi
or one in Libya?
Where was home
but in the heart and family
in memories
and friendships
and in never having one
till my father died and gave me one
for the sake of my only autistic, begotten son
Where was home?
In the land that I bought
which has a well
or the village for autism
I plan to build but which has not panned out yet?
Or in this lonely self-imposed exile from
here to there
& then to now
a never-ending collage of images
I carry
the weight of which is like carrying the cross
killing me, but which I cannot yet set down?

Not that there was no happiness,
it was there too,
as Beckett says
in the smell of the kudamulla in one of those rented houses
by which my mother stood
herself, as bright as the moon
and in the neem tree's leaves that fell on the front yard
small, just a thin strip
just after she'd swept it clean
in the house that her husband had finally bought for her
where she would pass on to her 'heavenly abode'.

Where was home?
In the happiness of a few years in
the same house
with a laughing wench for a better half
and three golden children
like the stars
before life pulled out a red card
to wave me off
the football field
of my desire to live, crying foul to it
to punish me for sins done or good deeds not done...
as if I was more important than global catastrophes?!

Where was home when we went to a new town
and my chidlren tried to run out of their new school
two small girls
to try to stow away on a train to their old place
to be again with the grandfather they had left behind?
It was hidden for a while behind a dark cloud but revived in the smiles
of a little boy who could not speak
who became our rebuilt-time-and-again-home, the cement that glued
our lives again together
the kintsugi in our cups

Obscured by clouds
four there, one here
the Years fled by
while I walked strange streets
under foreign moons
visting foreign shores
where strange biblical waves
beat against the sand no longer of yore
not of the beaches of my childhood
blue bright daylit water water that looked black to me in the sunlight

Home.
The place that does not exist
unless there is one
around the arriving next-bend
home where even the lost years
the locusts ate
can be regained
One can only pray for that home
This is not poetry
Just a personal elegy
An attempt to build a temporary shanty
for the wayfaring
on a quest grown weary
to make ends meet
to have enough to
greet -
a home made of words and verse at which I am well versed -
the dawns and the tomorrows
the nights and the sorrows
to fare forth and be nearer
by not keeping still
keeping death at bay
like midnight's blue
so that before that there will be
a home
then death's home
and then that final rest-home of all
where even death has no sting
and cannot call.

Glopowrimo 10

Wrote one more. On the weather, and a belief.

"In spite of that, they call this Friday good." - TS Eliot
"Everywhere you go, always take the weather with you - Crowded House"

I still remember that black blouse you wore.
I still remember how your skin shone like the sun
In the sky, the black clouds gathered
You swore
It being Good Friday, it would rain
Everytime it did
& I, child that I was, believed
Now you are gone
But still I do
Remember
& still, believe
Against all odds
That it rains
Each 'Sad' Friday, now
In your absence
& do you know, mother, it still does.
In Thiruvananthapuram
or where'er I am.
Now the raindrops fall
on my upturned face
streak it like tears
no more just for Him
but for you, too
gone to your home -
the sky is still crying -
for you are to me
what His mother was, to Him.

Glopowrimo 10

Wrote one more.

"In spite of that, they call this Friday good." - TS Eliot

I still remember that black blouse you wore.
I still remember how your skin shone like the sun
In the sky, the black clouds gathered
You swore
It being Good Friday, it would rain
Everytime it did
& I, child that I was, believed
Now you are gone
But still I do
Remember
And still, believe
Against all odds
That it rains
Each Sad Friday, now
In your absence
and do you know, mother, it still does.
In Thiruvananthapuram
or where'er I am
now the raindrops fall
on my upturned face
streak it like tears
no more just for Him
but for you, too
gone to your home
the sky is crying
for you are to me
what His mother was, to Him.

Glopowrimo #10 - one third of Glopowrimo done!

There was always a gap
between me and everything.

Reading of London
never having been,
or of American or French weather (terms and phrases)
but what did it have to do with my childhood, all this talk of heather
or gorse in the British countryside
even if it was in 'Wuthering Heights' which I indisputably loved?

It was the same with people
and my own landscape.
I knew the names of things
but the things themselves would escape me
unknowable
or I knew the things
but not their names
(or it was all confused between Malayalam, English and Hindi -
gloriously mismatched misfits -
Had I been sent by my mother to buy 'kakadi' or cucumber or ??????
Ah, yes, vellarikka!)
and people never understood me
that I was sometimes as harmless as the bumble bee
and sometimes as vicious as the ettadi moorkhan (eight-foot cobra)
but then again
I always saw
them
in a light, no different, that they themselves could not see.

Where were we, oh, let me see!
Yes, coming back to the weather
and this damn concept of the prompt
it never rained cats and dogs
in my vicinity
or even puppies and kittens.
As for regional phrasing and dialect
ours was much more earthy
we say "mazha peyunnu
maddalam kottunnu
maaraandachikku thooran muttunnu"
which translates to "the rain is falling
the drum is beating
maaraan's wife feels like shitting"
Don't ask me why or ''what is its meaning?" :D
We love the kodungattu (storm-wind),
the chuzhelikattu (whirlwind)
We don't have the kaal boishakhi (nor'westers)
of Kol
and every Malayali guy
has this dream of
"it's raining, it's pouring
the old man is snoring
went to bed and bumped his head
and couldn't get up in the morning"
a Spanish Feliciano dream
while the hero sneaks out
the back-door and back-yard
and makes love to the heroine
in the driving, frenzied, wet and thundering-lightning
at or by or near the sarpakavu (serpent shrine)
bitten by snakes and the snake of lust
and love, and longing, and never regretting.

1. rivers in verse
rivers inversereverse rivers
rivers re-verse

2. The Periyar is my river
Our river
The secret of the river
is that it once had banks
on which people settled
for giving them water
the drink of life
and no river is more
or less
than any other
holy

Celebrated in a song
in Malayalam
in a film
it holds intimate memories

I have sailed on it in a huge boatsat on its steps
gazed at it for hours
from behind it wall
adjoining the YMCAnear Aluvamanappuram
admired its depth and blue
and how the sunshine sparkles
and at night the moon
on its creased surface
and how the river flows

I could stand or sit for hours
just watching it flow

3 Nature in its peace
quiet
calm
aglow
symbolized by the river
used to make me slow-
ly wake up to what was saidin Holy Writ
Creation shews forth thy power
and make me feel its song
making me a poet
akin to the sylvan ones
of Romantic fame
and akin to Hopkins
who knew to learn from it

I too would jot down thoughts
but only in my mindhow green became greenr
framed against the river's blue might
how pretty was the contrast
'tween blue above and blue below
and how the reflections of the sky
made rivers put Dali to shame

For walking on its bank
and watching the clouds float by
in the mirror of the rivermade me feel in the sky
in which the river was flowing
that'd let me get off by and by

It was a tipsy feeling.