അവര് എപ്പോഴും ചിരിച്ചു.
ചിരിക്കാന് അവര്ക്ക് ഒരു കാരണം
വേണ്ടായിരുന്നു.
കാരണം
അവരെ ബാധിക്കാത്ത കാര്യങ്ങളെപ്പറ്റിയാണ്
അവര് ചിരിച്ചത് .
സ്വയമൊരു പരിഹാസ പാത്രമായപ്പോള്
അവര് ചിരിക്കുകയല്ല ചെയ്തത്:
ദേഷ്യപ്പെടുകയായിരുന്നു.
അവരുടെ കലഹം അവരുടെ
വ്യക്തിപരമായ പരാതികളില് ഒതുങ്ങി നിന്നു.
ദേഷ്യം അവര്ക്ക് സ്വയം അറിയാനുള്ളതായി
മാറിയില്ല.
സ്വയം ദുഷിക്കാനുള്ളതായി.
poem
The flying course of butterflies
The primitive butterflies resembling
the miniscule bones of time flew up
on the skyways of silence fluttering
their fragile wings
Engrossed in a detached ecstasy,
they hovered around utterly blind
to the invisible tracks
of souls that crisscrossed along
cutting and slicing each other
and turned into puzzles
Scaling heights from the depths of time,
they discarded the bodies
fallen in battlefields of
Kurushethra and Kalinga
The funeral rites of the butterflies
over the deserted corpse
of the youth lying on the plateau;
Chanting some primitive mantras
they got immersed in prayers
On the feet of the corpse hovered
the song of the butterflies in anguish
for the outdated and dusted revolutions
On the body, the democratic pollination
of butterflies for Bharath,
the land blessed with food grains and fruits
On the hands the compassionate kisses
of the butterflies for bygone ages of might and power
and also for the resurrection of broken romances
from the abyss of the past
On the forehead, the greeting thilak
of the butterflies for the physical
transformation of
Arithmetic and Brahmasutra
Over and around the body, the butterflies
still traced many an unknown tracks
that never begin nor end anywhere
As the butterflies departed after finishing
their colorful waltz, the bygone tracks
of the dead youth too dissolved into nothingness
just as the pathways of the butterflies.
poem: m k harikumar
Darkness of the sundown
The woman sewn in the clouds,
The vivacious beauty
designed by twigs
Charming young woman
sketched by backwater ripples
The village beauty painted in
oil by twilight
The beloved woven in
arteries by wind
The woman in love stitched
by some night green
in jungle shades
The serpentine vamp
painted in raw oil colours
of the sunset by
the dusk
I could not touch any of them
There were vivid sounds in the darkness
There were so many things
in the changing portraits
of her constantly
being sketched and erased by
some strange sign language
and folklore of
an ancient tribe
lusts of different ages
orgasmic pleasures,
forehead that was the
vestige of a cultural past
cheeks that were battle runs
eyes in which the deers of
cupid sprint
Still my search is on
Withering love
Were you here again yesterday
touching the chords of memories
Memories have gained weight of late
and are getting stuck in
the glue of life
I am weak even to ask myself where to go.
In my solitude
extinct antique passions
peep in and withdraw
How frightening!
Moments getting hot
with oozing desires
Have we ever met
and forgot each other for ever
Never, never;
or it may be only a broken
piece of memory
This isn’t the song of silence
from the coffin of verses
this isn’t despair
but only a weird
soliloquy at the
end of all tears
Never will I ask the destination
Never will I ask whether you
realize yourself
Once we stole into the darkness
and eloped with our little love
Those nights of fear
in the city
suspicion in the form
of humans,
The strangers,
The anxieties caused
even by a small sound
Unknown voices from nowhere
tearing apart the wind
Everything have dried up in this
barren mindscape
How blank are these nightfalls
They utter nothing
just like you
May be counting something
with head down
Like the burning tar roads
were the pathways of our affection
Like the cracks in a
dried up and forsaken
grassland
Yesterday also I
spent my solitude in the
cashew shades where the vestiges
of our intimacies were rotting
Got tired searching your face
among the twigs in vain
Even the chirping birds also
flew away.
How lonely are the days
which bear the entire
grief of the years
How can I say death
is powerless
Weeds of despair
mushrooming in
this mind
Immortality in all its
vigor just pays infrequent
visits to this frail
existence
After all what is now
left in this
rib-cage?
poem by m k harikumar
poem by m k harikumar
Words throbbing to bid farewell
I am a sentence reeling under intense pain
Words with vivid meanings
come alive humming farewell tones
in antique darkness
Then each words start
leaving me in discord
Frozen bodies of lifeless birds
get entangled in my throat
Words become intolerant
to each other
Each word is seeking its
roots
felling that it is enough hanging on
the ladder
they part from each
other and set journey into
chronicles of their
previous lives
When they all left, I became the vestige
of a deserted voice zone
മുഖവും മനസുമായി
മുഖം മനസിനെ അറിയുന്നേയില്ല.
