Sun, what it is…- poem by m k harikumar

Sun, it is a threshold.

It somehow poked its face up
Out of the thickets that got swollen
With the dead and decaying leaves
Of yesterday’s rains.

The moment it got surfaced,
it stood burning in full fire.
Still it had in it a few cares
That its wings might get
Shattered all over again
At the slanting surge
of fresher rains.

And piercing right on the day
The sun went on, wasting no time,
And did a course of acupuncture even.

See how longing this sun is
To be living and flourishing!

Though it managed to succeed
in proving its identity all by itself,
of course, being scared of modernism
And post modernism, sun got its life
Recorded by simply sending SMS
To some TV Reality Shows.

Sun, what it is…- poem by m k harikumar

Sun, it is a threshold.

It somehow poked its face up
Out of the thickets that got swollen
With the dead and decaying leaves
Of yesterday’s rains.

The moment it got surfaced,
it stood burning in full fire.
Still it had in it a few cares
That its wings might get
Shattered all over again
At the slanting surge
of fresher rains.

And piercing right on the day
The sun went on, wasting no time,
And did a course of acupuncture even.

See how longing this sun is
To be living and flourishing!

Though it managed to succeed
in proving its identity all by itself,
of course, being scared of modernism
And post modernism, sun got its life
Recorded by simply sending SMS
To some TV Reality Shows.

No bird is singing -poem by m k harikumar

No bird is singing.
It is our agenda that
We must get them singing.

It is just an inner energy
that forms in them,
As the pressing need of living,
Happens to be songs.

However, at some occasions,
certain frantic noises, that we make
on the harsher terrains of our life,
may turn out to sound music.

An idiot of any order
would feast on it, and even rate it.

No bird is singing -poem by m k harikumar

No bird is singing.
It is our agenda that
We must get them singing.

It is just an inner energy
that forms in them,
As the pressing need of living,
Happens to be songs.

However, at some occasions,
certain frantic noises, that we make
on the harsher terrains of our life,
may turn out to sound music.

An idiot of any order
would feast on it, and even rate it.

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.