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