Poems & Short Stories
Long before I started writing for children I was writing poetry. And although I'm not sure how they measure up to the lofty standards of the world of poets and poems, I find great solace in expressing myself through verse. So, if you like poetry, do keep checking for poetic tit-bits every now and then.
I also write short stories and once in a while, one of them gets published in a print/online magazine and gets read by a larger audience. Scroll down to find the links and if you do read them, I'll love it if you wrote back with your thoughts.
I also have grand plans to write a couple of novels before Armaggedon. For starters, I have co-authored a collaborative novel with -hold your horses- 9 other writers. It's called Altitudinis: seekers, sinners & secrets. You can find more about this interesting project at, www.altitudinis.com.
To "activate" displaying of an arrow, use its property "Visible"
Winner of the EFSLE Haiku Contest 2020
Results of the Ecosophical Foundation for the Study of Literature and Environment (EFSLE) Haiku Contest 2020 are out!
Huge CONGRATULATIONS to Priya Narayanan .
The 1st prize (Rs15,000) goes to:
.
powdered pangolin scales
the smell
of a dead warrior
- Priya Narayanan .
Comments from the judge, Kala Ramesh
Kala : To be honest I had to Google pangolin scales, but once I was armed with all this knowledge, each line and each word seemed to talk volumes.
Let’s take the first line:
powdered pangolin scales
.
Pangolin scales, like rhino horn, have no proven medicinal value, yet they are used in traditional Chinese medicine to help with ailments ranging from lactation difficulties to arthritis to cancer. The scales are dried and powdered and then made into pills. Though pangolins are protected by an international ban on their trade, they suffer from illegal poaching and trafficking. The figures are staggering.
.
Now we come to the winning Ls 2 & 3:
the smell
of a dead warrior
.
Though many think of pangolins as reptiles, they are actually mammals. They are the only mammals wholly covered in scales, which they use to protect themselves from predators in the wild. If under threat, a pangolin immediately curls into a tight ball and uses its sharp-scaled tails to defend itself. While well-equipped to defend against natural predators, they are easily caught by poachers, who simply pick up the animals when they roll into a ball.
I was reminded of this beautiful poem by D. H. Lawrence.
Excerpts:
.
Mountain Lion
So, she will never leap up that way again,
with the yellow flash of a mountain lion’s long shoot!
And her bright striped frost-face will never watch any more, out of the shadow of the cave in the blood-orange rock, Above the trees of the Lobo dark valley-mouth!
And I think in this empty world there was room for me and a mountain lion.
And I think in the world beyond, how easily we might spare a million or two humans
And never miss them.
Yet what a gap in the world, the missing white frost-face of that slim yellow mountain lion!
.
And so the 1st prize goes to this powerful and most poignant haiku. Each word is measured and nothing is misplaced or redundant. My deepest regards to the haijin who gave voice to the urgent need to protect this endangered species.
Huge CONGRATULATIONS to Priya Narayanan .
The 1st prize (Rs15,000) goes to:
.
powdered pangolin scales
the smell
of a dead warrior
- Priya Narayanan .
Comments from the judge, Kala Ramesh
Kala : To be honest I had to Google pangolin scales, but once I was armed with all this knowledge, each line and each word seemed to talk volumes.
Let’s take the first line:
powdered pangolin scales
.
Pangolin scales, like rhino horn, have no proven medicinal value, yet they are used in traditional Chinese medicine to help with ailments ranging from lactation difficulties to arthritis to cancer. The scales are dried and powdered and then made into pills. Though pangolins are protected by an international ban on their trade, they suffer from illegal poaching and trafficking. The figures are staggering.
.
Now we come to the winning Ls 2 & 3:
the smell
of a dead warrior
.
Though many think of pangolins as reptiles, they are actually mammals. They are the only mammals wholly covered in scales, which they use to protect themselves from predators in the wild. If under threat, a pangolin immediately curls into a tight ball and uses its sharp-scaled tails to defend itself. While well-equipped to defend against natural predators, they are easily caught by poachers, who simply pick up the animals when they roll into a ball.
I was reminded of this beautiful poem by D. H. Lawrence.
Excerpts:
.
