Saturday, August 1, 2009

My Village,

My Village…
Like words of Greek which force us to stammer,
Like proverbs that never fit into the situation proper,
Like Hi and bye that silence every conversation
Like language that escapes all communication
Strangly, a stranger ever forgotten,
Where I was once born.

The benthic field of eroded rock, finely polished and cut,
The xeric land with smothered boulders that once swept
And decorated with motherly care like fruits in a market,
One above the other with a laborious task that was set.

A colour aberration needs a meaningful narration.
It is a roof under the shades of hell.
A dormant volcano, smoking still...
Below the mantle, a lovable nest,
Where sun god never rests,

A vast unending plateau under the sky
Where only two seasons share,
Summer and severe summer..!!
And it is a hot furnace out there
In fact a urban idlers night mare
Where rains have lost their way like a polar bear,
In a never seen rain forest ever before.
Rains are only songs of melody that are only heard,
But, alas! rarely seen and souls remained unbathed,
Mere survival is ever unreachable in this land.

The art is yet unfinished on its burning blue canvas,
The rusted and worn out brush has gone colourless,
The shrinking skeleton with numerous nails,
The life full of sorrows in its immortal search, fails
The hand of unseen is unknown is swirrling in gales.

The sound unheard,
Still vibrating in the hills of echoes
The wordless voice piercing through the space
The unexploded silence of the frozen emotions
The shameless, selfish unholy xeromorphic cactus,
Has denuded the mesic crown and canopy,
And the screw pine orchard sleeping still in my village,
where uncleared pungent piled up garbage,
Lie still waiting for the municipal carriage.

The prop roots of banyan near the village goddess,
Rooted to the values those are never forgotten,
With blood smear from the sacrificed buffalo,
turning the soil to scarlet
Standing an immortal witness still,
The blood spilled soil still scattered in the nearby hill.

The trees of acacia rooted to the thirsty red soil,
Are just fire woods never edible,
Tease the hungers that burns in toil,
The local dye bush, branched like blood capillaries
Never reaches the needy and tired souls,

Lush tropical greens are not seen, as cactus rules,
The roasted land like an emperor mad.
Monsoon defeated and surrendered
The joyous famine celebrates victory unconquered.

The wrinkled skin of my granny,
The guest house for too many, it may,

The floating and gliding winged seed of oxalis,
Falling slowly to embrace its grave of gravity
Mother earth beneath, Creeps in to the cavity,
The wild dance of blinding light and melting heat,
an eternal reality, in the plains of vacuum,
for ever we may loose our sanity.

The ever burnt blacken and steaming tar roads,
Engraved the modern art with assorted tools,
Has sown the illusionaries dream seeds,
And my mother prays with sweating beads,
The greedy embryo growing fast,
like Chinese bamboo shoot,
To take birth as fast as an ugly tongue protruding beast
Do we expect an evolutionary abortion abruptly?
our one and only,
sun gets frozen permanently….????


Anonymous said...

has tried his level best to give a poetic frame to his experience..but has neither failed nor succeeded in his effort..can read for a chage...


Anonymous said...

Undoubtedly both the poems are very well described but I felt it was too lengthy. The author could have cut it short by some lines.
I feel the reader may lose interest after a few lines as this goes well more as a prose than poetry.
The lack of rhyming words or should I say less rhyming or not properly placed rhyming may also be linked to the first point.
Also it feels like the poet...? Wanted to convey everything at one go hence the poem has become too long.
These re the only few points i cud find, apart form this it looks fine.

It’s just my opinion; I might be wrong in looking at it. If I have got the undertone and content and format wrong the writer has right to ignore my comment...


Blog Archive