Sons of Zeus

(Published By : Online Magazine - Writers Asylum )

Like epitomes of paradoxes,
the Big Brother to the ‘other’,
dictates and usurps
the universal truth:
the last minute Mr Benefactor
of Swiss accounts. The nuke,
that controls in the name of peace -
making, keeping or breaking?
Apollonian ego and democratic dogmas

following convoluted cults as rights
of expression, defiance or idiosyncrasy.

Or that ‘significant’ other that learns

yearns, emulates and succumbs.
Like dung beetles, menacing bugs -
‘mysteriously meticulous’,
laying spawns as pawns for a stable future
tediously following the laws of survival:
development, fluidity or corruptive liquidity?

Like parallel electric lines

at calculated distance apart
are Apollo and Dionysus.
Dichotomous. Incongruous.
They can and will never unite.
The natural father can only watch over. Clueless.
 

 

Rajashree Anand

           

The Giant Chopsticks

The cauldron seers underneath
the melting pot f

uses, fuels appetites.
The culinary Malay twins are born,
sprucing their sodden sky.
Massive and everlasting they stand:
piercing bluntly into sticky rice-clouds
They are chopsticks, not spoons!

For the 'Sons of the Land'
who bask in its boisterous segments
as artfully aligned to their heavens,
they fuel modest pride.
They quench imported palettes
with cultural condiments.

They stand:
a symbol of nationalism
subtly borrowed?
they are chopsticks after all, not spoons!
Chopsticks. Chinese. Borrowed.

Nasi Lemak

It is unity.
A sensual outburst;
fuming essences out of rain-forests,
harvesting in hungry plates,
engulfing courses drowned in taste.
Scrunched to be crunched
in knotted pandan potlis
flavourfully divine,
seams revolving in variations
blend one, with the one-eyed ova moon –
the wild aromatic nasi
paled hot by saucy spices,
evidences of the sea at its periphery.
Ikans swimming into a spoonful
the wandering remnant, burnt
with hot sambal
hardly cooled by sliced cucumber.
and yet the tongue salivates for more.
This bungkused kaleidoscope,
has pagi brunches transformed
into visions of a fulfilling malam.
Saving any remaining appetite,
for a peaceful retirement in a cozy office chair.


Rajashree Anand

Notes:
'pandan' - a palm-like, aromatic leaf used in Malay cuisine
'nasi' - rice
'ikan' - fish
'sambal' - a hot sauce made by crushing red chillies; served with rice
'bungkus' - packed for take-away
'pagi' - morning
'malam' - night

Visual Silence

A transient visitor into her sensorial world,
“Now walk,” she said.
My legs played possum to her vocal stimuli:
spoilt for visual signals, spatial comfort.
“Walk, trust me!” she said again.
The eyeballs held captive
 by my sweaty palms,
now choked in want of feeble light.
I couldn’t give up, not so soon.
“Now come on, di!” she said
and held me tight.
And then I felt.
The stagnant wind in the service lane,
vehicular breeze from the corner street.
The gravel, baked foliage
crackled, crushed under my feet.
There was poetry in madness.
I listened for traffic, vehicles, people,
almost every tiny sound that was audible.
My stoked skin-hair soaked vibrations,
My smoked eyes inhaled the tyre fumes .
I froze. I felt the missing arm. 
Where was I? Where was Jasmine?
At the crossing?
I heard the storming of horns, 
the screech of brakes.
I stood in their way!
Guessing, decoding
listening, feeling, all-in-one,
I dropped my hands in panic.
And ran to safety.
Light flooded my painful eyes,
in an explosion of colours,
 watching a blurry little Jasmine
scuttling with her stick across the pedestrian.
“No! Don’t, there’s a road!” I screamed.
Unfeeling of the withheld rebukes,
Unseeing of their nasty stares,
She crossed the road with ease.
“Didi, where did you go?” she asked.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t see!” I said
and hugged my symbiotic sister.
She congratulated,
I sighed in relief,
as we trudged our long way home.


RAJASHREE ANAND

Food Wars

The loaded jet plane missed its runway

circled past the busy base.