Mountain Lion
So, she will never leap up that way again,
with the yellow flash of a mountain lion’s long shoot!
And her bright striped frost-face will never watch any more, out of the shadow of the cave in the blood-orange rock, Above the trees of the Lobo dark valley-mouth!
And I think in this empty world there was room for me and a mountain lion.
And I think in the world beyond, how easily we might spare a million or two humans
And never miss them.
Yet what a gap in the world, the missing white frost-face of that slim yellow mountain lion!
.
And so the 1st prize goes to this powerful and most poignant haiku. Each word is measured and nothing is misplaced or redundant. My deepest regards to the haijin who gave voice to the urgent need to protect this endangered species.
Untitled
published in The Indian Quarterly -Vol 8, Issue 2, Jan-Mar 2020
Must an artist explain
that the flower
growing out of the tailbone
of her subject is an ode
to her origin, or that
it took her three
months to mix up a pink
that would alternately spell
‘bleak’ and ‘hope’, or that
in the negative space
between the petals
she once excavated
a city of reasons
that justified every act,
right or wrong, so that
when a butterfly surfaced
onto her canvas
to befriend the flower,
she was remorseless
when she thwacked it
and entombed it
in a jar of arguments?
Must she explain
that the kineticism
in the objects she paints
– some about to lift off
some about to fall –
is because she believes
no life is still, or that
she drew the egg inside
the cage because
that’s where the bird
would end up
anyway, or that
when the jug tips over
the water wouldn’t wet
the canvas because
one or both of them
is an illusion, or that
despite what you and I
might say, she believes
the laws of physics
are no match
to for the laws
of imagination?
_
Must she
move her fingers
over her baby
and say “this
is why I made her”?
that the flower
growing out of the tailbone
of her subject is an ode
to her origin, or that
it took her three
months to mix up a pink
that would alternately spell
‘bleak’ and ‘hope’, or that
in the negative space
between the petals
she once excavated
a city of reasons
that justified every act,
right or wrong, so that
when a butterfly surfaced
onto her canvas
to befriend the flower,
she was remorseless
when she thwacked it
and entombed it
in a jar of arguments?
Must she explain
that the kineticism
in the objects she paints
– some about to lift off
some about to fall –
is because she believes
no life is still, or that
she drew the egg inside
the cage because
that’s where the bird
would end up
anyway, or that
when the jug tips over
the water wouldn’t wet
the canvas because
one or both of them
is an illusion, or that
despite what you and I
might say, she believes
the laws of physics
are no match
to for the laws
of imagination?
_
Must she
move her fingers
over her baby
and say “this
is why I made her”?
Grandmother
published in The Indian Quarterly -Vol 8, Issue 2, Jan-Mar 2020
Grandmother
You have aged gracefully
over the years. I remember the days
when I reached only up to your waist.
Back then, you had a big red dot
on your forehead: big enough
for my tiny palms to reach inside
and pull out your thoughts.
And you wore diamond studs
on your ears: 10gms each, they weighed,
and the five shiny stones embedded in them
shone like fireflies. The fragrance
of the malli and kanakambaram
on your slick black hair
was the smell of love – a love
I did not understand then.
When I picked up the stray malli
that fell to the floor behind you,
it did not smell at all. It was as though
the magic was in your hair, not the flower.
Did you drop a strand of your hair
in the sambar too? I remember smelling heaven
as the red glass bangles decorating your strong wrists
clinked as you stirred the pot.
When you arranged the thambalam
with kumkum and chandan and rice
and a deepam that was the upturned cap
of a milk bottle and lead me to the temple,
your hands did not shiver. And they did not shiver
when you made those beautiful kolams
at the temple door and taught me
to make them too – never use your left hand,
always the right! you’d reprimand.
Standing at the edge of that kolam
I’d imagine it to be my time machine:
I would sit at the centre
and it would spin and swirl
and wrap me in a mist of rice powder;
transporting me
to a world of altered realities.
Grandmother,
sitting by your side today, I wish
I had that time machine.
I would turn time backwards
and unfold the folds on your skin,
unbend the bend on your back
and unburden the burden on your ears
that are weighed down
by the absence of those earrings.
