NaPoWriMo 13 : Petrichor

Velleka in the rain                                                   Pic credit : Reenaprasad

Scent of renewal 


Somewhere when it rains
a boy runs barefoot to a stream
A page is torn
and he beams at his little boat
to overcome a mound of roots
that threatens its passage

It breaks free
and bobs merrily for a while
enjoying the bumpy ride
till the rain plays traitor
and wets its fragile insides

He shouts with glee
insistant that all should leave 
their irrelevant preoccupations
and come to see his warrior ship
fighting the elements to the death

Few bother to
They smile indulgently
and rebuke him gently
for abusing the hallowed notebook
not seeing
the greatest lesson that he would ever need
was being taught by the stream, the boat
and rain

forever to be remembered
rising from within him as petrichor
when in another time, place or season
he the boat, would move in circles
without rhyme or reason
unable to see the drift of things

Then the rain would come
drenching his arid mud
with the reassuring scent of a land 
and he would find the notebook again
and tear off another page
©Reena Prasad


The Circus IS In (My ?) Town

Loud red petals on a white bedspread
An opaque stain on a river flowing insane
mindless noise is music here
Sickle-shaped ears flap to loudspeaker notes
Cupped hands scooping the remnants of a city’s dignity
and hurling it at the sky
amidst loud claps of hilarity
Gigantic aluminum vessels rattle
ready for the gruel-ing evening
Feathered dancers strut on streets
to reaffirm this is a pantomime
The hullaballoo crowd on high platforms drone on
high with all the sniffing
at the odour of a chair’s still warm seat
though their lifelines refuse to extend anymore
Black microphones jut into nostrils
of anyone who wants to yawn
In far flung places
Mallus bond with perfect strangers
in their eagerness to perform another group autopsy
Another ‘pooram’
in the city of hidden gold
and thieving gods
All I can think of this circus is
it is just that
or a pongala offering by the unemployed male populace
The Kathi Shajis, Ambalamukku Bijus, Vadivaal Velus and pocket adi Pappus
having a samsthan sammelanam under full police protection
to rival the Guinness record of their women folk
All at peace till the first shove
©reena prasad
12th aug 2012

Keralite Writing in English-II | Literature DIY | Dr Ampat Koshy

 Enjoyed this article thoroughly. I have read almost all the poets and writers who find a mention here and as always I am amazed at the deft analysis and the broad yet comprehensive approach covering such a vast area and bringing it all together under the umbrella of subversive, different, unique and startlingly refreshing writing. Panjami Anand’s poem like many more of hers is superb, honest writing and she is sure to leave her mark in the annals of great writing. The article rocks as does its writer.

Keralite Writing in English-II | Literature DIY | Dr Ampat Koshy.

Eyes in the Dew

The teak door with its brass lock
creaks, its lone eye is foggy
I lift it up slightly by the hinges
and twist the key 

A cool morning frisks me
benign fingers caressing sore spots
The skin still sultry in the aftermath
of a humid night trapped between sheets
but underneath
a vigorous puppy shakes off dew drops 

And then eyes appear 

I see their whites rolling
in the night rain filled coconut cups
behind the two tall palms holding
the broken swing 

They follow me through  fragile
spider homes
on the crisp walk to the stream
Their gaze on the mutinous curls
loose on my shoulders with silvery webs   

Red eyes of a coucal on the well rim
follows them and me
as silvering the gaps, dawn appears
between the rubber trees 

A drought stricken bottomless well, I drink in
the cackles of the kulakozhi
the scampers of the baby squirrels
the sway of the rat snake
gliding towards the faint yellow in the east
and the ominous feel of human eyes
having a feast

The stream goes its way
cackling about its hidden worms
to the early ducks 

I return
to turn myself in
to the door with two eyes
They tell me I had been seen
waiting for a man in the mist  

It was to escape the sightless eyes
that I chose the ‘unearthly’ hour
The man they chose to conjure up
verily had no eyes for me

©Reena Prasad

*kulakozhi = Moor hen


Click pic for credits
Click pic for credits

and one day you make a dash for it
no longer caring who sees you wet
shaking off the covers, the caps, the masks
into your field of lost green
The grass is more prickly
than it was in your memories
the blue you painted on your ceiling
a faded shade when you stand gazing up now
the breeze has a nip and shoves you about
the rain so cold that it makes you shiver
The warmth, the tinkle of little goat bells
you still hear
but there are none about
Fences block your path
Gates have made you a stranger
The stone where you carved your name
says RIP
as it lies over another
©Reena Prasad Feb 9th 2013