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))

Unsilenced

Shivers ran down my strained spine,
sweat and dew tried to cool,

the unsettled magma in my blood-shot eyes, 

muscled veins, charged for combat.  

I froze a million lawful questions

and eyed them fallen targets -

five in all, in flesh and blood.

one alive, slumped in front.

My skilled blows hard enough

knocked out the rest,

the final target rose in alarm.

(A forest ranger, loaded and ready,

I was armed and forewarned.)  

What an apology for a man! I spat.  

He’d tested me too far.

after bloody hours of making and breaking

weren’t they tired of it all?

I lowered my gun, I took my stance

Watched him do his final death dance.

‘Repent!’ I said, ‘but go to hell,

for her irreparable loss.’

But when my stubborn trigger,

taut with potential,

exploded his filthy head,

the deafening shrieks of a hundred victims,

had a group of white doves, unsilenced.

The laws of nature and humankind,

had come to my defense

I shrugged that wayward stain with pride

off my untainted metal badge.

To that one mute dove,

I gave my hand

and pulled her to her feet.

Without a word spoken,

With no questions asked,

I prayed to those ghostly voices

and bent to stroke, the lass's head

and apologized 
for them fallen men. 

Wind, Water and Wings

Wind, Water and Wings


The sail flutters at five knots
onward, the ballooned curtain
now one with the wind,
spreads its patched white wings and
lunges me ahead.


A knot for every year.


The taste of fresh salt
floods my all-seeing eyes and unmutes
the songs of the wind and wild water
splashing the lapels of the fishing yacht.


The net will never see dead fishes again--
or hooks, or baits or promiscuous men.
The Noah’s Ark will rescue hope:
harbour unions of the wind, water and wings
to cleanse my world again.


Rejuvenated.
Not shunned by
the tiresome journey of unsaid words.

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

Being Lost and Found

I found relief in that altered moment,

when the arid, yellow course

caved, into greener woods.

I crushed the violent undergrowth

in a leap; to forbid silence,  

and grew fruition in zealous cheers.

In wonderment,

‘How, why, does my memory fade me?’

 I questioned.

I had led many through that crag,

planted seeds of incentive,

at broken ankles - twisted trials on trails.

But, alone that day,

momentarily untried, I stood:

in unknown knowledge,

(despite my many revisitations!)

of the transient wilderness,

Nature’s deceptive mischief.

In studied skill,

mastered over years of arduous treks,

I accepted the challenge, trudged forward still.

I lashed through weathered, wild cacti:

the snares of bewilderment,

 to find the rugged cliff’s end.

I peered not far down:

at the lush, re-learned knowledge

and rejoiced, in a mighty leap of celebration.

I bade that moment a proud farewell

and continued to seek pristine paths

laid to be grubbed;

relieved in new visions of confidence

but waiting to be tested again,

and yet again.

Rajashree Anand

Brazen Sand

I waited in my pillaged shack

like you’d ordered me to,

before you trod foreign sands.

The mirages of your arrival

were like remnant shadows of my

fallen, looted village

that you’d scoured on your way.

But, my parched earthen lips, breathless

bequeaths a final heave for you,

a fair disgust, to pale the heart-line

and renew its beauty with 
the smell of fresh henna

and glass bangles clinking at my wrists.

“These limitless boundaries I shall cross

to marry you, Sana.” you’d said Musafir.

“Three years! For a bandit?” I thought every night. 

and I walked into Iftikar’s thatch again...

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.

The Untapped Keys

At dawn, the piano trotted- it’s clef reposed

melancholies in notes, in known stanzas.

It played octaves of weak fruition, but stored

cryptic genii cased in remote dogmas:

omitted keys- within hidden retreats,

prospects for flair: contained, but used rarely

snubbed recesses and opportune defeats,

haplessly lie frozen, but perfectly  

virginal, in white and untainted ebony.

Fingers ending in garbed choices, perchance

for kin or notational amity,

loving notes in a life-long, feigned romance.

So, touch those keys, veiled in joyous cadence,

to end grief housed in your ambivalence.

The Unwanted Drain

Her eyes meander vacantly,

unfeeling of the maggots snaking uncouth wires.

Whispering taps may lay unheeded,

but for the tainted morsels- remnants

of charitable souls, that slaked

undying pangs of rage.

Still, the wild Medusa would strike, when provoked:

turning sudden ghastly trembles,

by ensnaring snares;

hissing at confused ridicules, spites, or whistles.

Disbelieving in retrospect,

saline tears drench her volatile past,

compel her void existence

to slacken fears, and stay disengaged

and lynched forever.

Rajashree Anand

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 

Thyagaraja's Disciple

Pardon my treason!

I sang your eloquent verses,

I pleaded in therapeutic ragas,

I served the lotus feet of your beloved, Rama -

but I couldn’t spurn wealthy concerts.

I am sacrilegious! Shun me.

I didn’t sing your praise!

I was lost in my voice.

I used your rants to seek Him,

it gave me a sublime experience,

a lofty name to fame.

To cleanse my profanity,

I attended every aradhanai,

in Thanjavur and Cleveland,

poured tears into your pancharatna krithis,

But, pardon my irreverence!

I was sponsored.

Rajashree Anand

Thyagaraja - One of the greatest composers of Carnatic music or classical South Indian music

aradhanai – worship/prayer

pancharatna krithis – the five noted compositions of Thyagaraja in Telugu

The Translator

He sourced his ideas


from a kutchi artist,


borrowed his metaphors,


picked the best of his designs.


He eliminated the inscrutable.


He chose eclectic fabrics,


to sew deeper metaphors,


to suit his contemporary audiences.


In a façade of patchwork,


he marked his new meaning.


Raw silk for subtle emphasis,


mirrors reflecting the original.


To accentuate his own perspectives,


he made new patterns, stitches,


synchronous paraphrases.


He etched his initials,


and published it,


rightfully copyrighted!




Rajashree Anand