m k harikumar pages

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

മനസ്സിനും എല്ലാ ദിവസവും
പരിചരണം വേണം .
കുളിക്കുന്നതോടെ എല്ലാം പോകുന്നില്ല.
ദിവസവും രാകി വെളുപ്പിച്ചില്ലെങ്കില്‍
മനസ്സ്‌ നിറം കെട്ടു പോകും .
ചില സ്ഥിരമായ
പരാതികള്‍ , വെറുപ്പുകള്‍ ,ഓര്‍മ്മകള്‍
എല്ലാംമനസ്സിനെ പറ്റിപ്പിടിച്ചു നില്‍ക്കുന്ന
അഴുക്കുകളാണെന്ന് അറിയുമ്പോഴേ
പ്രായോഗികമായ അദ്വൈതം പൂര്‍ത്തിയാകൂ.
ആ ചിത്രംവരച്ചത്‌, ആ സിനിമയിലഭിനയിച്ചത്‌
ആരായാലും കാണുക തന്നെ.
മനസ്സിനെ
പലതും പലപ്പോഴായി മടുപ്പിക്കും.
അവയില്‍ നിന്ന് എത്രയും പെട്ടെന്ന്
വഴിമാറുന്നുവോ അത്രയും നമ്മള്‍ പുതുതാവും.
സ്ഥിരമായ അകല്‍ച്ചയും വിദ്വേഷവും നമ്മുടെ
നിരീക്ഷണക്കുറവു കൊണ്ട്‌ സംഭവിക്കുന്നതാണ്‌.

The image

What I’ve sought all over
is just my image.
But water has made me
a little more bluish.
Soil gave me
My own memories,
Mother, my motherhood
And children, my childhood.

The departed father
Left my dead identity
Wet with love.
And woman gave me
My own sexuality.

I go searching for myself
In flowers and minds,
Males and females.
Still, up till now,
I do not get to know
What I actually am!!!

Water

It flows on one rule.
That once it is on
It has to be finished.

It doesn’t think of anything
When it is out flowing,
But it keeps on reminding
Not to think of anything when flowing.

There are some
Who make it dull thinking hard
But water doesn’t break its rule.
There is nothing to think over,
If there is no more reason to run.

We may go indebted to water,
If need be, to forget ourselves
By being in the down stream,
With not a thing to recollect,
But, ever reminded of still.

Body, puzzle

The body craves
To be a puzzle.

How hard other bodies
Keep it tempted!!
Affection, passion, love and lust:
It’s all kaleidoscopes for the body.

At times, it’s by this mortal frame,
That we come to pleasantly realize
The entangling tentacles of love:
Of our father, mother and near ones.

Yet, the frames remain as riddles

As time goes by shedding its cover
No frame seems abound in beauty.
They are all fatally entangled
In the clutches of unease and disease.

Where was it from:
The liking I took for the body?
From me!
From my very body!

Are all such frames but the aesthetics-
Of some alien empty terrains-
Which haven’t been explored, yet?

യേശുദാസ്‌ പാടുകയാണ്‌.
ആ ഒരു പാട്ട്‌ മാത്രമാണ്‌ പാടിയതെങ്കിലും
അത്‌ ഒരു പാട്ടല്ല;
പതിറ്റാണ്ടുകളായുള്ള അദ്ദേഹത്തിന്‍റെ പാട്ടുകളാണത്‌.

Loneliness of poets
Has become an inept adage.

Poetry doesn’t give one anything.
Why do we go sleeping peacefully
Putting a poor grain of poetry
In the blues and pools and flowers
Without giving it enough water and care?

What an injustice!
Is it their business:
Say, holding the grain of poetry for us?

It is pitiful (pity, sorry, painful)
that the nature gets penalized
for our dirty delusions (dreams)
and abusing creed of words.