CASUAL VIEWS ON WORLD AFFAIRS-2

Sir

   That  the   crisis  in  Libya  pulled  the  attention  from  the  comity  of  nations  is  not  surprising. But, what  is  more  astonishing  is  the  adamancy  of  its  despot  Moammar  El-Gaddafi , notwithstanding  the  surmounting  international  pressure. The  politics  in  the  west   Asia  had  consistently  remained  gloomy, with  self-styled  imperious  leaders  holding  the  reins  for  decades  in  succession, looting  the  wealth  of  their  nations. With  the  weakening   or  ouster  of  some   of  these  leaders  in  North  Africa , the  Arabian   peninsula  would  realize  a  stark  reality, that  they  need  to  have  a  strong  democratic  set-up   and  secular  constitution. The  uprising  in  Bahrain, Oman  and  Yemen  may  have  its  serious  ramifications  in  nations  like  UAE, Qatar  and  Kuwait  as  well  in  the  near  future. All  is  well  that  ends  well  !

                                                          ---  Ramesh  Iyengar

                                       Srivilliputtur,   E-mail :  rameshzillion@hotmail.com

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CASUAL VIEWS ON WORLD AFFAIRS

What  an  impulsive  decision !!

That  the  decision  of  MDMK  to  stay  aloof  from  Tamil Nadu  poll  fray  appears  to  be  a  highly  impulsive  decision. The  MDMK  supremo  Mr. Vaiko’s  abstaining  would   almost  make  no  serious  implication  in  the  election  outcome. The  past  track  record  of  MDMK  in  the  suffrage  seems  not  so  encouraging. It  couldn’t  even  win  out  a  substantial  number  of  seats  as  inferred  from  the  NIE’s  article  entitled  ‘ MDMK  pulls  out  of  AIADMK  alliance’  dated  21-03-2011. Oliver  Goldsmith  maintained  ‘ adulation  follows  those  who  are  ambitious.’  A  man’s  mettle  is  to  be  determined  solely  by  way  of  his  performance  and  not  entirely  on  his  rhetorical  skills. MDMK  may  have  star  orators  in  vernacular  like  Vaiko  and  Nanjil  Sampath. But, this  alone  would  not  do  suffice  when  it  comes  to  contesting  in  the  elections, as  the  instant  2011  TN  Assesmbly  election  appears  like  the  ‘ dog-eat-dog’  wrangle. While , the  previous  profile  of  the  party  seems  dismal, that  the  stand  of  Miss. Jayalalitha  to  allot  12  seats  to  MDMK  in  her  alliance  appears  to  be  a  seasoned  assessment. AIADMK  loses  nothing  if  Vaiko  quits  the  opposition  camp. The  angel of  fortune  is  likely  to  smile  on  the  face  of  Miss. Jayalalitha  at   the  end  of  the  day.

                                      ---  Ramesh  Iyengar

                                        Head  of  the Department – English

               VPMM  Engineering  College  for  women, Srivilliputtur.

( Published  in  The  New  Indian  Express, dated  22-03-2011 )

SRIVILLIPUTTUR --ANDAL TEMPLE FACADE

SRIVILLIPUTTUR --SATHURAGIRI FALLS

SRIVILLIPUTTUR --THIRUVANNAMALAI ROAD

SRIVILLIPUTTUR --SHENBAGA THOPPU ( ORCHARD )

SRIVILLIPUTTUR --RAILWAY STATION

SRIVILLIPUTTUR --TEMPLE PILLAR

SRIVILLIPUTTUR --TEMPLE TANK

MEENAKSHI AMMAN TEMPLE --ARCHITECTURE

ANDAL TEMPLE --TOWER

ANDAL TEMPLE --RECITATION HALL --SRIVILLIPUTTUR

ANDAL TEMPLE--WARRIOR

ANDAL TEMPLE -- HOLY MAST

ANDAL TEMPLE CORRIDOR --SRIVILLIPUTTUR

What I Price The Most

What I Price The Most
What I price
as precious are ………..

The morning dewdrops on grass
(precious than pearls)

The smile on a pavement beggar's face,
while dropping a coin into his bowl.

The sweat of a ploughman,
in twilight returning home,
after a day's toil.

The smell of fresh pages of
morning newspaper.

The uncleared snow clogging December morning streets.
The prayers of ascetic in harmony with his athmaa.

The still midnight frozen silence.

Rainy evenings.
Christmas puddings.

Hidden peacock feathers in school textbooks.
Diaries of my youth.

Ramesh Iyengar

What Fantasy?

What Fantasy?
A dream of fantastic galloping horses
Three hundred …………
White, brown, scarlet, crimson
colours innumerable

Of varied tails
long, short, thin-tailed
of unusual sizes……..

Amidst the cloud
flying, steadily,
ascending the heights
one cloud over the other,
against the backdropp of a
clear, blue, starry-night sky.

Flying above……….Far above
fluttering the wings,
restless
in a soft, sweet motion

All of them flew
in solemn, silent perfection,
unto eternal distance………..
Where? Destination? !

Where doth these Pegasus fly?
These winged horses………

Tell me!
Which is my dream horse? ..............
------

Vote of thanks on a school cabinet induction ceremony

Vote of thanks on a school cabinet induction ceremony

SONNET

Here all we do assemble in a mass
To install a cabinet fair as a flower vase.
For each to assume duties variant
To render services for year concurrent
Do we bless them for taking a role
And each to act in vigour, in whole.
And for everyone gathered here
Our thanks heartfelt that is due and fair
And thank audience what have they done.
The events nicely as made, the day was won.
Thus these ceremonies we finish
Contented, cheer’d all with a heart of relish.
Behold hither our banners, colours flourish.
One and all we thank, all with heart’s grace.

-- Ramesh Iyengar

The weavers of my town

The weavers of my town
They call themselves as saaliyar community.

In the north of my hometown,
the weavers squatted long back,
during the pre-independent period,
and made coarse cotton robes for British sepoys,
much to the appreciation of English bosses.


Together as one clan they occupied
many a street,
lanes, bypasses and narrow pathways,
they propagated into nine streets.

Built tile-roof houses,
and wove clothes all the day, all the night.

A community of one hundred thousand.
They grouped together,
intermingled, and married within their caste,
to beget generations of men and women,
till no one knew who their ancestors were.

The weaving apparatus, their only asset.

Waking in the vee-hours of morning,
after a breakfast of sweet kesari, uppumaa and tea,
they weave till
they lose all their sweat or
the sun goes right over their heads.

Widowed women in white saris,
Un-bloused, bare- footed,
spin thread in gandhian charka –wheel,
Under the shady neem trees, along the streets,
listening to tales of neighbours, gossiping,
chatting innocently of everyone except themselves.

They convened local assemblies,
to hear family disputes,
and solved almost every serious issue,
other than Nuclear weapons program and Iraq civil war.

I love to look at those streets,
that community of weavers, young and old,
aged elders torn and battered due to working.

Each time I go to buy kerosene and wheat,
from public distribution ration shop,
I watch this Saaliyar community with eagerness.

But, each time I visit their street,
One thing that irks my eyes,
the weavers who clothe everyone in my state,
remain without shirts and always half-naked.

