POETRY : Water, Water and other poems by K.S.Subramanian

1. Water.... water...

 

Those gleaming, silvery crystals set

the heart aflutter, tongue yearning

for a drop to whet its taste buds. 

They hold our breath on a leash, in fact. 

In autumn, fallen leaves look dismal,

starched and are to be blown away. 

Spring glides in with a caressing wing 

To spray fresh seeds, keeps us in thrall.  

As April sets tongue into a spin 

evanescent crystals keep it moist. 

Seasons too pass into the void

but Life beats in a murmuring glen.  

It’s beside a copious, swirling river 

a humane culture does vibrate. 

On its fecund bosom a mélange of

green cradles a protective cover. 

If asphalt invades every nook and alley 

evil breath scorching out all green

to the call of money, power and what not, 

the plaintive cry is of the waterless lily.  

Those crystals are the lifeline of soul.

If lost, it’s too late to cry foul.

2.  Forest brook

Green blossoms paling in the blaze.

Does the pitiless sun drain them
of all hope with its scorching rays?
They droop in repressed agony.
The aroma of asphalt slowly moving
in to suck the sap;
Trees, stately and daring the skies
bear an uncanny fear in their hearts;
Even their shadows appear mortal!
They harbour an unexpressed message -
manifold flora has lost its scent;
The brook gurgles quietly below.
The ambience of silence, a roaring
curse on the day when

it will be a static sewage.

3.  By the rivulet A hesitant drizzle here  or a patter a little later,  rain is a purveyor of mood hues.  Clouds too snort in dismay  at its slow drip of munificence.  As if acting on cue it opens  into a relentless downpour.  Then rivulets brim, canals breach the banks, dams knock at the gates!  Then edgy heart cries  "stop this nagging roar". But the heart, strangely enough,  has no banks or is dammed. It flutters when the sky is  beaming blue, sparse white patches,  expecting the day to unclasp rosy vibes; or the dusk will  fall with a parting, gleaming gift.  En route is the paved way of  prickly thorns; Heart trots to the  steady tip-toeing of the wall clock!  Then it cries "stop this claptrap". I love the silent, tranquil gurgle of the rivulet where pebbles shine. About the Writer   K.S.Subramanian has two volumes of verse to his credit - Ragpickers and Treading on gnarled sand - published by the Writers Workshop, Kolkatta.  His poems have appeared in several web sites, anthologies and journals. So also short stories. Writing has become a persisting preoccupation ever since he retired from journalism. He is a retired senior Asst. editor from The Hindu.