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ദിവസം ഒരു ഫോട്ടോ 7



photomk





Myself

1

I am not language;

only the first alphabets of a

primitive script;

In their bid to split me into

alphabets and words

the schools stacked my head,

mind and body with multiple

phrases converting me

into a mannequin.

But I turned into a lone

suicide squad separating

myself from languages;

I moved on with sharpened passions

among the doomed establishments;

still I didn’t become a materialist

2

I am a sentence with words missing,

always yearning for meanings

When dissolved in letters, an voice

reminds me about my real self

However in my fright

I could not but destroy

meanings

3

When butterflies flew around

I too joined them as flying verses

The butterflies which were also

equally scared of meanings

were in a frantic plight

for a way out

and I too became a butterfly

4

There is now darkness of the night

The anonymous voice of the darkness

The orgasmic delights of darkness

The primitive legacy of darkness

The whispers of the dead in darkness

The varied tunes of those who never

settle down in a single body;

The nutmeg trees in the courtyard

recited some prayer

The flooding verses of moonshine

reverberating in the unknown

transparency of primitive hymns

The flower trees slept without

chanting Upanishads

I went nude in my soul

like a virgin glowing in

a hundred modes of love

5

I am a spiritual fasting not

bothered to encroach poetry

and spell its doom

The body never preserves anything;

even the mind has no such habits

I am rummaging my memory

in search of a lady bird

which never arrows down

the soul of words

I painted the chola murals in their

forehead;

I carved the insignia of the swords

on the chests of the chera soldiers

I broke mud pots of Harappa and mohan jo Daro

on their belly

6

I am grief engraved in a primitive script

My religion is that of a maggot

My love is that of the birds disturbed

By the by the chant of leaves

My legacy is not that of artists

7

I am snow flames of love

as well as love of snow flames

The primitive

plateaus of her forehead

are the skyscape of her mind

The sterile winter of the college

The antique eyes, navel pits

The scent of plantain leaves

The bhagavat geetha

glistening in the closed

eyes of my mate

the acumen of the wind

The Buddhist statue emerging

from Marxism

The face of Budha and

the voyage of the bereaved

glisten in

moonlit night

The explicit human vastness

of kathakali in eye lines

the hunter’s aim

from the horizontal

mark on the forehead

Wars that were never fought

in the annoyed nipples

yearning to turn

and not to turn in to a human soul

in the soil saturated in décor

And this is my love

7

I am the fire that set out from

Yagasaala

The fire that pierce deep into

Yearning hearts

bodies in love

and the soul of

the depressed

8

I am in deep meditation

to acquire wisdom from wind

love from light

and humanity from soil

My static meditation extends

through years

The islands of thoughts

which I preserve amidst the

convulsions for humanity

and stomach

for me meditation is an endless

ritual





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