Ramesh Iyengar

The Union

The Union
Who am I?
Who are you?

Who your ancestors are?

Who my ancestors are?

(Were they related?
If so, in what way ?)

Yet, we fell in
the rhapsody of love

and became one

like the rainwater,
that showers on the red soil
become one with it
turning all red.


And in the like manner we merged as one…………

- A translation of a poem from Tamil Classical poetry
' Nattrinai'


P.S.:

The Original Language - Tamil (Classical poetry)

Translator - Ramesh Iyengar

-----------------

The Soul, The Wings, The Sky

The Soul, The Wings, The Sky
I wish to fly.
Give me wings.

Let me fly,
lifting myself aloft
in the sky.

It longs to fly,
alone, independent
high above,
far beyond,
ascending ………………………….

Let me fly,
to surf the winds,
swim in icy-clouds,
to taste the
honey-dew drops of
rain water hidden in it.


Let me fly,
to see the stars,
meteors, comets,
to check my face,
on the mirrory moon's surface.

Give me wings.
Let me fly,
to see the galaxies,
Pluto and Aaron,
to see a panorama of
the milky way,
to see what you see not.


My heart yearns.
My breath longs to fly.
My desire is to
drench in the snow of light,
to be free from shackles,
go scot-free from mundane world.

Hear me!
Listen to my heart!
Pulse my soul.
------------------

The Scent of his Ladylove's hairlock

The Scent of his Ladylove's hairlock
‘ The scent of his ladylove’s hairlock ’


‘….. Dear little wasp,
You who visits numerous blossoms !
Speak !
Speak without favour
or personal fervour.
As thou hast visited countless flowers,
know you all the
sweet aroma and scent.
Wherefore I ask you,
have you seen any flower,
that issue forth
sweet smell in same measure,
as that issue forth
from the hair of my ladylove,
who resembles peacock in appearance
and charm as that of white flowers?

- Tamil poet Irayanaar.
(Translated from the Tamil classical poetry :
Kurunthogai – Kurinjiththogai)

Ramesh Iyengar

The poetry for Farewell Day

The poetry for Farewell Day
POETRY FOR FAREWELL DAY

Years here have passed by,
many a winter and spring rolled away
The honeyed days we had in here
in free mind and innocence fair.
Never are to return forth.
Say I this in full truth.

A sanctuary is to us
Our safe haven, secured campus

Yet, from it we part now
like the calf that leaves the cow,
As the cub severs from brave lion
nurtured full in its den

We thus take a breach.
To our alma mater make a valediction.
A farewell to Mother,
these children do festivize here.

Hence we are here gathered.
For an academic rite.
Our school’s ultimate event.

Hence, we here did collect,
to mark an event when we part,
but note we do weep at heart.

Thus, everyone here we welcome
Pray, do make this wholesome

---------

Ramesh Iyengar

The milkman Mr. Vanniyan

The milkman Mr. Vanniyan
Promptly comes he to
my doorsteps at 5-00 AM

Alighting from his bicycle,
he shouts ' Amma '
ringing his temple bell,
roped to his Victorian vehicle.

My family visitor every morning
and afternoon
wakes me up at siesta time.

Unique in his wake-up calls.

Long back in 70's,
got convicted for first degree murder,
spent 14 years in prison,
returned back later,
to start his own dairy,
to pour milk into
every vessel in Brahmin ghettos.

More precise than our home alarm clock,
precision in duty.

From a tall standing aluminium vessel,
he pours his ' milk of human kindness '
to make our morning filter coffee.

Gets paid on the 1 st of every month.

In our ' agrahaara ' his arrival
considered auspicious.

He arrived forth just facing me,
as I departed for distant lands,
in the greed to make hot cash.

He partook on all occasions,
pleasant or unpleasant,
a visitor on all occasions,
a loveable person,
a rich rustic from Kammapatti village
that supplied ' watery milk '
to my entire Srivilliputtur town.

A popular gossip went around,
that alleged Vanniyan adulterated milk,
with water drawn ' liberally ' from Temple water tank.


Hath you got ' adulterated ' successors, my friend
to inherit your ' liquidated business '?

Yet, pour forth your ' so-called milk '
And keep on pouring
(till the entire Temple water tank turns dry)

Ramesh Iyengar

The Mamsapuram Saga

The Mamsapuram Saga
The Mamsaapuram Saga….

Far off from my home,
is spotted Mamsaapuram village.
Just a tiny speck in Indian map,
secluded, hidden beside palm groves.
Unheard unvisited, unseen
by curious tourists.
A spot you need to see,
dare say I .

Backdropped by western ghats,
encircling paddy crops,
sugarcane fields, little hills,
hamlets, little houses…

No name board to declare,
no street names save
east or south.

Haze of dust hangs in the air,
passing vehicles hustle,
oxen’s necks cling-clang
punctuating early dawn.

Cheap eateries under thatch roofs,
puff out thick, black smoke,
as aged men squat
to sip tea, smoke bidis.

Women, men, passing grandmas
hold no assets, nor fortunes
no ambitions to claim.

A whole clan smothered beneath
mammoth boulders of
harmless superstitions.

Deities in queer names
stand guard at entry
posted as sentry
armed with aruvaal.
They long for offerings,
sweet rice, meat, flowers
in pongal jubilations,
every year in post-harvest period.

Wonderful afternoons
in bright –lit streets,
make golden yellow day.
Sweet silence shatter by
cooing crows.

A chill evening returns,
tillers retire home
spent, sweating, dirty…..

The little shops recreate with
vada, jilebis, piping tea
and hot biryanis,
to pacify the dull spirits.

Evening taverns throng
aglow, pouring out
cheer(s) ful cups of moonshine,
to booze,
to extract coolie wages of day’s toil

This little village of
poor peasants, ever-indebted ryots,
pitch-dark women, innocent urchins,
promiscuous men, bulls, cockerels,
shitting goats,
cowsheds that stink of manure,
unseen by the world

Ah ! my own Mamsaapuram village…..! ! ! !


Glossary :

bidi -- thin cigar made with tendu leaves

aruvaal - long sickle used for hacking goat (Tamil
word)

vada -- flat circular spicy dish made with pulses,
chillies and fried in oil. (Tamil word)

jilebis - orange coloured, circular sweet meat soaked
in sugary syrup ( Tamil word)

biryani - an originally Indian dish made with highly
seasoned rice and meat or fish etc.,

Ayyanar -- rural, male saviour deity believed to protect
the village ( Tamil word)

coolie -- wages of a day of unskilled labourer

ryots -- an Indian peasant

-------

Ramesh Iyengar

The Facade Of Aandal Temple

The Facade Of Aandal Temple
For almost
every passer-by,
the portal of temple
lends attraction and sight.
It seems God's variety
is spread out there
outside the temple,
from flower-sellers to book-sellers.


Fruit sellers to radio repairers,
they sell almost everything.
A dry perfume-seller
came to our town,
opened a stall,
outside the temple,
sold turmeric and Kum- Kum
and packed dry perfume powder.


