Poem: The Valuable Time of Maturity

 " I counted my years and discovered that I have

less time to live going forward than I have lived until now.

I have more past than future.
I feel like the boy who received a bowl of candies.
The first ones, he ate ungracious,
but when he realized there were only a few left,
he began to taste them deeply.

I do not have time to deal with mediocrity.
I do not want to be in meetings where parade inflamed egos.

I am bothered by the envious, who seek to discredit
the most able, to usurp their places,
coveting their seats, talent, achievements and luck.

I do not have time for endless conversations,
useless to discuss about the lives of others
who are not part of mine.

I do not have time to manage sensitivities of people
who despite their chronological age, are immature.

I cannot stand the result that generates
from those struggling for power.

People do not discuss content, only the labels.
My time has become scarce to discuss labels,
I want the essence, my soul is in a hurry…
Not many candies in the bowl…

I want to live close to human people,
very human, who laugh of their own stumbles,
and away from those turned smug and overconfident
with their triumphs,
away from those filled with self-importance,
Who does not run away from their responsibilities ..
Who defends human dignity.
And who only want to walk on the side of truth
and honesty.
The essential is what makes
life worthwhile.

I want to surround myself with people,
who knows how to touch the hearts of people ….
People to whom the hard knocks of life,
taught them to grow with softness in their soul.

Yes …. I am in a hurry … to live with intensity,
that only maturity can bring.
I intend not to waste any part of the goodies
I have left …
I'm sure they will be more exquisite,
that most of which so far I've eaten.

My goal is to arrive to the end satisfied and in peace
with my loved ones and my conscience.
I hope that your goal is the same,
because either way you will get there too .. "

Mário de Andrade

Death, the last embrace

On the throes of death, the poet finds death neither alien nor frightening. Death is that lover he knew all along in life, coming again in yet another form. Death is his beloved with whom he longs to be united in a final embrace.

Going alone, he seeks strength to make it through this arduous last journey to unite with his beloved, who waits for him at the journey's end to walk hand in hand into the nameless infinite.

Tagore, on his death bed

Poem: Maron Re Tuhu Mamo 

O Death, you are my dark beloved
Robed in dark clouds, dreadlocks of dark gray
Blood red palms and blood stained lips
Soothe this feverish body on your compassionate lap 
Grant me the elixir of death
You are my beloved

My heart burns with pain and restlessness
Tears stream down my brimming eyes 
You are my soulmate, you are my friend, cool my burning brow
O Death, come, O come now ..

Call me, take me into your arms
Close my eyes, wipe my tears with your calming hand 
Let me weep and weep on your chest 
Till sleep engulfs my whole body

You will never forget me, never let me go 
You will never break my loving heart
Heart to heart we will be forever. 
There is nothing like your lingering kiss.

The sky is overcast, the earth is engulfed in darkness 
Lightning flashing under the terrifying sound of thunder 
Tall trees in the forest shaking in fear 
The deserted road seems terrifying 

Yet, alone I must go, to meet you
You my beloved, 
Your love clouds my mind 
All my fears will turn into fortitude
To show me the way towards you 

To meet my consort who is beyond death
O Death, you are my dark beloved

Beyond the bounds of life and death, 
There you stand, Oh, my friend! - Tagore

The Source of Creativity ..

Sometimes I do not write for months on end. There are ideas and thoughts floating in and out of the mind but nothing takes shape or form. To be able to create one must wait patiently to be allowed entry into the innermost realm of the psyche, that sanctum sanctorium of creativity. The great Malayalam poet Akkitham sheds light on the workings of the creative spirit.

Poet Akkitham 

"If I take it (pen) deliberately to write a poem, the result is a failure. Several are such occasions. What does it mean? Pen is not always submissive to me as spade is. But to the "self" residing in me, pen is an instrument, always submissive. ... 

My skill, if it is mine, in composing poetry is not always under my control. All my willpower, inspiration, balance, everything else are real. But those are not the ultimate causes. I have always been feeling that some wisdom does exist behind or beyond all these powers. That is why I say that I cannot be proud that I was, is or will be the final authority of my poetry.That power which does not obey my will, the will to act or not to act does work even when I am asleep. Sometimes I wake up, enter my study, switch on (the) light and leaning on the table trace the lines from memory. This is not a fantasy but a fact. Having the experience of such occasions, I cannot say that my ego is the solo factor responsible for my poetry, I tell you frankly that I am not the root cause for my poetry , but somebody with me, some spirit, which becomes bright only when it itself wants to be bright."

Only God’s presence in art will be able to make itself exist or extend to distant regions of time and space - -Akkitham Achyuthan Nambudiri

Wild Geese: Call from another world ..

For over a decade, I have lived the seasons alongside the wild geese; always aware of their powerful presence, preening in the ponds, resting in the fields or flying overhead during walks in the woods. I have heard their honking on winter nights through tightly shut doors and windows as a skein fly high up in the dark skies. The call of the geese pulls me out from my mundane existence. I return back momentarily with a wider perception of life, reminded again of the tiny place of humans in this vast and grand cosmos. In the poem Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver, the call of the geese is a call of belonging. 

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.  

One evening, as I sat watching..

One evening sitting by the shore and gazing at the  horizon where the azure sky meets the ocean, the poet Subramanya Bharati invites the elusive muse. The muse is the divine personified as a lover. The muse comes uninvited in those rare heavenly moments when one is immersed in the contemplation of beauty. The exquisite poem "Maalai pozhudil oru" is a conversation between the poet and his beloved muse. She asks him, "What did you see?" She then basks in the glory of her own beauty as seen from the eyes of her beloved.

One evening, on a mound I sat looking into the vast expanse of sky and ocean
There in a corner of the horizon, I saw the sky arch to kiss and caress the ocean
Immersed in the vast blueness, I lost sense of passing time. 
In numerous enchanting reveries, I lost track of myself.

In that magical moment, from behind she came and covered my eyes, 
From gently touching the hands, I knew
From the fragrance wafting off the silk dress, I knew
From the excitement rising within me, I knew
From the union of our two hearts, I knew  
"Oh Kannamma, take off your hands! Whom are you trying to trick?” I said

I moved her hands, turned around and embracing her said "tell me what's the news"
Laughing she asked "In the crushing ocean waves, what did you see? 
In the blue skies, what did you see?  
In the crushing foam, what did you see? 
In the tiny bubbles, what did you see?
What good did you get by measuring the clouds? Tell me!"

In the crushing ocean waves, I saw your face
In the vast blue skies, I saw your face
In the tiny bubbles, I saw your face
Measuring the clouds, I saw nothing but your face.
I turned around and embraced you and saw again your face!

The hours when the mind is absorbed by beauty are the only hours when we really live - Richard Jefferies

Summer must pass through me

As deep the despair of winter, so high is the exuberance of the summer in this part of the world.  I flow with the summer taking in the heat, the light, the sounds and sights.

When the doors are thrown wide open
Letting in the light and air; 
When I step outside without a care
Or worry of what to wear

When I have soaked in many a dawns;
Gazed at cloudless blue skies
Reveled in the bright endless days

When I have smelt the wildflowers;
Seen the new snails, bunnies and herons;
Heard all the bird songs; 
Tasted all the tart berries

When I have suffered the stifling heat
Sweating through every pore; 
When I am tanned all over;
Bitten and bruised by insect bites
Then the summer has passed through me

Wave after wave of wildflowers