"Emerged from the mire" ( English adaptation of Artist Subra's Tamil poems)

 

Pubescent potrait.

A pack of bidis, rolled and tied with a colorful string,

its intense smoky scent floating through the air.

A vibrant matchbox peeked through

the raw umber, mud-stained turban.

A frayed, shredded four-foot dhoti

wrapped tightly, indenting his waist.

He hastily consumed porridge

with green chillies and raw onions

from a cracked pot,

letting out a loud burp.

Near him sat his pubescent niece,

her gaze impeccable and inquisitive,

unable to comprehend

the sudden stir of emotions within her..

The Pilgrimage

My pilgrimage would end

with the reverence of the deity

in the sanctum sanctorum.

The forenoon rain

created a soft pitter-patter

on the dried, fallen leaves.

The sun, hidden behind cumulonimbus clouds,

splattered its rays,

piercing through

like a sinful copulator.

The woodpecker’s mellifluous melody

made the cuckoos shy away,

hiding in a crow’s nest

to cuckoodle.

The monsoon rain dripped

on the tree bark,

stained with pollen.

Her passionate stare

pierced my racing heart,

bringing me to my knees.

Toppled and curled,

I held her shoulders

and buried my stubbled chin

in between her succulent cleft.

And in that quiet surrender,

the shrine dissolved—

no deity, no devotee,

only a lingering echo

of something once sought.

My pilgrimage continues…

Reprisal

Was it not my own misconceived surrender

that allowed you to wander

through the vast territories

and dive deep into the valleys of my thoughts?

You drenched yourself in summer rain,

quenching an insatiable hunger

disguised as love.

Oh, my Lilith—

You invaded, condemned, and confined me

in rusted chains that would not break.

You anoint me in torment,

only to bless me

to burn in the hell

of feminine desire.

I willingly forced myself into becoming a poet,

doomed to render your ravishing presence

in metaphors—

for eternity.

The Salined Dampness 

An old grass-sewn mat with withered edges lay on the muddy ground.

An assumed young woman lay listlessly on it,

her back exposed—shoulder blades piercing through

her torn, dirt-layered, faded blouse.

I struggled to find words

to describe her curvaceous back

and sew them into a poetic passage.

A drop of her agrarian perspiration

rested behind her pinna,

perfectly contoured,

with her wavy hair twirled over it.

The dry, rustic, loud wind

revealed her bosom and love handles.

I assumed she must be

the dusky masterpiece of Cupid.

I cautiously stepped closer

to glimpse her visage.

Jolted—

I saw an infant

sucking her empty breast,

screaming uncontrollably.

She lay with her legs crooked,

her eyes swollen,

tears rolling down to dampen the ground

that witnessed the drought of the village.

The worship begins.

Freshly applied turmeric on the yellow nuptial thread

winked between the beautiful cleavage of my newlywed farm partner.

Under the scorching sun, half asleep,

her sensuality lingered through her aura.

Her sweat carried the aroma—

an invitation to her intimacy.

Drawn toward her magnetic sensuality,

I drowned in her desires.

I lost my sense of time trying to comprehend

the hillocks and valleys that lay concealed beneath her shroud.

I unwrapped her to read the poem of love

and pore through every single linescape of her body.

The reflexive meeting of our eyes

transcended us to the seventh heaven.

I gulped her celestial elixir

and galloped off to battle on the bed.

Immolate Me

Set the Vedic flame,

orchestrate a ritual yagna;

let black smoke engulf the crystal-clear sky

and rise against the demons of illiteracy.

Let not superstitions

shower bliss and hollow happiness

throughout the land,

shattering what remains of reason.

Gather dry twigs

from bodhi, banyan, and neem;

pour the ghee without restraint,

and kindle the sacred fire—

to immolate me,

and with me,

the illiterate fallacies

that frenzy into belief.

Evolution 

I caringly caress the peach fuzz on my unblemished face.

I nostalgically recollect the pleasantness of spring, triggered by the quintessential sound of her glass bangles from the paddy field.

I get lost in the oblivion, mesmerized by my reflections in the mirror.

The euphony of the wind creates a harmonic melody, audible to my ears.

I devote myself to the amorous gaze of the goddess worshiped by pandits.

I fly with the murmuration of a flock of birds at dawn.

I decipher the meanings of obscure literary expressions.

I metamorphose and evolve, adapting to hunt honey inside a flower.

Coastal crush 

The piscine smell

spread across the fishing hamlet.

A fence of dried palm fronds,

through which snakes would crawl,

seeking shelter.

I slipped in,

breathing past the waft of fish,

to glimpse the nakedness of night

in her eyes.

A quiet tremor within me

waited for the soft susurration

of her anklet,

burying itself in the sand

on which the hamlet breathed.

Phantasmagoric dreams

It was pitch dark,

the wick of the kerosene lamp

emitting blackish soot,

crafting wavering shadows

on the mud-hut wall,

while the crickets’ chirps

grew unbearably loud.

Valli shook me

and whispered, disturbing my sleep—

“Be ready when the rooster crows;

we are going to see the bride-to-be

in the neighboring village.”

Her voice lingered

long after she stopped speaking.

Phantasmagoric dreams began to flow—

Paddy fields, banana plantations, aqueducts, farmhouses,

symmetrically surrounded by palm groves;

jackfruit’s fleshy bulbs, a cattle trough, a charpoy,

buffaloes unmoving, a banyan tree watching,

granny’s finger millet, teakwood pillars, coconut palms,

jasmine thick in the air—

and my pubescent niece.

The wind did not move,

yet something shifted.

“Haven’t you started yet, uncle?”

Her voice came again—

closer this time.

My possessive niece stood there,

unchanged,

as if she had always been

inside the dream.

The Zucchini Bud

The arousing aroma from the scarf, soaked in a cocktail of her body odor, permeated the pheromones in my nostrils while I dabbed the perspiration from my forehead. 

The sensual scent lingered through the night, until the frogs' trills and the layered jasmine that adorned the fence of Kilian's house gave a supercilious smile from her lustrous hair.

The frolicsome kid, plucking the zucchini flower, was smacked and lashed with prolific profanities by her father, who strayed like a slumdog. Unable to bear the brunt, she grumbled with her demanding lips, which deserved a passionate kiss as a bounty.

Losing Luster

Oh, my tribe, when are you going to arouse from your slumber?

The kittens have conquered your terracotta oven to establish their territory.

Are you awaiting a third hand to feed your empty stomach?

Care a toss for those apathetic electorates who committed suicide.

The fallen angels are decimating democracy; arise and liberate yourself!

The chronograph of freedom is losing its color; fading freedom hungers to enslave your independent country.

Diplomats, why are you drenched in the priming rain?

Use your scrolls as umbrellas!

There is a new battle to fight; be prepared for martyrdom.