And if blood could be an able substitute
I would slit my finger and colour
the pale patch on your forehead
from where I once dreamt of stealing your thoughts.
You have aged gracefully
over the years. I remember the days
when I reached only up to your waist.
Back then, you had a big red dot
on your forehead: big enough
for my tiny palms to reach inside
and pull out your thoughts.
And you wore diamond studs
on your ears: 10gms each, they weighed,
and the five shiny stones embedded in them
shone like fireflies. The fragrance
of the malli and kanakambaram
on your slick black hair
was the smell of love – a love
I did not understand then.
When I picked up the stray malli
that fell to the floor behind you,
it did not smell at all. It was as though
the magic was in your hair, not the flower.
Did you drop a strand of your hair
in the sambar too? I remember smelling heaven
as the red glass bangles decorating your strong wrists
clinked as you stirred the pot.
When you arranged the thambalam
with kumkum and chandan and rice
and a deepam that was the upturned cap
of a milk bottle and lead me to the temple,
your hands did not shiver. And they did not shiver
when you made those beautiful kolams
at the temple door and taught me
to make them too – never use your left hand,
always the right! you’d reprimand.
Standing at the edge of that kolam
I’d imagine it to be my time machine:
I would sit at the centre
and it would spin and swirl
and wrap me in a mist of rice powder;
transporting me
to a world of altered realities.
Grandmother,
sitting by your side today, I wish
I had that time machine.
I would turn time backwards
and unfold the folds on your skin,
unbend the bend on your back
and unburden the burden on your ears
that are weighed down
by the absence of those earrings.
And if blood could be an able substitute
I would slit my finger and colour
the pale patch on your forehead
from where I once dreamt of stealing your thoughts.
Untitled
published in the Narrow Road Literary Journal -Vol 8, Aug 2019
it's mangrove, not mango grove
the teacher flexed her tone. they're different.
we boys giggled at the back bench…
we were at that age when we knew
what other meanings of mangoes existed.
when mother crushed mango leaves to feed to the cows
the fragrance wafted in through the slats in closed windows
mother said the windows would have to stay closed
however sweaty and sticky I might feel
‘coz ghosts lived under our mango tree
and they prowled in the night's yellow darkness
looking for young boys like me
whose body shivered and transmitted strange currents
whenever the mango tree flowered.
Poem copyright © Priya Narayanan 2016, All rights reserved
the teacher flexed her tone. they're different.
we boys giggled at the back bench…
we were at that age when we knew
what other meanings of mangoes existed.
when mother crushed mango leaves to feed to the cows
the fragrance wafted in through the slats in closed windows
mother said the windows would have to stay closed
however sweaty and sticky I might feel
‘coz ghosts lived under our mango tree
and they prowled in the night's yellow darkness
looking for young boys like me
whose body shivered and transmitted strange currents
whenever the mango tree flowered.
Poem copyright © Priya Narayanan 2016, All rights reserved
Love is in the Clouds
published in the Narrow Road Literary Journal, Volume 2
I look to the skies for clues
of your love: cumulus desires
mutilate into the cumulonimbus. Smiles
squander into a deluge of wounded fury. Love
evaporates, forms a ghostly cirrus wisp
and dies.
Poem copyright © Priya Narayanan 2017, All rights reserved
of your love: cumulus desires
mutilate into the cumulonimbus. Smiles
squander into a deluge of wounded fury. Love
evaporates, forms a ghostly cirrus wisp
and dies.
Poem copyright © Priya Narayanan 2017, All rights reserved
The Divine Dilemma
Winner of the 'Outstanding Contribution' Award by the British Council
I was but a piece of stone
lying motionless by the river,
when one day a tender hand picked me up
and changed my life forever.
I was ecstatic, I remember
my body shivered with hope,
like an abandoned orphan
who’d found a new home.
Soon I drowned in my newfound bliss
and marvelled at their avid ways,
as a fine hand carved me a handsome face,
a pious hand smeared me with sandalwood paste,
a prosperous hand built me a becoming abode,
and the world came on its knees to name me…God.
