Monthly Archives: December 2011

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To the Old and New Year

White, green, violet, blue and red
Blossom flowers on meadow’s bosom bed.
The brook’s violin, I suddenly heard
It longingly played and strayed
To break my soothing solitude

I then sat by your side
Together in silence
We chatted
About Caeser’s bed and Wimpfen Bad.
As I your hand held,
Wind and leaves chimed
Music and brew blended

In the stillness deep, I gazed
Brook slowed, wondered, admired,
Surfed, pebble washed, gurgled.
A moment of quietude- Decembered.

Your lips I saw all cherry-dyed
Deep recessed my gratitude
Your Kastonian cheeks then shyly blushed
We together, slyly; turned and hid
Among the grass so lively but so tired.
As the locks in tender lay
I forgot all talk of haimweh ,
And perhaps even my home way.

In gratitude -

I held your tuliped skin
Wiped the sweat off your tan,
Danced in sprays of rain.
Dewdrops then fell on leaves,
Gleams shone in night heaves
You and I, in weaves yet again,
Until you said: Auf Widersehen.

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Frankfurt

Loitering around Frankfurt

Taunus Park

The Taunus addicts trailed me to Hauptwache,
A morbid lot spread , still awake.
Glass syringes, spattered on cold steps,
Taunus’ damp, dried, faint blood mops.

Taunusanlage

On Gleis Drei, in the S-Bahn,
I met the old, kind warrior man,
We spoke of the war, the desert
The emptiness of might and hate

Haupt Bahnoff

At the bahnoff, I bought a lotto
The lady vendor was for my luck in toto
The number was away a quarter to say
She said I would win another day.

Parkstrasse

Quiet and dustless windows,
Hesse’s tall Kastonian trees,
Bold, fair pigeons atop chimneys
Different from those on home alleys
Across are the occupiers’ building
Unkempt largesse in Achtung

Kaisserstrasse

The neon lamps are all red,
Their flickers are now tired,
German dreams here are nude
The escapist shows are not rude

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Mumbai

Mumbai : The Stone Movers

They run like wind kissed leaves,
Moving earth in Sophoclian heaves
Impervious glazed eyes
Tangled in rocky ties
Detached unto skies
In heated, imbalanced lands
They blast with raw hands
Load them in neat strands
Truckloads of hopes
Tie them in despair ropes
Pack all their dreams
Write home in stone reams.
Sit atop a joy ride reclaimed
Dump them by the sea-side
The boulders to be sucked
Into the abyss of the seaweed.

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Kollam Memories…

The dim kerosene lamp,
Soot-laden, warm but damp,
My friend’s Commie Dad,
Retired, hurt, eyes so betel red.

The musty smell of old rice,
Dried, dark plantain leaf and spice,
Broken benches, dust-embellished classrooms,
Graffiti marked sordid School walls.

The Teacher’s childless gloom.
Afternoon rice in our dried hand,
Little throats dread tired future parched,
The story of non-bailable debt unsaid.

The coir-fibre clay slimy wet,
The back-water’s soft moans in sweat,
Stains of brown all over,
Vine husky nymphoniac on stealth for cover.

The fisherwomen trashes up early morn,
I hear them heaves , previous whispers of roving landlord’s son.
Tonight, the lights on the water fill my heart,
Reflections in ripple sight.

House rich, cash poor!

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The Recession

On Wall Street floors, the brave
De-ride the real market wave,
The tired scrips are overbought
Of unsold fatigues unquenched
Future gold bits dust inflated
Deep Asian scars in bullish heart.

Insomnia- awakened¬, EU unleashed,
Among the shares a quietude,
Fettered munificence, rebelled street
Blocked- pessimistically bear resigned,
Hopes and fears on figures released,
Spartan Greek budgets and Roman targets.

Brokers stay Bunds and bond indebted,
In bank books’ traded but red and barrened,
Suited, unkempt Bloomberged,
The studious, Reuters unlearned
Monetarist and columnist are all un-prophecied.

Fed analysis undone by the learned,
For here in this grand land,
Fear treads in technical cycle.
The bull says it is a lull,
Ere it locks horns again,
In torrent for the terrain.

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An Immigrant’s Song

It is cold, windy and an unknown way,
The forlorn curtain sheets sway wildly.
My heart aches for your feel
In a closed world, thoughts are all.
I run from this empty, long, night
I search the strange street
For meaning in my pursuit
My dictionary tattered, decrepit
Cannot find your face in the passing crowd
My ephemeral chase so meaningless
My soul friend here is restlessness.

Yesterday, long yesterday,
I spent by this rimmed window
Trying to reflect away the Roman castle of my sorrow
Reams of home memories keep coming on.
Red discarded tiles stacked on Parkstrasse’s footpath,
Much like they keep them well by the home ¬hearth
Red roses on neighbour’s flower paths
Bright, scented but tired in neat slots
They sway in the retreat of a thought

As I walk from Westend to Ostend
My shoe breaks somewhere –
Shoe you had chosen in tender love
They like me, cannot bear this solitary trudge
And like you, they break but do not fuss and fudge
Tomorrow I shall have them mend
Love’s gifts are forever to tend.

Since I had none to speak, I went to the Church
Even God seemed to be forlorn in the lurch.

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Poetry

Evoking the Sun

There are strained lights by the window,
The street lonely, pavements still, narrow,
On many unkempt panes- hung hues of missed sorrow
Drawn curtains flutter onto an agonizing marrow.

There is yet some cheer of melody in the air,
Your nimble, fluttering, footsteps I can hear,
Raindrops now lash in pain that does care
Fear lurks deep within, hid, uncertain, unsure.

Beyond the rims of your glasses,
I wipe the tear stained lashes,
Medicated radiation packed flashes,
The anguish then momentarily vanishes.

The lights are dull and dim now,
In sad steps, they quietly withdraw,
I return to my worrisome burrow,
Await the sunray bring hope the morrow.