കവിത കവിയിലോ
പാരമ്പര്യത്തിലോ അല്ല ഉള്ളത്‌.
അത്‌ ഒട്ടും കാവ്യാത്മകവുമല്ല.
കവിയുടെ പാരമ്പര്യത്തിന്‍റെ ചിഹ്നവുമല്ല.
കവിതയ്ക്ക്‌ ഒട്ടും സഹിക്കാന്‍ പറ്റാത്തത്‌
കാവ്യാത്മകതയുടെ വെറും വര്‍ത്തമാനങ്ങളാണ്‌.
ഇന്ന് കവികള്‍ കവിതയെ ഭൂതകാലത്തിന്‍റെ വിഴുപ്പ്‌ ചുമക്കുന്ന
കഴുതയാക്കിയിരിക്കുന്നു.
Monday, October 20, 2008
ഭൂതകാലത്തിന്‍റെ വിഴുപ്പ്‌
കവിത കവിയിലോ
പാരമ്പര്യത്തിലോ അല്ല ഉള്ളത്‌.
അത്‌ ഒട്ടും കാവ്യാത്മകവുമല്ല.
കവിയുടെ പാരമ്പര്യത്തിന്‍റെ ചിഹ്നവുമല്ല.
കവിതയ്ക്ക്‌ ഒട്ടും സഹിക്കാന്‍ പറ്റാത്തത്‌
കാവ്യാത്മകതയുടെ വെറും വര്‍ത്തമാനങ്ങളാണ്‌.
ഇന്ന് കവികള്‍ കവിതയെ ഭൂതകാലത്തിന്‍റെ വിഴുപ്പ്‌ ചുമക്കുന്ന
കഴുതയാക്കിയിരിക്കുന്നു.
പാരമ്പര്യത്തിലോ അല്ല ഉള്ളത്‌.
അത്‌ ഒട്ടും കാവ്യാത്മകവുമല്ല.
കവിയുടെ പാരമ്പര്യത്തിന്‍റെ ചിഹ്നവുമല്ല.
കവിതയ്ക്ക്‌ ഒട്ടും സഹിക്കാന്‍ പറ്റാത്തത്‌
കാവ്യാത്മകതയുടെ വെറും വര്‍ത്തമാനങ്ങളാണ്‌.
ഇന്ന് കവികള്‍ കവിതയെ ഭൂതകാലത്തിന്‍റെ വിഴുപ്പ്‌ ചുമക്കുന്ന
കഴുതയാക്കിയിരിക്കുന്നു.
ഭൂതകാലത്തിന്‍റെ വിഴുപ്പ്‌
കവിത കവിയിലോ
പാരമ്പര്യത്തിലോ അല്ല ഉള്ളത്‌.
അത്‌ ഒട്ടും കാവ്യാത്മകവുമല്ല.
കവിയുടെ പാരമ്പര്യത്തിന്‍റെ ചിഹ്നവുമല്ല.
കവിതയ്ക്ക്‌ ഒട്ടും സഹിക്കാന്‍ പറ്റാത്തത്‌
കാവ്യാത്മകതയുടെ വെറും വര്‍ത്തമാനങ്ങളാണ്‌.
ഇന്ന് കവികള്‍ കവിതയെ ഭൂതകാലത്തിന്‍റെ വിഴുപ്പ്‌ ചുമക്കുന്ന
കഴുതയാക്കിയിരിക്കുന്നു.
പാരമ്പര്യത്തിലോ അല്ല ഉള്ളത്‌.
അത്‌ ഒട്ടും കാവ്യാത്മകവുമല്ല.
കവിയുടെ പാരമ്പര്യത്തിന്‍റെ ചിഹ്നവുമല്ല.
കവിതയ്ക്ക്‌ ഒട്ടും സഹിക്കാന്‍ പറ്റാത്തത്‌
കാവ്യാത്മകതയുടെ വെറും വര്‍ത്തമാനങ്ങളാണ്‌.
ഇന്ന് കവികള്‍ കവിതയെ ഭൂതകാലത്തിന്‍റെ വിഴുപ്പ്‌ ചുമക്കുന്ന
കഴുതയാക്കിയിരിക്കുന്നു.
That a worm does -poem by m k harikumar
What a worm does away with
an instance of one death
are many other deaths!
How much more strong must be
That extreme ecstasy such a worm enjoys
out of the intimacy it keeps with the soil
Than what we everyone does!!!!
The worm remains silent
as it is deeply carried away
by the spell of that rare joy.
If it breaks the silence
It is those precious intimate times
That are going to get broken.
What a worm happens to meet with,
when we get to disengage
The intense holds of our minds,
Is a rare death forever and ever.