Yes, they still come:
they come in full strength,
flowers in hand
prayers on lips
hope in their hearts
faith in their minds . . .
They light lamps for me
to drive out the darkness from their lives;
Offer fruits, milk and honey
to free themselves of starvation;
They fill my arms with annas* and diamond rings
to ensure a prosperous life ahead;
And sing praises through endless nights
to strengthen their faith in me…
And when at long last they shut the door,
leaving me trapped in the darkness
with but a golden glow,
I sit and wonder:
What a quirk of fate it was that made me
an object of their misplaced faith…
And as memories of a hundred years
cloud my mind, I ask myself -
No doubt they’ve made me their God,
but . . . do I want to be God?
*anna - was a currency unit formerly used in India
Poem copyright © Priya Narayanan 2012, All rights reserved
* Click on the Anthology cover to download the entire book in pdf. You can find my poem on page 27
Winner of the 'Outstanding Contribution' Award by the British Council
I was but a piece of stone
lying motionless by the river,
when one day a tender hand picked me up
and changed my life forever.
I was ecstatic, I remember
my body shivered with hope,
like an abandoned orphan
who’d found a new home.
Soon I drowned in my newfound bliss
and marvelled at their avid ways,
as a fine hand carved me a handsome face,
a pious hand smeared me with sandalwood paste,
a prosperous hand built me a becoming abode,
and the world came on its knees to name me…God.
Yes, they still come:
they come in full strength,
flowers in hand
prayers on lips
hope in their hearts
faith in their minds . . .
They light lamps for me
to drive out the darkness from their lives;
Offer fruits, milk and honey
to free themselves of starvation;
They fill my arms with annas* and diamond rings
to ensure a prosperous life ahead;
And sing praises through endless nights
to strengthen their faith in me…
And when at long last they shut the door,
leaving me trapped in the darkness
with but a golden glow,
I sit and wonder:
What a quirk of fate it was that made me
an object of their misplaced faith…
And as memories of a hundred years
cloud my mind, I ask myself -
No doubt they’ve made me their God,
but . . . do I want to be God?
*anna - was a currency unit formerly used in India
Poem copyright © Priya Narayanan 2012, All rights reserved
* Click on the Anthology cover to download the entire book in pdf. You can find my poem on page 27
The Undertaker's Wife
Longlisted for the 2013 RLP Award, Featured in the anthology: An Unsettled Winter
I look at her, as she lay on our antique wooden cot, fast asleep.
The soft cotton blanket lay crumpled beside her, a reminder
that she’d never really cared for it - preferring instead
to sleep with the breeze caressing her lithe body.
I look at her with ardor as I’ve done several times before,
but it’s different this time. . .
Her almond eyes, her ears hiding behind graying curls,
her thin lips and not-so-thin eyebrows, her broad forehead,
her pointed chin and nose, her neck and sinewy shoulders. . .
A grim nor’wester snaps me back to the job at hand. Slowly, I slide
beside her, undoing her clothes as I’ve done several times before,
but it’s different this time. . .
I pick up a sodden sponge and run it over her pale,
taut frame, taking care not to chafe, lest she’d complain.
I pick up her citrus-laced lotion and daub it softly,
releasing the most pleasant yet poignant fragrance.
I stagger to the cabinet and pick up her favorite dress:
a lilac knee-length outfit with dull-gold sequins around the waist;
My eyes well up as I slip it down her slender form.
I avoid the jewelry – she’d never fancied them – ‘cept for the
wedding band and the glass-bead earrings from our last vacation.
I place her favorite black shoes on her feet. My lips shiver
as they kiss hers, as they’ve done several times before,
but it’s different this time. . .
As I turn around, the aides take over, placing her gently
in a satin-lined casket. As we move along in the hearse,
I play back her favorite songs in my mind; I imagine her
dancing with abandon, just the way she did when we first met.
The grave is dug, the vault sunk in, the prayers said. I place
a bunch of her much loved lavenders by her and say a silent goodbye.
Promising to return every day, I turn around and walk away
never to direct a funeral again.
Poem copyright © Priya Narayanan 2013, All rights reserved
* Click on the Anthology cover to download the entire anthology in pdf. You can find my poem on page 36.