Forgotten faces

Where should I look for
the forgotten faces?
Less I know about the berth of sunken disclosures,
wherein the darkness of dread, they wait for
a lost cause, still.
Their wait has been a habit for those faces,
the unending thread of hope
in the queue to be remembered again.
Their wait is an iota of sanguine stupidity,
dying slowly with each passing moment,
with them knowing lesser of it.

I want to find them,
and illustrate them back on my mind
like the heroes they were.
But where should I look for
the forgotten faces.

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First song is fear

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Nights were frightening, most of them were,
murkiness crawling in every thoughts,
everything being shadow of itself,
soul-less.
She seeing me,
two eyes seeing two eyes, connected by nothing but a fearful gaze,
one identifying another, both forlorn.
She thought through me, and beheld fear.

The climactic lamp post on street, yonder
seldom faces like her’s gazing at more me’s,
glossed over on days,
wake up from slumber and
have been the resting harbor for eyes, I shut tight, fastening myself
from the fear creeping in.
A look again, the fear is truest.
There I see, amidst the sea of darkness,
a face, void of emotions, looking at me,
piercing through the fog painted window glass.

Ever since, I take fear to bed with me,
though times such flew draped in her face
is a spread – progression of
fear sprouted yesterday, bloomed yesterday, thrived yesterday,
living today and tomorrow, sprouting again tomorrow,
exponentially conquering the infinite me nobody read
and the point-me everbody understood.
Lamp post and her face, darkness, black and fear,
Why should sleep dare to fight a losing cause?

 

Years later, I forgot her face,
as sophisticated life ran away from immaturity,
and sleep turned a cave of disturbed fear,
darkness crying silently, burning me with her thoughts.
She was still inside,thinking,
my dreams were lamp posts, rain, lamp post in rain
and darkness, but not her eyes.
She’s still thinking through me,
uselessly revoking the fear to remember her face,
but her’s is a lost word, faded without traces.

Many nights have I-
since that lost childhood-
been clutching to them- useless prowess of
courage- holding onto it,
time after time, and again,
shuttering myself from the face I see at night, looking at me.
I can sense it, still precise and different from my own,
she thinking inside me,
searching through my apprehensions,
waiting for me to remember her face.

Days waited patiently,
for sun to run faster,
to turn the facade and help me again,
help me remember the face.
Of all world,
where her thoughts resides other than in me,
where she still searches steadily,
through a world no longer slower,
never letting go off my mind,
where her last resort blinks.

Night my reader,
is there anything as wasteful as a resource such as it
exists in this world or any other?
Helping everything but a tinge of rememberance.

I have long forgotten her face.

Am I ashamed? May be.
My fear is my disgrace. Childhood shamed me
with darkness, a girl, and her eyes.
Now maturity doing the
same, taunting with her face I buried in oblivion,
and she thinking inside me.
Only the best effort paints sheer darkness,
and the lamp post that exists, not anymore.

Childhood, Oh Childhood,
Why don’t you visit me tonight,
for once at this night and never again,
for her sake.
Vigour me with that fear so drowned in time,
Render me and plough my barren sleep for those fears
lift it back to sky,
and let me be afraid, but nothing else,
and in that darkness, help me Childhood,
to remember her face, I long forgot.

signature

Read Again

book of books

 

 

A pause mid busy breathings,
or quiescent midnight immensity,
time after time, pages turned slow.
A diplomatic justice to them,
as though eternal,stories are fragile,
and their birth is cautious.

Drawn were ample expanse hitherto,
tremored along yellow maplitho,
lived or died uprightly,
in dreams utopian or states dystopian,
as logic of words demanded.

Lest be said of the comfort, they showered,
likely as of in mother’s lap
which all of is known as lines of
stories or poems or plays.

Within the sentences hung to neologism,
the smell prevailed as Poe’s Raven,
or freezed as Caesar’s tableaux.
Drenching the time and space of entity obscure,
sanguine thoughts sunk in,
let duty they did, be guesswork.
In vicious tempest or tendor breeze,
pages turned slowly, and was read encore.

Page after page, truncheon ideas
cloaked amid lines, rised.
Delirium barked in, ramming
the chastity of silence, there until.
Riveted in strident stanzas,
rhymes were armours, held up.
The hushes of phrases, a revolution.
And those instants, wars fought bravely,
love stirred fervidly,
warmth won in dropped tears,
were freedom.

