On Smiles.

Smiles !,
The lateral blooming of the lips,
Either closed or open,in lively lots.
A closed smile carries a hidden agenda.
An open smile is like an apple garden.
A graceful smile is the gift of god.
A charming smile,is chiseled out
To streamline a self-made style.
A sly,scheming smile is a slope of the mind,
Reflecting downward symptoms of the brain.
The smile of victory has a set pattern.
The smile of arrogance bears an arbiter's emblem.
A black and white smile, with winning teeth,
Well set by divine or dentist's hands,
Offers a bright and bounteous treat.
A colorful smile cuts others to shape.
Toothless smiles of babies take you to Heaven.
But those of the aged, read pages of life.
Called a mile of travel, between two yesses,
Life's journey is incomplete, without
The multiple exits of mind blowing smiles.
                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.

Oh My Dear Elephant God.

Lord Ganesh,
The elephant faced spark plug
Of all initial human drives,
Is ever fine with his pot belly.
A banyan tree shelter,or a shrine,
Or any road side resting place,
He has no issue with anyone,anytime,
As to where he is placed, to be a referee
To what each one does, or fails to do.
His pet music is listening to the serial sounds of
Cracking of coconuts, for gaining his grace.
His staple food is the holy grass or a pair of bananas;
But his annual feast is the sweet stuffed rice sandwich.
In a sibling race for winning a mango,
He set the precept, that parents become
The windows of the world,far and wide.
But would he ever approve of the race
And the craze, for manufacturing his idols,
In multiple sizes and colors on his birthday,
Just for the sake of drowning him in the deep sea
And the rivers, in each one's style and range?
Oh the sensation in celebration,causing clashes!
That he is the common deity of the common Hindu,
That he becomes a success symbol at the top of answer papers,
That one of his horns is broken is nothing but
A warning to all humans,against imperfection,
Are not mere tales,or tricks, but magnificent truths of this
Never- claiming- to- be big, but ever bounteous,God.
                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.    .

Teacher:- The Students'Pride.

Is the teacher just a few pieces of chalks,
Digitally travelling on boards,black and white?
Is he a cane guard, with a handbook of dos and don'ts?.
Can he be a standing monument, or a sitting duck
To set precedents, for patterns of lifestyle?
Does he steal the show or succumb to his flow?
A trained teacher knows his turns and twists.
But an inbuilt teacher can make his inroads.

A teacher who waits for his wards, is their well meaning friend;
One who makes them wait, is politically groomed in power mongering.
He who keeps looking for the bell to go,is a vagabond.
One who leads beyond the bells, is a wastrel of others'time.
But one who tops up the listening zeal, through trendy,time bound sessions,
And inspires from point to point,becomes the inside of every learner.

                                                                                       P.Chandrasekaran.

Note:-Looking in retrospect,I do not know which aspects of my poem did I reflect in my career.My students alone can have the ultimate say.Similarly there could be a galaxy of other ideas on the proudest profession,called teaching.This humble sonnet is dedicated to my teacher/teaching fraternity.P.C

The Symbols of My Soil.

The Symbols of My Soil.

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The bullocks with the plough, had a long run,

Getting stuck to the soil, like a dress well spun.

Farming was found to be my soil's strong base,

When it became free from the colonial chase.

But the soil seemed to be too'bonded' and big,

For the bullocks and the plough to do the dig.

The right hand with its firm grip and stocks

Slowly got rid of the plough with its bullocks.

As the hand could make and unmake things,

It grew faster and greater to make more innings.

Oh the whip of the hand could be right or wrong,

It could blend or break the rhythm from the song.

The holding hand was soon found to be losing its hold,

By becoming the fist of power, to make gains manifold. 

Then the Lotus that is closer to the soil and its essence

Spread its petals, with magnitude and magnificence.

Against the aroma of people’s aspirations and dreams,

The lotus here, is too soft to survive the political steams.

Handled by the hands, known to mishandle the tasks,
Petals of lotus pang for a glow, as if hidden in masks;

Fancy dissipates fragrance, with an itch for fables,

While facts keep rolling across the deciding tables.

The rising sun in its long transit, has lent more heat than light

With its journey smudged by tainted clouds, dimming its sight;

The leaves are lovely, so long they are fresh and green;

But once turned withered and dry, they lose their sheen.

Be it the sickle and the corn or the hammer and sickle,

It is the hands that hold them,make them face a heckle.

The umbrella can never weather the wild wind and the storm;

So do the other symbols,sulking under pressures of their form.

My soil is dense with more of flags and symbols than of vegetation.
Even if monsoon fails,money does not,for alliances with ambition.
The symbols of my soil keep surging, to match its population,
In terms of caste and religion, to surpass human imagination. 

But what are all these symbols for, without representing a system?

And what for is a stunted system, with out its firm root and stem?

                                                                             P.Chandrasekaran.