THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

There is a village out there So secretive and dark, Distinguished by its long lamp shades and struggling winds. Two thousand thoughts hovered in the sky, while thousand bed lights still produced its daughters. Figures outliving years are landmarks to this village. A man with just two front teeth, Clutches firmly to the tattered ajrak shawl, A sleepy signpost that showed the wrong direction, An ambulance driver stiffened by the law of death, A local singer with no admirers, A vintage gramophone playing Ghost songs, Make the artifacts of village. An old man who lost his way to house, Is looking up for a familiar song And registering it in him. To the east of the land, There is a crack in the mountain Through which beasts send their messengers, Dwarfs and giants, Irrespective of size,join their hands deciding not to quit. There is a mother crying over the coats of her dead son, Consoled by the prayers of the priest. The boy who is obsessed with shadows Finds h

What do you actually name the feeling that lasts in you even after several months of experiencing something.Well, I would prefer to name it as a poetic experience. That's what I still feel even after several months of watching the movie Peranbu. The movie starring- okay, i would like to call it as a movie starring Amudavan and Paapa than Mammootty and Sadana, since all throughout the movie i could only see Amudavan and Paapa in this poetic experience. Peranbu, as the name suggests compassion is that holds all beings together. This poetic film creates an ache that will remain forever. Amudavan seemed to be afraid of everything unusual. He ran away from imperfect things. And certainly fromPaapa. Paapa is not a perfect child but she was special. Paapa was nature's child.As the 147 minutes film ends,the hateful nature turns out to be compassionate for Amudavan. Eventually Amudavan accepts the beauty of nature as well as its differences. Amudavan seeks shelter in nature when

"As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when its all over, I'll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat, or kill, as God is my witness I'll never be hungry again." On the one side we have the cool superwoman Scarlett O'Hara who said this. When she evolved from a silly woman to the saviour of Tara, her Tara where all her love for Ashley was cultivated along with cotton. But on the other side we have the not-so-perfect Rhett Butler who said, "frankly my dear, i don't give a damn." I fell in love with Rhett the very moment he said "You should be kissed, by someone who knows how" to Scarlett.Rhett fell in love with Scarlett not only because she was beautiful but also because they formed a horrible couple together."I love you. Because we’re alike. Bad lots both of us." Yes, they were both bad,than the nice Ashley an

Let's go to the fields Hand in hand And lay on the green bushes Then I would tell you strangest things- of people with a dream-head Who talks bizarre language, Of people with eyeballs pulled out by crying, Of couples turned into statues and more. Before being cloyed by the tequila sunrise, Let's make love like lovers. And when the ecstasy fades away, Let's make some pies and Sing a love song. Dressed like a dead princess, you would take me to your castle, Of crumbling walls and depleting alleys, Where I can listen to the songs from the rusted piano. When I pretend to go, you can Keep me by your side by reading out tales from your book of love, When only the scent of the old book would keep me there. Guided by the white horse we may return to the fields, Where the stories of our blind love remains unchanged. When horror chases the horse, It leaves us and seeks shelter in the evening's old stable. Before being lured by your next love song, I wou

She made a cup of tea. A cup of tea in the morning. She made a cup of tea, A cup of tea in the evening. Later did she realise she was the morning,the noon and the evening. She was the colourless alarm set for years. The first light of day pierced through her tea, Her lunch evinced the noon, The evening tea marked the end of office hours and her dinner reminded them to sleep. She saw Stale walls and stale food  scuffling before her. The clocks ticked only for her. The cats came only for the leftovers. Shrouded in the foul smell of unwashed utensils, Her kitchen turned out to be a quarantine. What else do you want? you are the second fiddle of the house. As if the second fiddle ever mattered. Love came and knocked at her door but walked away at anecdotes of children. Her bindhi exploded at the sight of mirrors and earrings stopped dangling when she opted for dazzling dishes. Her life has accepted its monotonous fate, Trying to figure out the once mopped corner.

I write poems of evening, Of day and night. I write poems as they eat me, They eat and ruminate my seasons. They spit sparrows and feathers fly away from their mouths. Talking of sealed mouths and blistered feet, They chew dirt and blood and the very soul itself. They talk of Shape shifting people and makeshift families, Disclosing or copying, They burn division and blindness. Piercing into the skin and breaking ligaments,they get into you Rupturing your eardrums and forming the new inner voice. They digest the broken souls and produce rain drenched wintry maples. Its endless mechanisms commence the quirky behaviours, To contemplate the past-made present and present-made future. Kissing and cuddling they become your slogan and anthem. Deficient and efficient, you grow and grow, Until my poem no longer exists in you existence. A.C

Robert came last week. Saw him Shouting things unfamiliar, as they dragged his healthy body over. Calm down Robert, This place will be your home now. A home where you feel homesickness, A home with walls of instabilities. Unattracted by this principle of home, Calmness was a distant reality to Robert. The stale breakfast and lunch was indifferent to him. The bedbugs embraced him with stories of former inmates. The garden seemed graveyard to him. His mouth at times pronounced beautiful female names with drools. A lone walker along the aisles of the Building, He looked through the giant gate that never opened. He talked to the trees that never replied. He sang of things unheard-of, He longed for a normal life like the guards. He who cracked knuckles frequently has lost his name, Now he is number forty. Forty of cell ten. Forty who came last week. Forty from? Forty died yesterday. Sally came today. They dragged her over while shouting things unfamiliar. N