Later, settled there forever,
till his progeny
descended unto grand children
and great grand …………
My town is the host for
every tourist, every odd figure
bound to the south.
The two front rows
(on either side)
leading to the temple
houses almost every trade.


Tailors who bustle with
sewing machines
from morn till late night.

Astrologers forecast a
shiny future
to passive gullible listeners
(who sit cross-legged)
in exchange of few coins.


Juice vendors, camphor-sellers,
lottery ticket sellers,
gurus who sell talismans,
vendors of cooking vessels….
Keep it alive humming with
ceaseless activity,
till noon-wind
dozed them into
a fine, noisy siesta……………….


Only to be awakened (sharp at)
three O ' clock
by the coffee aroma
from Gurunathan Brahmin Cafeteria
that refreshed all
with vada, idli,
bonda and oily delicacies…………………….


Glossary:

kum – kum - vermilion powder

vada - a mixture of well- ground pulses, fried in
oil. (looks like doughnut)

idli -- steam-baked, rice cake

bonda -- spherical, oil-fried, savoury dish

--------------------

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

The Discovery On A Bicycle Ride

The Discovery On A Bicycle RideI discover my town on a bicycle.
I don’t need a Santa Maria. I am today’s Columbus.
All I need is my bicycle.
Romantic mist fill the streets by early morn,
freeze the air to a chill dawn.
Lo! another day blossoms on the creeper of Time.
The tolls of milkman pierce the ears of
snoring housewives.
The sleepy, old man drops at doorstep
fresh, printed newspaper of the day.
Crowds gather around tea stalls and tiny eateries.
(that sell hot vada and sweet vermicelli)
Sweeping brooms of municipal cleaners
gather garbage, clouding fine dust
in the morning sun.
Unbathed women at doorstep, splash water,
draw white-flour designs,
curse neighbours, government and everyone……
The rushing employees of state service, carry lunch boxes.
Weeping school children demand sweet meat
or petty cash
whacked by fathers or uncles.

The coolies depart, to shed sweat in cotton fields,
by countryside
or to reap grass under western hills.

Be gentle! Carefully take a watch
or you miss the scenes of morning.
The cashier at restaurant entrance,
in bright dhoti, wears red vermilion on forehead.
counts hot currency notes.
Little groceries open inviting women, children,
begin the business of the day.

The big gong at town centre remind the time.

Bathing men at temple water tank,
praise God in devotional hymns.
The hearty prayers of catholic priests,
in sweet rhythmic psalms.
Pray, dear fellow! will you note these tomorrow or
take a bicycle ride with me?


-

Glossary:
vada - a spicy, dish made of dhall fried in oil
coolies - men who work on daily wages
-------------------

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

The Disaster

The Disaster
The disaster

…….. and it finally came
no prior note given.

Unannounced came an earthquake,
just a jerk,
a sinister shake,
one ominous tilt,
nature had no guilt.

All tumbled down.
Man’s erections in debris lie.
The forbidden souls in gloom cry.

Orphaned, unfathered,
Unhomed, uncared…….

Rescue workers distribute grain and rice.
Politicians, big promises.

Roofless souls and squatters
stare at vacant sky in a woeful night.

The earthquake………
It is news for the rich.
It is catastrophe for the poor.


--------

Ramesh Iyengar

The Whole And The Whole Itself Or Sampoornam

The Whole And The Whole Itself Or Sampoornam
The best dinner requires no compliments.

The best painting needs no criticism.

The best battlefield needs no victory jubilations.

The elite athlete needs no laurels.


The mid-spring warrants no Odes or Sonnets.

The excellent things are self-explanatory.

Like the excellent culinary chef,

who does not await
your praises on an

extravagant epicurean meal
(or bohemian meal) …….


Whole things need no filling stuff.
What can you add to a fine, English spring morning?
or a snowfall season in Kashmir mountains.
Artists need no lavishing eulogy.

Mona Lisa never requires a book of criticism.

You see,
things are self – containing in itself.

Accomplished deeds in wholesomeness
are all – inclusive.

Your supplementing criticism
stands odd and singled –out.

Epic authors finished their
final Canto lines
in self – content.

So, the next time,
look not at your critic's face,
eager and awaiting,
after finishing
a long melody sequence on your piano,
of course,
for heaping commendations.


(Written in a tissue paper during a flight journey from
Trivandrum to Abu Dhabi)

---------------------
Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

The Voice of a bird

The Voice of a bird
The voice of a bird

Freedom is my birthright.
Captivity does me never suit.
Being a prisoner is no joy.
Must I surf the winds in a buoy.

A cage is no place for me.
Lovely blue sky is my acme.
Your cage golden and shining.
by no means make comforting.

The Lord made the forest lush.
Thither to dwell is my wish.
Whither food nature lends,
fresh water plenty in crystal ponds.

In the streams my thirst quenched.
In the glades sweet voices heard.
In the vales let me glide freely.
Sing’ ng notes of liberty gaily.

A cage is no place for me.
Lovely blue sky is my acme.
Freedom is my birthright.
Captivity does me never suit.


-----------

Ramesh Iyengar

The Union ( A translation of Tamil Classical Poetry Kurunthogai )

The Union ( A translation of Tamil Classical Poetry Kurunthogai)
Poetry Translation -2
Title : The Union

Who your mother is ?
Who my mother is ?

( Were they related ?
If so, in what way ?)

Nay, who thy father is ?
And my father is ?
Did they know each other ?
Or were they related ?

Who am I ?
Who are you ?
(Weren’t we united ?)

Yet, we fell in
the rhapsody of love

and became one

like the rainwater,
that showers on the red soil
becomes one with it,
turning all red.


And in the like manner we merged as one…………

-- A translation of a poem from Tamil Classical poetry Kurunthogai – Kurinjiththogai poem
Poet’s name : Sembulap Peineerar

Ramesh Iyengar

The Saga Of Mamsaapuram Village

The Saga Of Mamsaapuram Village
Far off from my home,
is spotted Mamsaapuram village.
Just a tiny speck in Indian map,
secluded, hidden beside palm groves.
Unheard unvisited, unseen
by curious tourists.
A spot you need to see,
dare say I.

Backdropped by western ghats,
encircling paddy crops,
sugarcane fields, little hills,
hamlets, little houses…

No name board to declare,
no street names save
east or south.

Haze of dust hangs in the air,
passing vehicles hustle,
oxen’s necks cling-clang
punctuating early dawn.

Cheap eateries under thatch roofs,
puff out thick, black smoke,
as aged men squat
to sip tea, smoke bidis.

Women, men, passing grandmas
hold no assets, nor fortunes
no ambitions to claim.

A whole clan smothered beneath
mammoth boulders of
harmless superstitions.

Deities in queer names
stand guard at entry
posted as sentry
armed with aruvaal.
They long for offerings,
sweet rice, meat, flowers
in pongal jubilations,
every year in post-harvest period.

Wonderful afternoons
in bright –lit streets,
make golden yellow day.
Sweet silence shatter by
cooing crows.

A chill evening returns,
tillers retire home
spent, sweating, dirty…..

The little shops recreate with
vada, jilebis, piping tea
and hot biryanis,
to pacify the dull spirits.

