m k harikumar pages

വെള്ളം ഒഴുകുന്നു,

ഒരു ദുഃഖമോ

വിരഹമോ ഇല്ലാതെ.

Rain, wind and moonshine

Rain brought wind;
wiind brought moonshine
and moonshine brought wind
The fourth day of Nalacharitham.

In the backdrop of
the speech-less
deep dissatisfactions
of love,
the strands of rain
faltered to tell
some mystic secret

Drenched and dripping
the rain in its boiling passion
yearned to hold the wind
in its tight embrace.

Drinking the blood of moonshine
like an amorphous amoeba
the wind assumed
colossal proportions

The knights of moonshine
wearing the insignia of the
rain were getting wounded
in battles of jungle wind.

Rain lined up a thousand
guards to receive the sky
on its return from pilgrimage.

Disheartened by its vain search
of gods of wind
the moonshine finally fell
in love with rain.

Unaware about the gender
the rain opened up its heart:
“oh how long since we
had our journey together!
but we never recognized
each other”.

In the bygone past
I had had lives of a priest,
a parrot, a knight and
a banyan tree.
And what about you?

Gathering the pieces of
the different lives
I started painting
images of
surrealistic
existence;

There was my mother, my sisters
They all come alive
As I muse about the
gates where
I had fallen in love, romanced
and cried,

The dead souls
came back to life
as sunrays;

The wind turned into
a thousand souls
whispering to the leaves
the tales of my previous births.

They are taking nostalgic
shelter in twigs;
to escape from whom?
The daytime hunters, robbers,
or couriers of love?

When memories die down
the buzzing sound was not that
of cicadas;

The butterflies
were fleeing
at the sound of approaching
rain from afar.

I painted a few nudes
of wind;
A leaf from the memoirs
of moonshine
landed on the sprawling
shores of rain;

The symbolic images
of wind preferred to
keep aloof without
uttering a word;

Even that was poetic

The rain, moonshine
and the wind merged together
forming a single carpet;
the rain was blue,
wind was white
and the moonshine
was green.

When night came
rain emptied blue
and withdrew into
the skies as an oil
paint;

Wind was trying
to imitate the silence
of a primordial reptile
while the moonshine set out
on its covert
night pilgrimage.

ഒരു തവള ഒരു സമീചീനമായ

ലോകം ഉണ്ടാക്കുന്നു.

പ്രകൃതിയെ അത്‌ കീഴ്പ്പെടുത്തുന്നില്ല.

പ്രകൃതി അതിനൊപ്പമാണെന്ന് തിരിച്ചറിയാന്‍

കഴിയുന്നു.

മഴയോ വേനലോ എന്തുമാകട്ടെ,

അവയെല്ലാം അതിണ്റ്റെ വളര്‍ച്ചയെ

രൂപീകരിക്കുന്നു.

തവള ഒരു ശരീരമാകുന്നത്‌

വേനലും മഴയുംചേരുമ്പോഴാണ്‌.

മനുഷ്യനാകട്ടെ , സ്വന്തം ശരീരത്തില്‍നിന്ന്

പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവരെയെല്ലാം,

മാറ്റി മറ്റൊരിടത്ത്‌ സൂക്ഷിക്കുന്നു

She

Not turning into the blue petals
of the jungle lilly
her eyes abandoned a poet

she had the least trust in the
eyes of the blue lilly
she never gazed on the eyes
when the deers sped past her

She didn’t have a veil on her face nor a
wedding thilak on her forehead
nor thali, bangles nor a chain around
her neck

She is neither the bloom of dawn
nor verses nor metaphor, nor love
nor passion

She is hunger
She is black
She is a vampire
She is a ghostly tree
of the dark night

She is neither a black beetle
nor a voluptuous eagle juggling with
mountains nor an alluring lake
quenching swans

She is eluding from peripheral delights
Choir singers are rushing to drag
her into churches
and scriptures
But naked, lonely and without anklets
she walked away
into the dense forests

ആനകള്‍ക്ക്‌ കറുപ്പ്‌ വേണം.
കരിക്ക്‌ കറുപ്പ്‌ വേണം.
മേഘത്തിനും അത്‌ വേണം.
പേനയിലെ മഷിക്ക്‌ കറുപ്പ്‌ വേണം.
ചില പശുക്കള്‍ക്കും കറുപ്പ്‌ വേണം.
മനുഷ്യനും വണ്ടിനും തലമുടിക്കും വേണം അത്‌.
എല്ലാം കൊടുക്കാന്‍ നമ്മളാരാ?

Mist

The misty crest of Munnar melting apart
in to clouds, sky and ocean

It becomes whiter and whiter resembling
the ever-depressing sense of separation
and gets toned down in showers

In the township, the mist
is both spiritual relief
and refreshing for the tourists

Among the tall eucalyptus soldiers
who are yet to wake up from dreams,
the clusters of mist become puzzles

The epic expanse of the mist
escorts the well disciplined
regiment of tea plants parading on the slopes
The eucalyptus trees are like sentries
in the sacred woods of eternal love

The echo-point in the woods
keep on reverberating the words,
“I love you”
The wings of swans vanish
bidding adios

The nuptials of affections
dig tunnels into the past
where carcasses
of forbidden love lie scattered

The packets of “tata tea”,
the invisible embraces of Kannan Devan hills
stretching out from the green
slopes of Munnar

The abstractness of memories
vomited by pain and
the glistening wilds which
wipe away the fearsome grief

Now there is only mist,
the language, the ritual,
the religion and the god

photo vinod pazhayannoor

മഴയില്‍ കൂട്ടിച്ചേര്‍ക്കപ്പെട്ടത്‌
ഏത്‌ വര്‍ണമാണ്‌?
മഴപ്പെയ്ത്തില്‍ മരങ്ങളും
ചിലത്‌ കൂട്ടിച്ചേര്‍ത്തു.
മരങ്ങള്‍ അവിടെ ഉണ്ടായിരുന്നെങ്കിലും
മഴയില്‍ അവ സ്വന്തം നിലയില്‍
ചിലതെല്ലാം ആവിഷ്കരിച്ചു.
അതിണ്റ്റെ ഭാഷ സംഗതമല്ല.
ചലനങ്ങളും സ്നാനവും
പുതിയ ഒരു ഭൂമിയെ കാണിച്ചുതന്നു.

Soap

The soap, which fell into the well,
was in search of a way out

It wanted to live till the last
Even after all the condolences and moaning
were over the soap was groping for an escape route
The detached approach to nature,
life in the transparency of water,
the invisible death,
all surfaced as bubbles
even as the soap was fast dissolving.

Its silent wailings too erupted as a bubble
The thickening innate silence of its heart
turned into thoughts

The watery grave and its solitude
were luring the soap and
then it got totally dissolved;
Not any more resorting to
Upanishads
as if it had exhausted
all options of sinning