The Night when Train deceived It

Night secretly crawls over the rails.

When serenity suddenly rams into the crowds

Thousands of tombs come up in a tick.

The link to the dream- about-to-begin snaps.

And the voice that reverberated through the compartment

Assumes a sudden silence.

The hand that was turning a page or a paper till then

Recedes leaving no trace of itself.

And the night in no time becomes all a pell-mell.

Hardships and tears,

Fantasies and festivities,

Despairs and despicables, and et al

The train strongly hugs to its steely heart.

For some, the life’s script ends abruptly,

The corporal frames assume cadaverous looks,

And as for the severed limbs separated from source,

Bodies can never collect,

Nor can the train bring back to life, once done with.

Hapless signals stare helplessly,

Scraps of rails wail their heart out mutely,

The night continues to crawl restlessly

And as pitilessly.

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Translated by N.S.Murthy

Swish of a Sword

To speak about poetry is as difficult

As to wake up one feigning sleep.

How densely the poets condense their spirit in time!

Whenever you recollect them

They overwhelm their subjects like tides.

“Chalam’s “Savitri” came to life, perhaps,

Not out of his pen but of his voice.

Even poetry becomes poetry

Only when it swells out of its source

Unable to stay silent any longer.

For a poet to dream about poetry every hour

Is like conferring a ‘Laureate’ on him.

How wholly it churns the heart, poetry!

To pass the grace of words

Over the dancing eyelids

In tune with the corrugated movements of the brow

Jumping over the barrage of heart

‘Tributary’ing sonorously into the ears…

To swish the sword of poetry endlessly

From the dense cumulus clouds of heart

To the dried up terrains of men…

To feel poetry as easily as one speaks ..

And to recreate it as happily time and again…

Well! Can a poet’s heart ever turn to a desert?

Will his pen ever stop even if his clock stops?

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Translated by N.S.Murthy

Sun-bath on a Wintry Morn

That chilly morning is like

Watching a plateau under a soap bubble.

Just as an ice block is unaffected within

When the without is sun-scanned,

The baby sun could just warm me skin-deep.

One has to warm up the cold veins otherwise.

No matter how long you stand in the sun

Hands and feet always look just dipped out of the chill.

Like the ‘December-flower’, though,

The pink of the pulchritude look laid up in winter,

My inability to stand up to cold

Hangs on to me like hairs.

Strangely enough,

The sun-warmed body

No sooner it comes under the pelerine of a shadow

Cools down instantly

Like a lamp’s burn out.

Like you never fell getting out of beach waters,

Like the mind that can never get over

The hang over of a maiden kiss,

This morning sun bath

On the ice-razor’s edge

Coolly scissors through my heart.

Beginning with face

Its smooth lukewarm touch

Plants kisses steadily all over me.

From the cold-split lips

It delves into the gullet

And melts the icy blood to stream.

As long as I face it,

It balms warmth layer by layer.

But the moment I turn my back,

It peels them all layer after layer.

Having couched up my body

All night like a folded umbrella,

I long to warm it up in the sun

Like a peacock its plumes.

How supple is the heart of the morning sun

That adorns my eastward door like a curtain!

No doubt!

It befriends and relaxes me in its lap.

Mother like, she caresses every inch of my body

Lays me on her legs

And bathes me like a babe.

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Translated by N.S.Murthy