Evening taverns throng
aglow, pouring out
cheer(s) ful cups of moonshine,
to booze,
to extract coolie wages of day’s toil

This little village of
poor peasants, ever-indebted ryots,
pitch-dark women, innocent urchins,
promiscuous men, bulls, cockerels,
shitting goats,
cowsheds that stink of manure,
unseen by the world

Ah! my own Mamsaapuram village…..! ! ! !


Glossary:

bidi - thin cigar made with tendu leaves

aruvaal - long sickle used for hacking goat (Tamil
word)

vada - flat circular spicy dish made with pulses,
chillies and fried in oil. (Tamil word)

jilebis - orange coloured, circular sweet meat soaked
in sugary syrup (Tamil word)

biryani - an originally Indian dish made with highly
seasoned rice and meat or fish etc.,

Ayyanar - rural, male saviour deity believed to protect
the village (Tamil word)

coolie - wages of a day of unskilled labourer

ryots - an Indian peasant

------------
Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

The Puny World

The Puny World
The petty shop beside my house facing the north,
provides numerous home materials.

Rice, pulses, spices, tamarind,
oil, jaggery, sugar, tooth powder,
A week- old vegetables.
One thousand odd items buried in bottles.


Tiny, saccharin sweets in all hues
(a year old or more)
greasy, shiny and mellow
sold to kids who gaze at them,
with wide open eyes,
saliva dripping down the lips,
in a long stream.


The semi-bald shop keeper
in his stained dirty lungi,
and torn banian
unclean, unbathed, unshaved
selling salt and soap
camphor and cashew
to an odd little crowd,

credit sales to women neighbours,
till the cashbox jingled with
hundreds of coins.

He yawns in the afternoons,
fans his barebody with palmyrah leaf,
listens to radio songs,
on a hot Madrasi noon,


reading old magazines.

His world of business,
currencies, fives and tens
of rural innocence,
unseen by Delhi Finance Ministry
or experts of IMF office.


The little, puny world of petty shop!
Ah! My neighbour!


Glossary:

hues - colours

gaze - fix the eyes in a steady look

lungi - waist cloth, loin cloth usually multi-
coloured

palmyrah - tropical trees, black in colour

IMF - International Monetary Fund

puny - small

---------------------

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

The Naik Cutchery Hall

The Naik Cutchery Hall
The Naik Cutchery Hall

On the southern rib of my town,
the Cutchery Hall stand erect.

An old relic coloured in golden yellow, white and green,
black domes at the crown-top.
Old, solid, huge cylindrical pillars guard at the entrance,
elephant-like, in all Royal majesty.

Built three centuries ago, the notable thing is its age.

The judicial court wakes up every morning,
donning unique appearance each day.

Its morning looks are dull.
The peons and chowkidars brush teeth, smoke and spit.

Later,
rustic villagers arrive in soiled clothes.
To solve disputes over agricultural fields,
broken marriages, petty quarrels, wall disputes,
slap and bite cases, loans and money-lendings,
unending family cases…..

At 10 a.m., the judge arrives in black gown.
The minions rush, serve, stoop down…
The din in the court silenced to serious silence.
The British era fans whirr and twirr from the ceiling,
rattle everyone’s ears.

On its uncemented walls how many
innocent men rested their hopes?
Its halls partially-lit,
spacious for a Maharajah durbar.

How many wise tufted men argued
hours and hours
in ceaseless silver tongues,
to the yielding ears of British Daniels
seated on the dais?

How many Brahmins thrilled
the ears of attorneys getting applause
in words and huge fees! !

Ah! what a legacy these court walls speak of!
The mute witnesses for centuries to witty eloquence!

How many English bosses charmed, spellbound
by the tongues of Iyers and Iyengars?

* * * * * * *
In the afternoons,
the sizzling Tamil Nadu sun,
dozes everyone to sweaty siesta in the verandahs,
the villagers eat, chew betel leaves, belch,
and plead to avaricious lawyers for brief salvation.

As dusk sets in,
the Cutchery Hall is desolate.
The clerks and copyists
seek comfort over arrack,
till early dawn milk –vendors ring bells
unto their deaf ears waking them and the court…….

---
Glossary:
Cutchery Hall - judicial court
Naik Cutchery Hall - judicial court built during the reign of
King Tirumal Naik who ruled Madurai
chowkidar - menial servant in an office
maharajah - king
durbar - king’s court
brahmins - orthodox Hindu priest class
Iyers and Iyengars - caste divisions in Brahmin community

----
P.S. – This Colonial period judicial court lies in Srivilliputtur, my hometown in Virudhunagar District, in the south- Indian State of Tamil Nadu. In 2005 A. D., when the new court buildings were erected in the outskirts of the town, the old judicial court was permanently locked, closed and the premises were handed over to the Central Archaeological department, New Delhi.

---
Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Taste Of Eternity

Taste Of Eternity
I stood close on the shores.
The eternity right in front of me,
blue, vast, endless …………….
ripple one after the other
in frequent succession …………..


Is there a melody
in the ripple you make?
Your dance of waves,
a perfect rhythm.
Buoyant, brine liquid,
host to many a vessel,
Haven to pisces and
a million species.


Tell me, will you make
a mermaid meet me?
Oh! Deep and meaningful concept!
Admirable in form!
Profoundly spread.

Teach us your lessons.
your ways ………….
symbol of wisdom ……..
even as an orthodox guru ……..
ever in my life.

Oh! Eternity!


--

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Sugarcane Growers

Sugarcane Growers
The picturesque western ghats protect us all.
Its magnificence laid in green setting.
Its peaks brush the clouds in winter.
The innumerable streams that run there,
gather into a river, running in pure silver, (5)
washing down the soil and muck,
irrigated the fields, mango-groves,
banana plantations, tea estates,
came down as a running blessing.

The ruffian farmers down below looked up (10)
to receive the gifts of nature
looked eager for rainy months,
ploughed and kept the red soil ready,
got loans from money-lenders
repaired their electric motors, (15)
sacrificed goat to local deity,
and looked up at the clouds.

Sugarcane is their only hope.

The ryots sheltered in little houses,
added children and wives (20)
to a previous stock of close kith and kins,
dedicated dearly to progeny,
till the harvest season came in July,

reminding them everything…………
To fetch coolies from Northern districts, (25)
who came as labour battalions,
to toil and moil in the fields
cutting sugarcane, crushing,
boiling in wide cauldron,
rolling them into sweet jaggery balls (30)
only to be packed in palm-leave boxes,
transported to Coastal Kerala,
by a night train that departed at midnight.

While the fields were bare and bald,
the farmer counted on his cultivation accounts, (35)
just to find that loan dues outran the income.


And all that were left include
red soil lands barren,
black wives, a pack of children,
few sickles and ploughshares…………………… (40)





--
ghats (Hindi word) - mountain regions

--------------------

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Srivilliputtur Railway Station

Srivilliputtur Railway Station
The Railway station in my home town
is a silent, wonderful spot.
Far from the town,
3 Kms away,
it is unfrequented………….


Built decades ago,
its old buildings and a
tarnished name board,
neem and tamarind trees…….
Remaining asleep,
it wakes up in the evenings.
Men and women who journey,
arriving…………
vehicles parked,
cars, auto- rickshaws, cycles……..