“…and zoom!” she said 

swallowing a silent prayer.

He was still munching- ever so slowly,

splattering her hope in delightful role play.

“ I’m parking my Lamborghini, mum!”

How long? As long as I give up?

She complained with grunts and rage

dislodged his four-wheeled pride,

found his smeared target again

and acquired it. By force.

Tinsel Hope

I hid in a stocking that Christmas Eve party,

right by the mistletoe,

eyed kids lapping stripey candy pops

watched sparkling wine flow.

I made snowflakes from wasted wrapping sheets

cleaned sauce off her dirty stair.

little morsels of fruit and wine,

I wiped them fair and square.

While I tidied her delicious cutlery,

I watched her guests and Lucy prance,

and joined them in their merry cheer

and on her gifts, did a drunken dance.

I swung on the Xmas branches

and toyed with the fairy’s wand

but skipped on a disco electric ball

and thud! I fell, to the ground.

While Lucy and her guests sang

I lay in writhing pain,

“Christ the Savior… ! A RAT!! A RAT!” I heard,

I prayed I wouldn’t be slain.

I woke up to a bright Christmas morn

saw angel-white snowflakes fall,

dizzy from last night’s ordeal,

little could I even recall.

I wasn’t in my icy trashyard

or the dark, sinewy bin,

I felt my head on a scrunchy bed,

by a spinning wheel and a corn-filled tin!

So, I believe in this fest of togetherness,

in hymns of glorious oracles,

of forgivers and selfless saviours like Lucy 

and tinsel-wrapped divine miracles!


Rajashree Anand

Replenished

Feed me, where islets of fecund earth,

rise from the sea like green straw mushrooms

grilled by the orange sun,

and seasoned by wild waves, saline.

Quench me, with pure mineral water,

the glistening mirror of the eternal thirst

to be one with my wandering soul,

entangled in flighty memories.

Purify me, bathe away guilty imprints

remnants of a futile past ,

to dissolve in the white sands of time

and cleanse my future journeys.

Natural mother, you for eons of years

have only nurtured, rocked

and put me to blissful sleep

only to renew and rejuvenate

and seek you forever.

Rajashree Anand

(- ( after a trip to Langkawi))

The Elevator

We scurry to work,
but are prepared
to make a guest appearance, 
into an experimental stage;
with hardly Shakespeare’s actors 
but neighbours, cleaners, strangers,
everyday people.
We care not for the genre:
tragic, fantastical , romantic acts
or simply commonplace realism;
but for the experiences 
carved by daily stimuli,
from cubicle to cubicle.


We smile, stare or preoccupy ourselves,
in fallacious mental rehearsals. 
The eyes that meet, are transformed
into frank disclosures,
or dubious experts.
But, in all earnest,
we hide our reactive countenance,
while cautiously envying
a Snicker-smudged toddler,
smirking at heeled beauties 
or slick men bathed in perfume.
We all do play parts, 
(but some of us with learned ease)
embodying a million expressions.
But when alone, 
not only does B1 to floor 32 come in a jiffy,
we think lonely, surly thoughts
of the whys and wherefores,
“why was I irked by the gleeful cheers of that kindie?”
“wherefore did I consult my watch,
when she entered on floor 28?” 


Elevated, these journeys go on, day after day.
We notice or chose to be numbed
by the roles we play.
We still curse at frugal time,
but never at ouselves.
Like our blue ball that eternally spins 
relentless on life’s axes,
the elevator is undisturbed,
it soars into the skies
transporting us into moments 
of the past, present or future 
or into moments of temporal absence.

Rajashree Anand

My Ode to Coffee

Oh! aromatic one,

you who in ceramic radiance

can magnetise oceans of flavours,

have become but a menace.

Oh! concocted sprite

of pure race,

Vietnamese, Columbian or Coorgi…

don’t multiply your blends -

stay pure, don’t be swayed by adultery

the way we are.

Let not versions ruin our days,

in addictive indulgence of diluted tastes.

But let the South Indian wife,

in all her morning strife,

satisfy her swami’s morning glee

- a sip of soodu filter kapi.

Oh! aromatic one,

save your humility to save your grace.

