Something That Matters.

   Something That Matters.

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Life is full of matter.

Feeling emotion and sentiment,

Instinct, intuition, intellect and wisdom,

Are mere tributaries running their

Invisible scales of measurement.

The soil knows the body more than the soul.

Utility is the yardstick, qualifying life.

Life’s abstract contributions are supplementary.

The language of the body matters most.

Soothing words are sidelined by structural support.

Being physically close and useful  means, being needed;

But being physically close as a burden, looks unenviable;

Running out one’s utility, ruins the style of matter;

If ageing sickens the environment,

Life’s matter asks for being laid to rest.

Life is after all more matter than spirit.

                                            P.Chandrasekaran.

An Elegy on Vaalee,The Lyricist

     An Elegy on Vaalee

The throb of Tamil film music beat well

On your trendy thoughts’ literary spell.

It looked as though you lived to write;

Born endowed, with a creative might.

Ridding your roots orthodox, you moved,

To the broader skies, booing your brood.

On the poetic pan of an Ariya-Dravida mix,

Your lines put the parochial notions in a fix.

                             2

You learnt to live from instructive quotes,

Emerging from your contemporary’s notes.

Heroes and heroines of several decades,

Sang your words through  lip sync grades.

Lyrically a Ranger, with your radical rhyme,

You freed romance, from its controlled clime.

You knew the commoner by his pulse and beat;

Your ideas propelled his dreams,without retreat.

                              3

‘Let us praise those who share what they get’

You said, making the socialist mode, well set.

‘Will the breeze refuse to enter the doors of a hut?’

You asked,making the mouths the greedy rich,shut . 

‘Will the moon hate to throw its light for the poor?’

You raged, raising your voice with empathy sure.

You outlined values for a kid to become a leader

And said, good children were a country’s ladder

                                   4

‘When the sky sheds tears, the earth will smile’ you said;

The earth sheds tears now, watching you smilingly dead .

Your loss will make the creative clan profoundly grieve;

But your lyrics will live here  long, their hopes to retrieve.

                                                    Prof.P.Chandrasekaran.

The Punctuated Female.

''You have ever been the capital letter,

 Beginning my sentence.

 I have been allowed letters small,

 For an in-between fill up of ideas.

 You will bring a full stop to my words,half said.

 But you will enjoy the pleasure and privilege

 Of several commas and semi colons.

 You will always bracket me as a parenthesis;

 Whereas,you will manoeuvre to stay quoted,

 Within inverted commas and bold letters,

 As the truest maxim of life,being said louder than

 The well spoken words from my choked voice.

 While my life is a riddle of question marks,

 You live under blazing exclamations such as

 Hurrah! Bravo! and Oh!What a man!.

 Am I here to helplessly supplement

 Second level  punctuation marks

 To your body language and  bragging life style ?

 Look! You have once again made me

 Question the fate of my unfair lot,

 Putting me again in a punctuated spot.''

                                                    P.Chandrasekaran.

 

The Hearty Fact.

   The Hearty  Fact.

 When anger turns a party-pooper,

 The happier moments of life,

 Melt down like uneaten ice creams,

 Under the heat of a raging volcano.

 The normal beat of the heart is a treat,

 As well set rhythm, keeping spirits upbeat.

 When tempers are lost on a trouncing trend,

 The rhythms’ rift, rocks as rifle shots.

 Peace is always a pecking order,

 Like a peacock’s  choice of its  full feather show.

Why trek your path, when you have an asphalt lane?

A self- imposed ruckus within, speaks of a mood insane ;

Wrath and fury ramify into a state of hate;

There is a lot here, to light up and laminate.

Society offers the taste of a sweet sandwich

A state of poise keeps the routine sans a hitch.

To be a spoilsport is never a selling game

It creates a scene of chagrin  and  shame .

The grace of getting together, gains  natural pace

Without a maker to keep the heart’s beat at its race.

                                                      P.Chandrasekaran.

Bury The Hatchet.

      Bury The Hatchet.

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Deep grows, love's chasm;

When steep goes its spasm.
To woo and then to rue,

Ruins one without a clue.

The mismatches of life are a midway hump,

Making the romantic wheel break and bump.

A half- made medley  of  mortar, rough and rife,

Never keeps the base fit, to beat  the  daily strife.