It comes to life,
when the awaiting souls
look to the south
for the Quilon mail to arrive
(that hails from Kerala) …….


Porters rush, trolleys creek,
children jump in the air
(made quiet by their parents)
Policemen tighten their caps.
The platform is occupied…….





The Quilon Mail arrives like a giant,
long, endless
compartments in sequence
as a big, anaconda snake……


Fruit sellers tip-toe hither - thither.
Food vendors hustle.
Officials go criss-cross.
Passengers board and alight.
Parting words spoken.
Everyone in a fume!
All in the game! ..........


Whistle blows.
Signals exchange.
The train departs.
Its wheels gain momentum.
People disperse,
vehicles take a turn.

The Railway station is an orphan again.
It is there,
silent, dark,
unpeopled, dream-like ………………..


-
Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Seven Men under The Neem Tree

Seven Men under The Neem TreeTrust me, the best thoughts were born under the
trees.

You got hurt or torn or mangled in soul.

You need a tree to take care.

You get wisdom not from library books.

Prefer a neem tree or peepul

Buddha knew this.

Rishis knew this.

Saints knew this.

You know not.

Real classrooms are tree shades.

Socrates taught here.

Aristotle was intuited here.

A tree never charges for solacing your soul.

Ever wonder why best classrooms are those under

the neem trees?

--

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Of Subtle Things That Skipped Your Notice

Of Subtle Things That Skipped Your Notice
You fail to admire the best,
if you don’t admire your town.
One who misses to notice
the beauty of vicinity,
is no aesthetic.

My town surpasses
any other town in its charm.

The silence of dawn.
The partially-lit streets.
The morning walkers.

The bells of milkmen.
The façade of homes
bright with white powder designs.

The sweeping of women.
The flower-girls selling jasmine and chrysanthemums

The coolies rushing to fields.
The tea-shops sending out thick, black smoke.

Men gossip over newspaper reading.
The snail motion of
Municipal garbage van
(collecting litter and scattering everywhere)

The school children pace slow steps in
bright attire.

Ahem! Here is another day!

Another dawn !
Another day!

Everyday is my birthday.
Each day is birthday for my town.

My town awakes anew each day.

I’m sure
I’ve reasons to admire it though.

Ramesh Iyengar

Of My Town And Men I Sing...

Of My Town And Men I Sing...
‎ ‎
‎ I am sure the best place on earth is my town.‎
‎ You may not agree with me.‎
‎ I utter the truth.‎
‎ Big cities are so polluted. So crowded. So congested.‎
‎ Men rush with madness. ‎
‎ Fly in petrol-vehicles. Eat fast food.‎
‎ They spare no time for family or friends.‎
‎ Get stress and tension. Become truly mad. ‎
‎ Scream and die. R. I. P.‎
‎ ‎
‎ My town people are sweet. Wonderful creatures.‎
‎ Innocent, helping, rural characters……. Bear no evil.‎
‎ ‎
‎ Our town got life long back.‎
‎ When kings ruled and queens retired in harems.‎
‎ Rani Mangamma visited our town centuries ago.‎
‎ Worshipped the deity in Hindu temple.‎
‎ Donated gold and silver and diamonds and lands.‎
‎ We took the lands only.‎
‎ We knew how to honour her.‎
‎ We carved her in a stone statue and saluted her.‎
‎ Later, went back to till those lands for crops.‎
‎ We remembered the kings and queens who guarded us.‎
‎ And named our sons and daughters after them.‎
‎ ‎
‎ Politics entered into town.‎
‎ A hundred flags flew in the sky.‎
‎ A thousand men marched in processions.‎
‎ Few lacs spent in elections and wall posters.‎
‎ We quarrelled on politics and fought.‎

‎ We sat in tea-stalls and chatted. ‎
‎ We spread rumours about movie-actors, ‎
‎ felt excited, happily contented.‎
‎ ‎
‎ Yet, I admire my little town.‎
‎ Its dusty streets and old-buildings.‎
‎ Green emerald paddy fields.‎
‎ The age old, vegetable market built by an Englishman.‎
‎ The mittaiwallah shops and street-hawkers.‎
‎ Musalmans who repair locks and tools.‎
‎ Old village women selling the produce of lands.‎
‎ The fading light on rainy afternoons. ‎
‎ Its silence in pitch-dark late night.‎
‎ The winding streets lit by municipality lamps.‎

‎ I feel I should write an epic on my town.‎

‎ ‎ ‎ --‎ -------

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Of my town and men I sing

Of my town and men I sing
I am sure the best place on earth is my town.
You may not agree with me.
I utter the truth.
Big cities are so polluted. So crowded. So congested.
Men rush with madness.
Fly in petrol-vehicles. Eat fast food.
They spare no time for family or friends.
Get stress and tension. Become truly mad.
Scream and die. R. I. P.

My town people are sweet. Wonderful creatures.
Innocent, helping, rural characters……. Bear no evil.

Our town got life long back.
When kings ruled and queens retired in harems.
Rani Mangamma visited our town centuries ago.
Worshipped the deity in Hindu temple.
Donated gold and silver and diamonds and lands.
We took the lands only.
We knew how to honour her.
We carved her in a stone statue and saluted her.
Later, went back to till those lands for crops.
We remembered the kings and queens who guarded us.
And named our sons and daughters after them.

Politics entered into town.
A hundred flags flew in the sky.
A thousand men marched in processions.
Few lacs spent in elections and wall posters.
We quarrelled on politics and fought.

We sat in tea-stalls and chatted.
We spread rumours about movie-actors,
felt excited, happily contented.

Yet, I admire my little town.
Its dusty streets and old-buildings.
Green emerald paddy fields.
The age old, vegetable market built by an Englishman.
The mittaiwallah shops and street-hawkers.
Musalmans who repair locks and tools.
Old village women selling the produce of lands.
The fading light on rainy afternoons.
Its silence in pitch-dark late night.
The winding streets lit by municipality lamps.

I feel I should write an epic on my town.

Ramesh Iyengar

Of payment & procrastination

Of payment & procrastination
Of payment & procrastination

Years of waiting in patience.
I hold myself in silence.
Scores of visits here I made.
In each visit does hope fade.
The unpaid sum of Antonio made him ill.
I’m no Shylock, a commoner still.
Days pass, heart does loosen.
Lawyer, do you now awake?
Do pay me earlier,
as festivities are so near.


P. S.: My friend Mr. S. Santhanam who is a leading criminal lawyer of my town owes me Indian Rupees 4300/-. I reminded him on several occasions to repay his debt. However, he didn’t budge an inch. Hence, I wrote this short verse. I intended to pen a sonnet, yet it just ran 4 lines short of it. Hope he will repay it soon after reading this ‘ vers libre ’.

Ramesh Iyengar

My Sundays Or Ode to a Barber Shop

My Sundays Or Ode to a Barber ShopMy Sundays dawn at the barber shop.

At the backyard of my house
this premise remains,
cosy, little, low roof
that functioned all the day………………


I promptly go there every Sunday.
My family barber invites me,
gets me a cup of piping tea,
provides newspapers,
magazines dating back to yesteryears.

