THOU SHANLL NOT WRITE.

(Taslima Nasreen's book was bannedfrom releasing at

the Kolkkotta International Book Fair, India.

Feb2,2012)

Beware when you Write!

Ants may be there

on your writing table.

The crawling Ants won't like

your writing of flying Birds.

They'll bite your fingers to death.

There will be Bugs big

in your writing seat.

They won't let you be at ease

if you write

of oppression or suppression.

Watch also your Ink!

If it reveals like magic

What's hidden and gone

the ghosts of the pasts won't let you be.

Beware of your Pen!

If it is sharper than the Sword

you'll be called a reactionary.

If it is in your hands

please don't write.

If you want to write

write only what's nice.

The Afflicted

--- Where's your Face?
--- On the facebook.
---- Your Voice?
--- On the Twitter.
--- Home?
--- Always on the run from one home to another.
---- Why run?
--- Life is on the Fast Lane.
--- And your Food?
--- That too is Fast.
---- What about your Sleep?
---- No Sleep; only Dreams.
---- And when the Dreams end?
---- They never end.
---- That is, you're Avaricious?
.... No, just Afflicted.
                                                                                     

Transition Trauma

In the day time
You are all Dr. Jekyll.
At night all Mr. Hyde.

The trouble is at dawn
And also at dusk
When you are either Jeyde
Or Hekyll.

It is the transition
that is troblesonme.

Homes and Prisons

While others were busy

turning their homes

into prisons

My prison turned home

broke into laughs.

While the incarcerated inmates

eye me in disbelief

Intoxicated I

lie in relef.

As air through thecracked walls

of my prison waft

A lone and lean voice

ina sage tone whispers:

A home or a prison

is not a four-walled thing;

your long-lived life

decides its state.

C.M.RAJAN West Chandera Maniyat Post Kasaragod Dist Keralam

IMAGES TOO HOMELY

An uneasy calmprevails on the house

Till the sun downs.

Then she returns from her work.

A gentle tap at the door dozing in wait.

He opens the door.

She smiles into his eyes.

He frowns first, then sighs.

The door all awake shuts them inside.

The fridge in the corner pricks up its ears.

The screen of the TV bursts into hues.

The plants on the sills are all upright.

Waving the drapes wind joins.

The lights shine brighter

The air turns warm as she gently slips into the chair.

An easy peace settles in the home

Till the morning breaks.

Voltaire loved the mankind

Voltaire loved the mankind
and Gandhi loved peace.

Florence tended the wounded
and Theresa her orphans.
For the insulted and the injured
there was always someone.

He was not poor,
he was not rich;
he was not the injured,
nor a man humbled.

To care for and love him
there was never any one.

So he loved himself
and never had any grievance.

As the mother dies
The son too dies.

With the mother no more
How the son can be any more?

The Man Who Hanged Himself on His Phrase

Early in the morning
while leaving for his work
a careless phrase
he threw on her face;
all in jest
not in earnest.

He then left for his work;
back at home the phrase
lingered on.

In the menacing still of the day
gradually it grew
roots and leaves.

Back from his work
when at sundown he came
the tree was ready
sturdy and steady
In the dark of that night
he hanged himself on his phrase.

A father with his child

A father with his child riding on a mobike:
A common morning scene
In an urban Indian frame.

The father in his work clothes;
His child in its uniform.

The father has a tiffinbox
Tiny, round and shiny:
A gift of life his wife daily keeps filled
To keep his life burning
The warmth of which keeps her going
And the child growing.

His child has a bag of khaki on its back:
The wisdom of the world in the tiny books he bought.

As the morning sun grows and the glowing dew goes
The father with his child rides on the bike

Siddartha and the Buddha

A full moon night:

Away from his famed palace

in the woods dumb and grim

dwells Siddhartha.

Sees he the three alone:

the sick,

the aged,

and the dead.

Groans he
in fear, grief, and despair.

A full moon light:

Away from dumb and grim woods
in the flaming streets of his kingdom
walks the Buddha.

Sees he the three alone:

the sick,

the aged,

and the dead.

Smiles he
in love, sorrow, and compassion.
RAJAN CHANDERA