m k harikumar pages

നക്ഷത്രങ്ങള്‍ക്ക്‌ മടുത്തു.

എന്നും ചിലരുടെ ആശയങ്ങളും

പ്രതീകങ്ങളുമായിരിക്കുന്നതുപോലെ

ബോറായി എന്തുണ്ട്‌!

ഒട്ടും കാവ്യപരമല്ലാതെ

ജീവിക്കാന്‍ പറ്റുമോ

എന്ന ചിന്തയിലാണ്‌ അവര്‍!

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.

ഒരുവണ്റ്റെ ശരിയായ മതം
അവണ്റ്റെ വാക്കിലും
പ്രവൃത്തിയിലുമാണുള്ളത്‌.
ഒരുവണ്റ്റെ മതം
ഒരു മതഗ്രന്ഥത്തിലാകാനുള്ള
ഒരു സാധ്യതയുമില്ല.
മതമൊരു പ്രലോഭനമാണ്‌.
പ്രവൃത്തി യാഥാര്‍ത്ഥ്യവും.

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

photo vinod pazhayannoor

അയാള്‍ ഒരു വേഗമാണ്‌.
അത്‌ എല്ലാവരെയും നല്ലവരാക്കാന്‍
വൃഥാ സ്വപ്നങ്ങള്‍ നല്‍കുന്ന പദ്ധതിയാണ്‌.
ഓരോ നിമിഷവും ജീവിക്കാനുള്ള ആവേശം
എല്ലാവരെയും പ്രേമിക്കാന്‍ പ്രേരണയായി.
ഇവിടെ ,പക്ഷേ പ്രേമം ഇല്ലല്ലോ.
സ്വന്തം ആവശ്യങ്ങള്‍ വന്ന് വിളിക്കുമ്പോള്‍
ഒരു പ്രേമത്തെയും കൂടെക്കൂട്ടാന്‍ പറ്റില്ലല്ലോ!
എങ്കിലും അയാള്‍ ജീവിതത്തിണ്റ്റെ
ഓരോ പുലരിയെയും പ്രതീക്ഷയോടെ നോക്കുന്നു.

Smoke

The bundles of smoke
rising from Chitha (cremeation)
revived the presence of
some Upanishads

During their steady ascent
and breaking apart
they branched in definite
directions

Emotional swings
on the wings of swans

Poems gushing
from metres

Music erupting from
symphonies

The futuristic painting series
songs of the past

All were repainting the
atmospheric expanse

Alas what was vanishing in the
fuming inferno was
the body of a comrade
who loved ideology
more than anything else.

photo vinod pazhayannoor

നമുക്കാര്‍ക്കും ജീവിക്കുന്ന
മുഖമില്ല.
നാമോരോ തൊഴിലിണ്റ്റെ
ഭാഗമായി സംസാരിക്കുന്നു.
എല്ലാം പറയുന്നത്‌ തൊഴിലാണ്‌.
അതിന്‌ ഉറപ്പ്‌ കൊടുക്കാനുള്ള
ഉടലു മാത്രമാണ്‌ നാം.
ബാങ്കിലോ മറ്റേതെങ്കിലും സ്ഥാപനത്തിലോ
ചെന്നാല്‍തയ്യാറാക്കിവച്ച
ഭാഷണം കേള്‍ക്കാം.
ഒരാളെ കാണാന്‍ കഴിയില്ല.
മനുഷ്യരെ അറിയാത്തപോലെ മനുഷ്യര്‍
പെരുമാറുന്നു.
‘വേറൊന്നും ചോദിക്കാനില്ലല്ലോ. വന്നതിന്‌ നന്ദി’

Flowers yellow, leaves green

The poets were debating on the sequence of death;
Who died first whether the poet or the poem?
He stood there listening to the wailings
of both the poets and their verses

Inside there were chairs
with swollen belly,
tables that have gone crazy,
sensual shadows
and junk of books,
even as the sales and discussions
went on an on

Then he got scared of death
He was not ready to
become a corpse

Instantly he felt the urgency
of poetic metaphors
to break away from the confines
of the bookshop

In a trance he recalled the days when
snake charmers, poets and teachers
were suffering for want of lovers
It flashed back how the poetic talent
in his molecules began to blow apart
since ages

And how love was orphaned
denied of the right to survival and fortunes
The poet in him was born by chronicling
the erosion of culture and meanness of the past

He tried his best to see that the carcass
of his desires did not turn into poetic imageries

Meanwhile even his corpse
was on the look out for a safe haven
outside the world of verses
to avoid molestation,
and to escape from
the lusty glare of the poets

The trees and insects resorted
to futile rituals to possess
the life of poets
but got back nothing but grief

He couldn’t resist the temptation to
hold on to his moral right for existence
outside the realm of history.

The debate of the poets went on unabated
As the book of night remained wide open
they began unwrapping
the cartons of lust and liquor