The broadcast from Ceylon radio,
lulling me with songs.

My barber seats me in his wooden ' throne '
plays a practises hand,
cuts my hair,
trims my sideburns,
perfects my curls……
His roaring rusty machine ploughs
playing a sonorous rhythm.

He gossips……………………
about the natives,
about politicians, matinee-idols,
about nations unknown,
about who eloped with who,
He alerts me on mundane issues,
……..shaves my beard, moustache,
his massaging fingers throws me
into a hypnotic sensuous state………




A heavy lunch at noon,
with dhall and rasam
and a siesta later,
hugging my mother's neck.
My lazy Sundays…………………………

------

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Memoirs Of My Old Diary

Memoirs Of My Old Diary
I remember, I remember…..
Those sweet days in my school diary,
days of nectar and sugared schedule.
When I wore half-trousers and was creeping to school,
when my morning breakfast expensed at eight annas.
When I had numerous men, who loved me and my family.


I remember, I remember
When I wore Khaki half-trousers, cotton white shirt
washed dutifully by my mother.
My little mouth sweetened by ten paise mellow,
brown saccharin balls,
sold by a dirty man on a four wheeled push-cart,
right outside the school gate.
The morning sessions swifted, till those
sweet balls melted in my pocket, dripping, wet, greasy, oily, sticky…….
(those stains lasted for weeks after several washings)


I remember, I remember those days…………..
When independence day meant handful of sweets,
small tri-colour flags pinned to my chest
(sadly it tore off in the afternoon)
The grade I teacher who wore leather topi,
The grade III Master had tonsils operations
and became mute for a month,
his thoughts spoken through the Head-boy, a human mouth-piece.


I remember, I remember
When I got transferred to English medium High school,
walked six kilometers a day
Those sweet eighties marred by Christian teachers
(Mr. F. D. Rathnam and Mr. Noah Selvaraj) who spoke
colonial servants' English
putting me to pedagogical torture
through hectic, periodical, terminal tests
of all names and myriad lessons.


As I browse this memory diary,
wet thoughts fill a liquid well in my dark eyes.
My school remains there,
a concrete memory to
my honeyish innocence and days of pleasant past.
My town today, peopled by
unknown new faces
and several extensions, streets numerous……………………

Ramesh Iyengar

Maargazhi Mornings

Maargazhi Mornings
December mornings are wonderful,
cold, semi-dark, snow-cold.
The Heaven sending below
a thick, long carpet of snow.

My town is asleep,
under a freezing breeze
(not many are awake)

Beautiful moments of silence.
The chilled air in painted black.
The still leaves in the trees.
Nothing moves,
save few men,
who energize with puffs of
cigarette smoke.


Dew drops on car windows,
parked on the road side.

The morning hymn singers
chant the Lord's grace
Harmonium, cymbals,
percussion drums
join in a musical medley

Every sleeper is stirred
Every soul warmed.
Maargazhi mornings
get refined

squarely manifested,
nowhere save in my own town…

--


Glossary:

maargazhi - the ninth month in the Tamil calendar that
coincides usually with December and
January.

------------------

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Letter of Leave of Absence

Letter of Leave of Absence
Letter of Leave of absence
Date : 09-10-2009
From
Ramesh
English Faculty
St Peter’s Matric Higher Secondary School
Kodaikanal

To
The Principal
St Peter’s Matric Higher Secondary School
Kodaikanal

Sir
Sub : Requisition for leave of absence –reg.,
------------

Well, many a task have i
In my town to do in careful eye.
Wherefore depart I from campus.
Friday evening bound home thus.
Hence, earnest do I pray thee.
Treat my absence as leave, so it be.


Yours obediently

S. Ramesh

Ramesh Iyengar

I Was Green Once Or The Tale Of A Tall Mountain

I Was Green Once Or The Tale Of A Tall Mountain
The wonderful Western Ghats
where I see a red sunset,
lies close to my town.

Beautiful in setting,
spread as a giant,
running north-south,
bordering nearby Kerala state

Its pointed peaks challenge Mount Everest.
I remember it was green once.
It was Emerald in bright sun.
Huge trees stood once,
thick as hair on a hippie-head.

Tribesmen feared those jungles.
Picnickers returned back
in haste, in fear.
Its hidden secrets unseen, untouched, unknown

Tigers, leopards, elephants
wild oxen, deer and boars……………
My God! Every creature in Noah's Ark
sanctuaried there.

Three Europeans, who wore
khaki dress and thick hats
went in with guns,
bagloads of bullets.
They did swear to hunt.
Never did they return
(Lions feasted them all)


Cool, fresh, clear streams ran
along the ribs of these mountains
making the valleys fertile


Alas! Woodcutters entered
with deadly axes,
that fell every tree,
bidding everlasting sorrow.

Every green thing fell flat
to greedy hand- saws.
Nature's plenty robbed
night and day.

Bounty of God made bald…
Western ghats today,
look pitiful, pathetic, barren,
tells me a tale of sorrow,
that begins like this,
' Ah Yes! I was green once

Ramesh Iyengar

Home Endearment

Home Endearment
The place I love the most is my town.
A tiny dot in the nation's map.
Its outset looks as in old tales.
It is a small wonder.
Its streets, tiled houses,
petty shops and century- old schools,
encompassed by green, emerald paddy fields.

I love the scenes,
even as a bus rushes past me,
sending a cloud of thick, browny dust
up into the air.
I long for its smells.


The bus stand congested with traffic,
the deafening din,
the cries of conductors, sweet sellers, beggars,
the village souls who rush in and out……


I love my people,
dirty and poorly dressed,
coarse, rural dialect speaking,
their teeth stained.
(years of betel leaf chewing)

The little lasses,
with jasmine on their hair,
rush forth in the lanes and by lanes.

Cobblers, coolies, torch –repairers,
fruit vendors,
the sundry scenes of a rurban fair.

Yet, the spot I love the most
is but my home in Temple Street.

Glossary:

1. emerald -- a jewel

2. lass - girl

3. helter – skelter - disorderly state

4. rurban - -- neither rural or urban

---

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Here ends another sea day

Here ends another sea day
The gentle breeze blows
The afternoon light fades
The clouds in sunset red burn
The birds to their nests return

The fishermen to their shores
Row and return in tired boats.
Their anxious, worried, sad wives
In prayers for husbands’ lives.

Their sweet children at games fun
Far away seen by parents none.
The seagulls in flocks fly across
Here now the coastal day ends

Ramesh Iyengar

From Chimpanzee to KFC

From Chimpanzee to KFC
From Chimpanzee to KFC


I know you agree with me.

There is no discord between you and me.

I speak with moral guts. Intellectual substantiation.

You are not a VBS kid to listen to Adam and Eve story.

It is lot of crap.

Neither you agree with Krutha yuga or Ocean of darkness.

Adam’s real name was Neanderthal. My cousin is a chimp.

You know for sure there is no Hell beneath earth’s crust.

Nor there is a chair placed for the Lord to pronounce verdict on Judgment day.

You never came across ‘ The Book of Life ‘ in a bookstall.