ഒരു അവസരത്തിലും മുഖവും മനസുമായി
ഒരു മുഖാമുഖത്തിന് സാധ്യതയില്ല.
മുഖത്തിന് അതിണ്റ്റെ വഴി;
മനസിന് അതിണ്റ്റെയും
മുന് ധാരണയല്ല
കല കലാപരമാകുന്നത് ഒരു ദുരന്തമായിരിക്കും.
കല എന്നത് കലാകാരണ്റ്റെ മുന് വിധിയാകരുത്.
പശു മൂത്രമൊഴിക്കുന്നത് കലയ്ക്ക് വേണ്ടിയല്ല.
എന്നാല് അത് ക്യാമറയില് പകര്ത്തുന്ന ഒരാള്ക്ക് അത് കലയാണ്. ,പലവിധത്തില്.
അയാള് കലയെ തേടുന്നു.
അത് ചിത്രമായി വരയ്ക്കുന്നവനും കലയ്ക്കായി ഓടുന്നു
അയാള് കലയെപ്പറ്റിയുള്ള ധാരണയാണ് തേടുന്നത്.
ഇത് അയാളുടെ കലയെ മുന്കുട്ടിയുള്ള ആശയ പ്രചരണമാക്കും.
കല കലാപരമാകണമെന്ന് വാശിപിടിക്കുമ്പോള്
അത് ചരിത്രത്തോടാണ് സംവദിക്കുന്നത്.
കലയാണെന്ന മുന്ധാരണയോടെ എന്ത് ചെയ്താലും അതില്കലയില്ല.
കാരണം കല മുന് ധാരണയല്ല
അത് ഓരോ നിമിഷത്തിണ്റ്റെയും മറ്റൊരു
അനുഭവമാണ്.
poem by mk harikumar
When Mukundan blew the Konch
Mukundan blew the Konch
releasing a sound bird;
which flew away afar
The he blew again to see whether
the sound bird he blew out
from the Konch
can come back to its source
But this time also the sound bird
flew out from the Konch only to vanish
somewhere
He wondered whether the long
arms and legs of the sound will ever
come back for their original
hideouts in his soul
Even in half sleep
he blew the sound birds;
And the Konch had an infinite
reserve of them
The Konch is either sound
or strength or speed
each time, he wanted
to trace where the sound birds
have glided
away from the konch
In fact konch on its own was devoid of sound;
It only has a human soul behind it
And even the human soul doesn’t possess
the sound;
The sound birds take birth
only when the human soul
and the Konch join together
trans:saj mathews
മീനിന്
ഒരു പറവയ്ക്ക് ചില്ല വേണ്ട.
ഒരു മീനിന് വെള്ളം വേണ്ട.
ഒരു മഴ്യ്ക്ക് മണ്ണു വേണ്ട.
ഒരു മനുഷ്യന് മനസ്സ് വേണ്ട
Hands-a poem by m k harikumar
Hands
They walked on
as if reciting some cosmic
postscripts in anguish
Paramu waved his hands
from behind attempting
to catch some thing from the air
in vain
Then the hands retreated
and went behind once again
Vasu’s hands were moving
in cautious slow motion
akin to that of a fat reptile
but he was not sure how to keep
his hands down
Because it was his hands
that had always helped him to
erase his agonies
It was those hands
which steadied him in troubles
Whenever he faltered
he managed to maintain his course
by waving his hands aimlessly
into ages
When Ravi waved backward
with spread fingers it was like rowing
The movement of his hands appeared as if
he was cuddling his appetite for mating with death
Alternatively entwining
the hands in the front and back
he stood at times probing
his immeasurable self
Krishnan waved both his right
and left hands back and forth
giving them vain
hopes of reconciliation
Though they swayed
like trapeze artists they had to retreat
as they filed to get the grip
All the four-Paramu, Vasu, Ravi and Krishnan-
were walking at the same speed
Their hands strolled into separate worlds
For Paramu, his hands supplied
the gadgets to cleanse
the blemish of his sins
It was those hands that
always lighted his pathway
Vasu’s hands were in a frenzied
quiver shivering like an epileptic
For Ravi , his hands
were an stranger woman
always numb as if they knew nothing
Like contented accomplices
returning after a successful robbery
Krishnan’s hands were looking again
for weapons in the void
They turned into a deserted
isle craving for freedom
and free will to kill
All the three were walking
absolutely insensitive
to the movement of their hands
even as the hands were waiting for
the earliest chance
to encircle them unawares
trans: saj mathews
m k harikumar pages 