You are better razed than glazed

with additives like ginger and elaichi, please!

Not frozen but blazing hot and frothy.

Please hear me and not the

verbal gossip of staffs,

on their boss’s day-off or ‘lay-offs’

precious minutes are wasted on trivial woe,

drunk over shots of your expresso.

Heed my call, mark my words,

if you don’t agree, then let me switch to tea.

Rajashree Anand

Viewer’s Choice

Gallons of messages

coded streams of data,

shoot

in planned

infusion,  

expanding our capacity

to sponge more and store.

With every click, the mind

makes readymade choices.

Rarely frugal:  these fluctuations

are plainly practiced by overuse.

Fingers wander on pluses and minuses,

focusing on that one infinite option

momentarily;

justifying dislike and shuffling on

back                                     forth,

blanking in and                       out

for vague seconds,

uncontrolled levels of sound

screeching like broken records

in di    a    logs a   nd    di    ale    cts.

The tedious labour of thumbs,

never settling for a minutes rest,

till the grey battery gets recharged.

Consumed, these replenished seekers,

begin to detect an alien force,

driving thought in opinion

ads, stereotypes….

like bombarding magic bullets,

creating an illusion of your control,

only to make you realise later,

that you aren’t --

simply because IT is.

Horizon

Cruising dinghy,

lapped by devil’s sea

distressed catch –

shark-finned bounties

They care not

But, I see the horizon

Deranged rodents

in vivo, running lives

for inhuman profit –

cosmetic truths.

It goes on --

But, I see the horizon

Every day

before night dawns.

Stroked

He marked his niche,

he set his pastel borders

in candid engines of color,

squiggled doodles

in feverish zeal. 
Rivers to plateaus, 

stars to planets,

or cat sisters for dog brothers.

Sinkable ships in disjoint lines

lay canvassed, in an untidy

coherence of naivety.

These strokes, plethora 
of nascent hope

basked on squeaking spotless teak.

Scuttled he merrily                                            

on his little proud feat,

only to be sternly rebuked.  

Without mutiny or fight  

he cried guilty, ran -

to his territory in panic, 

used rapid strokes to undo

only to spread the color,

blurring his masterpiece,

trading his potential for approval

in her secure, peaceful arms.

Scripting the Queen

Words pour into the brain,

like ants in line, in unison.

They creep into grey esoteric valleys

in solitary words,

groups of phrases,

mobs of sentences,

in unashamed, circles of confusion

when disturbed.

They frisk for potential,

in pheromonic thought trails,

treading tiresome journeys,

to find dead ends.

They are no fools,  

these  workers;

they persistently diagnose end to end ,

albeit unproductive .

They are but transformers,

for, a line of fruitful thought

gets them marching -

once again connecting, correcting

and scenting lines to woo the Harvestor –

weave their focal plots in her,  

stack, store and prepare to nurture

in their new, pivotal role.

In this vicious circle,

they procreate tomorrow’s children,

in  fruits of her majesty’s onerous labour,

hatching harbingers of fresh ideas,

 to migrate intoxicated terrains,

and carry on the legacy

of toil, sweat and sweet success.

Rajashree Anand 

When Life Beckons

Published in Muse India: Issue 36 Mar - Apr 2011

I soar like an albatross,

eastward ; where vacant archipelagos 

and inflated magma chambers,

spew fecundity with confidence. 

 

I gravitate to forgotten heritage sites,

And discover forsaken villages.

I expedite to catch the sunset view,

of man-made and natural wonders.

 

I dive into depths of severe oceans,

For hidden mysteries to uncover, 

Breathless: I shiver, to feel my carnal predators 

in thrilling close encounters.

 

I test vertical limits of physical tolerance,

And free-fall with peregrine precision,

I trick gravity and launch my chute

Before raging adrenaline gives in.

 

In search of my inner oblivion

I migrate to scour new terrains.

I canvass untreaded, forlorn paths

only to feel, share and experience.   

 

As I backpack on aimless traveller trails

discovering and unlearning fiction,

I spurn fear and embolden the mind, 

to continue on the next exciting mission.