‘True love never breaks’ may be a tantalizing maxim.

‘No love withstands serial pressures’, is a fact so grim.

Looking for rhyme and reason among the haunting ghosts,

Leaves one pining for patch up dreams and trendy toasts.

When boiling tempers move to a mad, breaking point,

The broken crumbs of a wafer biscuit course fail to flaunt.

If being together, breathes the art of living for each other,

Living together looks up ever, as a proud peacock’s feather.

There is a lot here for each one, to forget and forgive,

Than to remember  the rust, for the ego’s  itching drive.

Each day, fresh  rhythms of soothing lifestyle will bloom,

As  the hatchets are buried for the light of the full moon.

                                                                     P.Chandrasekaran.

  

The Unattached.

       The Unattached.

I came here as I had to;

Neither with a passion nor with a programme.

My days and nights did not care for me;

Nor did I bother about how I moved about ,

What I saw before and beside, leave alone,

What followed me from  behind.           

At times, I hopped like a toad, passed like a cloud,

Crossing my path from left to right, or right to left,

With sudden diversions bringing shock waves.

I know I always travelled into zones, that do not belong

Anywhere here, where, my body moved  about  with alien steps.

Living within oneself never makes  sense to those,

Who foresee their living environment, looking for cues and clues,

That would make it solely belong to them .

When one belongs to oneself, the world is too much for them.

For those to whom the world means more than all,

It is seized, cut to shape, making ground for power games,

Without space for others, to make a claim for a share.

Are n’t  they  too much  for the world that they crave to own?

Living within myself, nothing belongs to me save myself;

Though I know not what I see and how I move about,

I will leave  from here when I have to,

To somewhere that  I will not belong to;

For I know that I am ever, the unattached.

                                                           P.Chandrasekaran.

The Seasons.

                  The Seasons.       

                          1             

Nothing can irk life more than biting cold.

It puts the  routine’s route  much on hold.

Colder receptions hurt harder than chilling snow.

Benumbed bodies battle for a movement;

Frozen thoughts cripple cerebral circuits;

Nights turn pythons, swallowing  rat like days.

The slumbering Sun stifles diurnal targets.

Darkness reigns three fourth of twenty four seven.

Snow storms and hurricanes  steal the show.

The non- stop viral invasion  warps all hopes.

The inhospitable days and nights  impound

Body and mind for a beastly battering round . 

                             2

Waiting in sweltering  heat  for warmer  inlets,

With thoughts whipping as cat of nine tails,

There is nothing to give; nothing to share;

Endearing evenings get  stiffly jammed

Between  burning days and bullying nights.

The tropics envy the colder regions for their breather

During  their sunny days of surprising sojourns.

Heat is Hell with no preceding alarm bell ;

The sun burnt skin needs identity more than care.

Let not Nature’s prejudices  make parity bare.

For Summer’s voice is full of a seasoned snare.

The victim’s want for warmth is weakened by wrath

When the wind blows hot and the waves steam,

Life’s  leading precepts are  caught mid stream.
                           3

There is a lot here, to bestow upon others.

A lot to own as well as to share.

Nothing to bemoan or berate, in a process.

Prosperity is no myth to mystify the mind.

It  spurts  and grows in a leap,

Like spreading and penetrating light,

That takes  darkness deftly out of sight,

Cheering  up those, seeing things right.

Those who see the soil as a source of wealth

And not as a beckoning burial ground ,

Spring up as greener pastures, garnering  hope

To steer  mankind with strength of  joy.

Living means, being followed on a path

With a warranty for weigh bridges

Assuring right gains at the right time.                             

                       4

Fate makes the final moments fall

However  one’s goalposts grow tall .

The falling things fall with a felicitous thud.

The supporting soil stakes its claims.

Colours change as things fall in a free flow.

It is not that leaves alone change colours.

The smile on a falling face is full of winning grace.

The changing sense of smile is a fit of fine finale.

Life in pains or gains, the fall is a form of gratitude

For pleasures enjoyed and the pressures relieved.

The Fall is a fruitful, firming up fair play

That makes all things fall for a sure stay.

The earth’s seasons are made up of a solid four

That keep life’s happenings hail wail and more.

                                                                P.Chandraaekaran.