Very few listen to pulpit sermons on Sundays these days.

I believe He is dead.

If we have the same frequency, then buy a wreath and place it on Darwin’s grave.

Amen ! ! ! Amen ! ! ! Amen ! ! !

Ramesh Iyengar

Flee

Flee
I wish to fly.
Do not let me down
A butterfly never gets imprisoned.
Never think to confine me.

A bird is quite content in the sky.
So independent as the cloud.

Never detain me.
I am born to fly, to flee,

just to fill in my lungs, the mist in plenty


A hawk is at its will to fly,
high above


Let me soar high in the sky.
Rest down for a while,
on the pyramids of Giza,
drink in plenty the salubrious water of Nile,
take a nap on the Egyptian grass,



I wish to fly later to Damascus,
wander in the shady bazaars and souks
and noisy fowl markets,
buy a bouquet of red roses,
one to be pinned on my shirt

Let me skim the clouds,
fly over river Hudson.
A glimpse of white house, I take,
under star and stripe banner,
meet and greet Uncle Sam
in Empire state building


Later my wings let surf the skies,
to eye the puritanical London bridge.
My wings rest there.
A moment of respite and basking in the twilight sun,
on the banks of blue, crystalline Thames,
to view the Big Ben and Westminster abbey,
just to rest at night,
by the English countryside cool meadow


I am born to fly.

--

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Dream Horses

Dream Horses
A dream of fantastic galloping horses
Three hundred …………
White, brown, scarlet, crimson
colours innumerable

Of varied tails
long, short, thin-tailed
of unusual sizes……..

Amidst the cloud
flying, steadily,
ascending the heights
one cloud over the other,
against the backdropp of a
clear, blue, starry-night sky.

Flying above……….Far above
fluttering the wings,
restless
in a soft, sweet motion

All of them flew
in solemn, silent perfection,
unto eternal distance………..
Where? Destination? !

Where doth these Pegasus fly?
These winged horses………

Tell me !
Which is my dream horse? ..............
--------------------

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Down the memory lane

Down the memory lane
‘Down the memory lane’
- Ramesh Iyengar

Dear School
Days in swift away flee
Another zodiac gone through we.
As haste as shooting star
vanishing yet, leaving no scar.

Ah, my alma mater!
My light! My lamp so bright.
Fine memories of era sweet.
Fun and frolic in complete.
These long corridors will do echo
whispers and clamours here we do.
Our preceptors like candles melt
which I wonder we hardly felt.

Ah, how charming!
The exam blues. The lush lawns.
Misty milieu. Mysterious lessons.
Damp slopes. Muddy fields.
A wet sky on a rainy night.
The woods that make one affright.
The toll of the bell
striking at heart awful.

Ah, my step-mom!
Who cares as thee so gentle? !
These legends my song will tell.

Ramesh Iyengar

Budding Years

Budding Years
I want those years! .................
Years of innocence! ..................
Young as a boy,
school-going,
full of dreams, desires…………


Living in a world of my own,
the places where I trotted…….
The neem tree in my
house gate woke me up,
in the cold dawns,
The rushing vehicles making
non-stop sounds as I slow- footed to school.

My 2 Km long walk to school ………
The ocean – vast campus,
the sky- high asoka trees,
flower gardens, the bougainvilleas,
The orchards, creepers………..

The rich, businessmen
sent their children there.
They often fought
for no reason.
The friendly school peons.
The so- punctual teachers
(who spent the entire –day there)

The vast playgrounds
that received the foot tracks,
of many a sportsman.


The arts teacher
(who slept most of the day)

The angry geography master,
(who had a cane as tall as he)
The sweet English teachers,
the commerce teacher
(who directed school dramas)

An assembly of young eighteen hundred.
They fought and fought,
yet studied, played, danced and …….
The annual exams saw
the school campus dead
(they flew away in all directions)

Two months of silence, desertion
only to be re-filled
with fresh batch in June……..
My budding years ………….
Years of pure innocence………

-
Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

Blessings from Hymen

Blessings from Hymen
Blessings from Hymen

As two branches of
well-grown plants
grafted to yield
fair, sweet new one.


As mellow honey dripped in
fresh, fruit juices
render it sweet, delicious,

As bright red
mixed in white hue
lend soft pink colour,

May these two souls,
mended, blended, wedded
in matrimony Holy
be blessed by Lord’ grace
in life’s all ways.

God bless the couple for long, happy, sweet life.

---------

Ramesh Iyengar

Another Winter Evening And Hot Tea Cups

Another Winter Evening And Hot Tea Cups
Would you mind, switching off the TV?
Good, Thanks…….

It is time, we talk serious things.
No, not gossip.

I talk of other serious things.
You forgot to read today's newspaper.

It is there on the teapoy
I don’t mind. But, one day there may be no newspapers.

Only tabloids.
The prices you pay may be excessive.

You forgot Marlowe, Byron and Lord Bacon?
The book shelf is dust-laden.

The dictionary is untouched. You see silver-fish brooding inside.
Your recreation is in your fingertips.

(This remote control made you lazy in front of the idiot-box)
You never even buy a paperback.
Would you mind spending sometime with me?

Ramesh Iyengar

An Ode On Urination

An Ode On Urination
Think of urinating in blank unpeopled streets,
silent, late at midnight.

Not a single soul.
Your will directs you to
unzip and ease yourself.

I made the street corners wet, late at nights.
A land without lavatories is a open loo.

'Wetting' the street in Maargazhi mornings
is sheer pleasure.
It is subjective.

(Come to my town,
I will take you
on a night tour
in the partially – lit lanes.)

I repeat, 'Some pleasures are subjectively felt.'

It eases my urethra,
True sensation of relief.
I swear it is to heart's contentment.

Peeing is easier with dhoti dress.
(I know it personally)

The pitch dark ditch
filled with banana peels, egg shells,
disposed cigarette cases,
the mark of a social decay.

Lifting my dhoti,
I ease out a steaming stream,
clear as clinical distilled water,
hot as fresh, brewed coffee.

The pleasure of relief is inexplicable.
I say, the feeling is subjective.

Ramesh Iyengar

Allah

Allah
ALLAH ! ! ! ( Translation)

Original (In Tamil) : Subrahmanya Bharati

Translation : Ramesh Iyengar


Prelude

Allah ! Allah ! Allah !


Stanza 1

You fix the spheres
and celestial bodies
in their orbits, non-stop and running
in all the directions,
though they are billions in number.
Thou art the great light untouched by
words and thoughts. (Allah ! Allah ! Allah!)


Stanza 2

Be they unlettered folks,
the speakers of falsehood,
evilsome, malevolent, the unpraying men
those who doth not stand by the
ethics of the virtuous.
Thou maketh them all
to beseech thee and praise.
Thou maketh the fear of death, leave thus.

( Allah ! Allah ! Allah!)
---------

Ramesh Iyengar

A Welcome Song To An Unborn Baby

A Welcome Song To An Unborn Baby
You are most welcome!
Young bud,
yet to blossom.

Formative period,
tranquil sleep,
dark universe,
joyous buoying.

Let you relax!
Your stars not fixed!