For inevitable cause, books may finish.
But way up from start to end,
is to begin again,
to read lines read before,
but a story, different.

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Lullabies in The Streets Mourn

laila_al_shoa

 

#supportgaza

They say, my lullabies impair plus than
menacing propulsion of lead sling, a lot more.
Oh my poor lullabies! Oh my dear lullabies!
Let these streets mourn your demise.

Sang you was of only the unrequited love,
glittered in this green grass tips,
spraying the revision of peace,
damped to flat by pacing boots, in brutality.

Weep you was of the naivety
in my son’s minuscule fingers forced
to hold on hardness of a grenade,
Forgetting the wimpy elation of dolls
he played on with the past moment.

Praised you was of my mother’s defiance,
bearing the hundreds of bodies,
which on each piercingly labelled
of the frith fruited in the dark redness,
long left unqualified to instigate.

The time had come, oh my lovely lullabies!
A time long awaited to deflower
the mines blossomed in these garden,
to drain the lakes smelling of blood and bones,
to stop the silence from being guillotine.

I pray the lullabies to defiant as ever more,
to echo through these streets no-ever lasting,
to raise hands in unison,
to live in our veins for hope bestowed.

And at this time,
Burying my friends, my mother,
My youth, my humanity,
I hope my lullabies trembles more
louder than gunshots and blasts.
I hope my lullabies are stronger.

 

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The Fallen

angel_statue_painting_by_ismaellourenco-d30eodm

 

We had a yesterday, me and this statue.

Stone-boned nakedness and grated eyes

of it, I bequeath now.

Lesser dawns flee reluctant before

Our eyes forgathered a glint of acquaintance.

And even lesser dusks failed to pass after

Confessed to it was of my sinned days.

We had a yesterday.

 

Remember I of its bravery, glancing unshaken

to the invincible burning skies, evermore.

More or less liable of recollecting the benevolence

It depicted, in thriving rains and scorching sun.

Disregarded was it by many,

and detested by a few more

for blenched remains of black sheath,

grotesque lone figure, eyesore to a few more.

 

Today, I look a space earlier present not,

once reckoned, a pale statue to summon.

Never far saw anyone I, whom

inferred the variance that was yesterday,

Nor a single soul apart me and stray crows,

empathized on the piece, today wasted.

 

Now, I pose the space,

con the dawns and desks.

I see a fallen, and remembers

a martyr of past, and confides in the

space that once was it.

 

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The Day We Went To Seashore

original

I remember the day.
None need to be spoken of how;
no ardous skills demanded,
that guarantee I delivers.
And none need to be spoken of why,
as its evident as these lines,
for dreams I sown as hope then,
she blossom springs of love now.
I remember that day.

I remember the evening sky.
Golden sun beackoned in horizon,
radiating shore in yellow lusture.
Monsoon wind, swifting around us,
bridges us through the space seperates.
And seagulls, flying in far shade,
soothing with feel of well-being.

I remember her thick hair,
waving like a flag,promisingly familiar
to my own conscience, more or less,
for I dwelled and built upon
a kingdom under that flag.

I remember her face,
waxed in sand,
and her smile, joyous and full-fledged.

I remember the taste of her saltened kiss,
and this moment lifts me to time where
romantic gold surrendered to melancholy night.
I remember the goodbye she spared,
silent like dead night sea.

Memories are pounding my mind,
likewise the waves pounced those rockbeds.

I remember she-like sea.
I remember Me-like sky.
I remember my love,
Oh memory, you blips me what I forgot,
here you nobility shall be champ.

Lot more I remember,
but I fail to line them anymore.
Now is the time,
words come short of love.

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അടിമ

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ദൈവമെന്ന പൂജ്യമേ,
നീയില്ലെന്നറിഞ്ഞിട്ടുമൊട്ടുമിടറാതെ,
നീയാണെന്നാരോപ്പിച്ചുറപ്പിച്ച
കല്ലിനും കുരിശിനും കുറുകെ
നീണ്ടുയര്‍ത്തുന്ന കോട്ടകളാകുന്നു
ഭൂമിയിലെ യഥാര്‍ത്ഥ തടവറകള്‍ .

