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.

==================

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.

Sense of Belonging:--A Double Sonnet.

Sense of Belonging:--A Double Sonnet.

Is belonging  synonymous of permanence.
The earth belongs to the universe.
The sun the moon and the stars belong to the skies.
All living beings belong to their mothers.
When a baby beautifully clings to its mother,
It is the mother's belonging,as matter and spirit.
Growing up  changes the pattern and form of belonging.
And who belongs to whom, bids for preferential modes,
Matching the way and the place, where one grows up.
Between man and woman,who belongs to whom,
Becomes either a contract or point of contention.
Delightful togetherness is bilateral belonging.
But dependence makes being together,a blight,
Making us doubt if belonging is wrong or right.

Is sense of belonging just an illusion?
Some say,nothing belongs anywhere,to anything.
Even the air we breathe in and out, does not belong to us.
If the air belongs to the winds, where do the winds belong to.
What we think we own here, is at Time's mercy.
Even what belongs to time, does not belong to it at all times.
All things fall as the leaves and flowers from the plants and trees.
The size of the moon does not always belong to it,
So do the light and heat of the sun,getting stunted
By the temerity of rain-fooling clouds,raiding the skies.
The eclipses of the sun and the moon are like a sudden coup.
All this shows that belonging is a betraying concept.
Then why this sad, senseless longing, for a sense of belonging,
When all that bound us all together, was a transitory thronging.
                                                                                   P.Chandrasekaran.

India's August 15th..

   

August 15^th 1947 was not just another day.

How many here know, how many days went before it,

To make it the day it is and it came to be!

And how many were dead, to drive others to this day!.

Like wreathes placed on tombs and coffins,

Freedom, bloomed on bodies sown as seeds,

Sprouting, like a cluster of seedlings from the soil.

Our freedom was borrowed,from the breath of others

Who lost it, to chase the colonial curse out of the soil.

We have seen nearly seven decades of independence,

But the fruits of freedom are not yet ripe,

With rife wrangling and bickering, among my post 47

Brothers and sisters, clamoring for the entire tree, with the fruit.

We hoist out national flag on every August 15^th

With patented pride, to celebrate our independence;

We bully others every day, before and after this  day.

Though this day’s guard of honour, is due only to those,

Who ever had the guts to unfurl the national flag,

When the alien brains hurt the native hands, holding it.

The cry for independence was stronger than the catch of it.

And now the grasp of independence vests rightly with those,

Who would let the tree and its fruit belong to all,

For whose sake lives were lost, like candles in a race.

                                                                 P.Chandrasekaran.

கனிந்த நல் கலாம்.

கலாமும் காலமும்

இடம் மாறிய இணை எழுத்துக்களே;

எழுத்துக்கள்  இடம் மாறினும்

கலாமும் காலமு மொன்றே .

காலத்தைக் கணக்கிட்டேச் சென்றன

கலாமின் காலடிச் சுவடுகள்.

காலத்தை வென்றவர் காலத்தின் கருவெனில்,

காலமாவாரோ கலாம்?

இயற்கையோடு இணைந்தவர்

இயற்கை எய்துவரோ என்றேனும் ?      

விண்ணில் கலாம் ஓர் ஏவுகணை;

மண்ணில் ஏவல் அறியாக் கனி.

மழலை தொடங்கி முதுமை வரை

மனித மனம், இனிமை போற்றும் கனி;

கணிதமும் கணினியும் அறிந்த கனி.

உண்மை உணர்ந்த, உயர்ந்த கனி

மென்மையும் மெருகூட்டும் மேன்மையும்,

தன்மையாய் கொண்ட தனிச்சுவைக்  கனி.       

உரத்த சிந்தனையால் ஊக்கம் உரைத்த கனி.

பிறப்பால்  தமிழும் பிறர்க்காக ஆங்கிலமும்

சிறப்பாய்  நவின்ற கனி.
இறப்பறியாச் சிந்தனையில், என்றும்
இணையில்லா பாரதம் வென்ற கனி .
                                        ப.சந்திரசேகரன்.  

Do Not Love.

Do Not Love.

Do not love your parents,

To push them into the pockets of

Possessive self-pity;

Do not love your spouse,

To surrender each other’s self- esteem.

Do not love your children,

At the cost of their character.
Do not love your siblings
To set ablaze the serene maternal cord.
Do not love your friends
To unlock their cherished mood of privacy.

Do not love  your religion,

To reach the frenzied peak of fanaticism.

Do not love your country,

To become a zealous xenophobe.

Do not love yourself,

To step up the I over everybody else.

                                       P.Chandrasekaran.