Oh! young seed!
Yet to rip open,
to unfold with vigour.


May your arrival
be Providence's will.
Angel's choice.

Make yet one more
worthy addition to the few billions.
on this planet.
Oh! Desire long awaited!
Fleshy dream!

Come in all your grace!
Slip into our Universe.

We await you! !

--

Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

A translation of Tamil film number

A translation of Tamil film number
A translation of Tamil film number


FILM : RAAJA PAARVAI (Tamil movie -1981)

SONG: ANTHI MAZHAI POZHIKIRATHU………

SINGERS: S.P. BALASUBRMANIAM, S.JANAKI

MUSICIAN: ILAYARAJA

LYRICIST: VAIRAMUTHU

' ANTHI MAZHAI POZHIKIRATHU ……………….'

(This is an address of a blind man to his ladylove)


Song:

He : The evening rain dristles down …..

I see your face in every rain drop.

You are the fruit in the orchard of Venus

You are the diplomat of country of Venus


Selah ……….



TANZA 1


She : When the wasp was drowning in honey,

the bonny dame took pity and rescued it.

You keep the fire in your heart and say you feel horny

You sink in water and say you' re thirsty.

He : In loneliness…………in the state of void

How many days am I to spend, being a youth?

My nights are spoilt.

My dreams burnt me (to ashes)

Even the eyelids are burdensome in one's youth!
( coz. he dreams)


Selah …………..

STANZA : 2


He: My body burns as it is too passionate.

You are the cloud to quench my thirst.

Who stitched a thorn in my eyes (and made me blind ?)

I perspire while in water!


She : I am a mattress (for you to lie on)

Let me fan your body with my saree.

Since, you got pierced with the arrows of Venus,

let me balm those wounds with sandalwood paste.

He: The evening rain dristles down

She: I see your face in every rain dropp ……….

You are the pearl that skipped an oyster.

You are the secret book read at late night.

She : The evening rain ……………………..(repeat)


Glossary:

Venus - Goddess of Love


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Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

A Loaf Of Bread & Three Pints Of Water

A Loaf Of Bread & Three Pints Of Water
Don’t get me nukes.
Nukes never appease my hunger.

My brothers are starving.
My mother is thirsty. (She is ill)

My father has no job.
My sister has inflated stomach.

Your guns spit out bullets. (They are irrational)
You see, I speak seriously.

When you are hungry, you don’t feed on carcass.
Don’t talk diplomacy.

I know you were taught by clever politicians.
Next time you meet me, get me bread and some water.

I have no shame begging from you.
Take care brother, in today's battle! !

Ramesh Iyengar

A Welcome Song To An Unborn Baby

A Welcome Song To An Unborn Baby
You are most welcome!
Young bud,
yet to blossom.

Formative period,
tranquil sleep,
dark universe,
joyous buoying.

Let you relax!
Your stars not fixed!

Oh! young seed!
Yet to rip open,
to unfold with vigour.


May your arrival
be Providence's will.
Angel's choice.

Make yet one more
worthy addition to the few billions.
on this planet.
Oh! Desire long awaited!
Fleshy dream!

Come in all your grace!
Slip into our Universe.

We await you! !

--
Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India

Ramesh Iyengar

A Taste Of Eternity

 Taste Of Eternity
I stood close on the shores.
The eternity right in front of me,
blue, vast, endless …………….
ripple one after the other
in frequent succession …………..


Is there a melody
in the ripple you make?
Your dance of waves,
a perfect rhythm.
Buoyant, brine liquid,
host to many a vessel,
Haven to pisces and
a million species.


Tell me, will you make
a mermaid meet me?
Oh! Deep and meaningful concept!
Admirable in form!
Profoundly spread.

Teach us your lessons.
your ways ………….
symbol of wisdom ……..
even as an orthodox guru ……..
ever in my life.

Oh! Eternity!


Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India
-

Ramesh Iyengar

A Street Fakir's Song

A Street Fakir's Song
(A translation of Tamil film number)

Film : Oru thalai raagam (Tamil language) -1981
Song : Idhu kuzhandai paadum thaalattu….
Poet : T. Raajendar

Refrain

This is the lullaby sung by a baby
This is the melody of the night
This is the sunrise in the west
This is a boat without a stream (refrain)

Stanza –1

I see the footprints of feet that forgot the pathway.
I draw a chariot that has no ropes.
I see the twinkling stars even after sunshine.
I survive in my memories of a lady who desireth me not.
(refrain)

Stanza -2

I stitch garland without blossoms.
I carve a sculpture without stone, in emptiness.
I see a bird in the sky without a pair of wings.
I exist in my memory of a lady whom I dote upon. (refrain)









Stanza –3

Have I thought of her, after I lost her favour?
Have I desired her in the vain hope of an affair?
Have I penned a poem without a theme?
How long shall I live in this one-sided affection? (refrain)


Copyright reserved © 2007 New Delhi, India
--

Ramesh Iyengar

A sonnet to my employer-2

A Sonnet to my employer – 2

What balmy things, events to a person bid,
when he is free, and bound by no accord?
Job have I none, yet enthusiasm four-fold.
I read, I write and in sweet leisure be amused.
I muse, I drowse and clock-hours unused.
Epicurean foods, exotic fruits, all for a dinner meal.
One’s home is but Paradise on earth,
if it be well-placed and given with mirth.
To my business at present, shall I speak.
If thee get my passport from Arab mandarin,
do anon get done what has to be done.
Nay, one more to be done, just one.
Do I need a credential accrediting my service.
Pray post it to my home as I wish

Ramesh Iyengar

A sonnet to my employer-4

A sonnet to my employer –4

(To demand the due of perquisites)

To thee most benevolent self,
my request as below whereof.
The services I owe thee ended,
in term and clause as agreed.
It dried, faded, goeth no further,
much as a spring flower that wither.
Likewise depart I from my school,
not without sorrow, pale and scowl.
But, do I beseech and entreat,
a single favour not so great.
That if there are dues be any,
I know well not so many.
Do pay me thru’ demand draft,
mail it to my home in swift.

- Ramesh Iyengar

A sonnet to my employer

 SONNET TO MY EMPLOYER

Here doth I submit words few.
Three summers passed, thus years three
In commitment, true and earnest
To impart tuition at my best.
Wherefore, shared my wit meagre,
Taught students diction and grammar. (6)
Lo! dost thou peruse our pact
That runs out by seventh, august?
It ends, it concludes, finishes,
Whereupon in covenant no more me binds.
Pray I thee treat this epistle,
As a month’s notice given in prior.
Hence, discharge me from obligations all.
I thank thee from my heart in full. (14)


Thus drafting so,
I remain
Yours most submissively

S. Ramesh

(SOLAMALAI RAMESH)

P. S:
I worked in a school as English teacher for three years in United Arab Emirates. When I wanted to end my contract with my employer upon the completion of the visa period, I intended to issue him a month-prior notice as per the sub-clause of our contract to state my stand.
But, with a difference, instead of prose, I preferred poetry. Hence, I issued the said demi-official notice in the form of a sonnet, which you read above.
I am sure, I am the only person in this planet to have written corporate correspondence in poetry. What idiosyncrasy!