ഈരേഴുലോകത്തിലുമില്ല നീ
എന്നാ സത്യംമറച്ച്‌,
നിന്നെ പ്രതിഷ്ഠിക്കുന്ന ആള്‍രൂപങ്ങളാകുന്നു
നിരപരാധിത്വം സ്ഫുരിക്കുന്ന
അടിമയാം തടവുപുള്ളികള്‍.

നീണ്ടവരിനൂണ്ടുകയറി,
സ്വസോദരനെ തള്ളിമാറ്റിയടുതെത്തി,
ആവശ്യങ്ങള്‍,
പ്രാര്‍ത്ഥനയെന്ന ആജ്ഞാപനഭീഷണിയില്‍
ഛര്‍ദ്ദിക്കുന്ന ഈ നീചമനുഷ്യരാകുന്നു
നിന്റെ അവകാശസൂക്ഷിപ്പുകാരായ ജന്മികള്‍.

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ഭക്തനെന്ന അത്യാഗ്രഹീ,
നീകൂപ്പുമീകൈകളുമുരുവിട്ടുമീ
നാമവും നീനീല്‍ക്കുമീ
ഭക്തിച്ചന്തയില്‍ മാത്രമൊതുങ്ങുന്നു.
പള്ളി-അമ്പലങ്ങളില്‍ മാടിവിളിക്കും
ശൂന്യതയിലുമിരുട്ടിലും
തേടൂ, നീയൊരു ജന്മംമുഴുവന്‍,
കണ്ടുകിട്ടാതൊരു ദൈവത്തെ.
നീ തള്ളിമാറ്റിയ സോദരനിന്‍
നിസ്സഹായതയില്‍വസിപ്പൂ ദൈവം.
നീയാകാണും തോട്ടംനനയ്ക്കും
വയസ്സനിന്‍ പുരികത്തിലുറഞ്ഞുകൂടും
വിയര്‍പ്പുത്തുള്ളികളാണ്‌ ദൈവം.
എന്തിനേറെ,
ദൈവമിരിപ്പൂ,
ഈ പൂത്തുലഞ്ഞ പാടംകൊയ്യും
കൊയ്യ്തരിവാളിന്‍ മുനയില്‍പോലും.
തിരിച്ചറിയൂ മനുഷ്യാ,
ദൈവമില്ലായിടം ഭൂമിയില്‍,
ഈ ആരാധനാലയങ്ങള്‍ മാത്രം.

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ദൈവമെന്ന നുണയേ,
അന്യന്‍ നാമജപങ്ങള്‍ ഉരുവിട്ടുതീര്‍ത്ത
ചങ്ങലയില്‍മെരുങ്ങി,
അവന്റെ കഷ്ടപ്പാടിന്റെ
ഭാണ്ഡവുമേന്തി,
ഭണ്ഡാരപിച്ചച്ചട്ടിയില്‍ വീഴും
ഭിക്ഷമാത്രം ഭോജിച്ചുകഴിയുമടിമയേ,
ഈ കവിതയുടെ മനുഷത്വം ഒരുമാത്ര പിടയ്ക്കുന്നുണ്ട്.
ധര്‍മ്മബോധം പെരുമ്പറ മുഴക്കുന്നുണ്ട്.
എങ്കിലും, ക്ലാവുപിടിച്ച സഹതാപതിന്‍
നൊമ്പരപൊട്ടായി അവസാനിച്ചുപോകുന്നു
നീയെന്‍ നിര്‍ഭയഭാവമേ.

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ചതഞ്ഞരഞ്ഞ ശ്യൂന്യതയില്‍
ഇനിയും പ്രതീക്ഷയുണ്ട്.
ഒരുനാള്‍വരും നായകര്‍,
നിന്നെ മോചിപ്പിക്കാന്‍.
അനുനയതീക്ഷണതയില്‍ ഗാന്ധിയും
തീപന്തമേന്തി ചെ ഗുവേരയും.
അത്രെയുംനാള്‍, കാണേണ്ടയീ
പ്രാര്‍ത്ഥനാജല്പ്പനനാടകങ്ങള്‍.
കണ്ണുമുറുക്കിയടച്ച്‌ കാതോര്‍ക്കുക,
നാളെകേള്‍ക്കുമാ വിപ്ലവസൂക്തങ്ങള്‍ക്കായ്.

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