How hard it is for the worm
To let go the soil,
that it gets but once only!
So, the conviction that ‘I don’t die’
Is good for the worm to be living.
an instance of one death
are many other deaths!
How much more strong must be
That extreme ecstasy such a worm enjoys
out of the intimacy it keeps with the soil
Than what we everyone does!!!!
The worm remains silent
as it is deeply carried away
by the spell of that rare joy.
If it breaks the silence
It is those precious intimate times
That are going to get broken.
What a worm happens to meet with,
when we get to disengage
The intense holds of our minds,
Is a rare death forever and ever.
How hard it is for the worm
To let go the soil,
that it gets but once only!
So, the conviction that ‘I don’t die’
Is good for the worm to be living.
That a worm does -poem by m k harikumar
What a worm does away with
an instance of one death
are many other deaths!
How much more strong must be
That extreme ecstasy such a worm enjoys
out of the intimacy it keeps with the soil
Than what we everyone does!!!!
The worm remains silent
as it is deeply carried away
by the spell of that rare joy.
If it breaks the silence
It is those precious intimate times
That are going to get broken.
What a worm happens to meet with,
when we get to disengage
The intense holds of our minds,
Is a rare death forever and ever.
How hard it is for the worm
To let go the soil,
that it gets but once only!
So, the conviction that ‘I don’t die’
Is good for the worm to be living.
an instance of one death
are many other deaths!
How much more strong must be
That extreme ecstasy such a worm enjoys
out of the intimacy it keeps with the soil
Than what we everyone does!!!!
The worm remains silent
as it is deeply carried away
by the spell of that rare joy.
If it breaks the silence
It is those precious intimate times
That are going to get broken.
What a worm happens to meet with,
when we get to disengage
The intense holds of our minds,
Is a rare death forever and ever.
How hard it is for the worm
To let go the soil,
that it gets but once only!
So, the conviction that ‘I don’t die’
Is good for the worm to be living.
Dusk is not poetic anymore- poem by m k harikumar
Dusk declined to be poetic anymore
And it laboured hard instead
for a new poetic genre.
Though it did succeed
In framing some patterns of red,
It gave it up unsatisfied.
That some strong patterns came up,
As though they were instances
Of some mysterious riots let loose
By someone, was just an experiment.
And the dusk now remains tired
of trying out many colours.
It was unsuccessful for it to conclude
that the most trying of challenges
was to live without any poetic shades.
Life is like the dusk.
It’s a constant effort
to be as much less poetic as it could.
But before thinking in this line,
someone else had set a canon
on the dusk’s declining to be poetic.
This is yet another reason for the dusk
to be deviating from the poetic fold.
And it laboured hard instead
for a new poetic genre.
Though it did succeed
In framing some patterns of red,
It gave it up unsatisfied.
That some strong patterns came up,
As though they were instances
Of some mysterious riots let loose
By someone, was just an experiment.
And the dusk now remains tired
of trying out many colours.
It was unsuccessful for it to conclude
that the most trying of challenges
was to live without any poetic shades.
Life is like the dusk.
It’s a constant effort
to be as much less poetic as it could.
But before thinking in this line,
someone else had set a canon
on the dusk’s declining to be poetic.
This is yet another reason for the dusk
to be deviating from the poetic fold.
Dusk is not poetic anymore- poem by m k harikumar
Dusk declined to be poetic anymore
And it laboured hard instead
for a new poetic genre.
Though it did succeed
In framing some patterns of red,
It gave it up unsatisfied.
That some strong patterns came up,
As though they were instances
Of some mysterious riots let loose
By someone, was just an experiment.
And the dusk now remains tired
of trying out many colours.
It was unsuccessful for it to conclude
that the most trying of challenges
was to live without any poetic shades.
Life is like the dusk.
It’s a constant effort
to be as much less poetic as it could.
But before thinking in this line,
someone else had set a canon
on the dusk’s declining to be poetic.
This is yet another reason for the dusk
to be deviating from the poetic fold.
And it laboured hard instead
for a new poetic genre.
Though it did succeed
In framing some patterns of red,
It gave it up unsatisfied.
That some strong patterns came up,
As though they were instances
Of some mysterious riots let loose
By someone, was just an experiment.
And the dusk now remains tired
of trying out many colours.
It was unsuccessful for it to conclude
that the most trying of challenges
was to live without any poetic shades.
Life is like the dusk.
It’s a constant effort
to be as much less poetic as it could.
But before thinking in this line,
someone else had set a canon
on the dusk’s declining to be poetic.
This is yet another reason for the dusk
to be deviating from the poetic fold.
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