Poems by Abhilash Surendran

I am your father, son!

a poem by

Abhilash Surendran

So, you are on the flight?
How is the view outside?
Do you see bleak landscapes,
arid deserts, blistered skin;
Does tears weep through the scab tissues?
Are there seeds willing to grow up,
but pressed down by the forces.
Do you see people walking with no shoes,
and, no clothes, and flies swarming around them.

Do you see cattle so thin,
you mistook them for senile people?
Are the roads dusty and the rivers dried?
Are the women with pitchers walking by those roads,
to get water 10 miles away?
And are there little kids walking along, with
no clothes and little sticks for toys?
And do you see hyenas prowling behind them??

And you might see big factories?
with smoke bellowing out of their belly.
And a trace of life around them.
And do you see nearby rivers,
with dead fish floating on the water?
And birds feeding on them?

Do you see big political rallies,
With huge leaders, guiding a
Flock of emaciated, dazed civilians.
Do you see the face of Gandhi in any of them?

Welcome to your country son.
Where people die of hunger everyday;
where illiterate, poor people
strive to eat a single meal a day.
They beg, they borrow, they steal.
And they survive, till the next day,
where shoddy beggars live in
harmony with well-dressed crooks
where the rich get richer
and the poor get poorer.
Where dreams are born, are raised
and end up in demure demise.

You need not stay long.
You can return back in a week.
To your foster home in the west
where your caucasian girlfriend
would have steaks and toast ready every morning.
You need not bother about the dirty roads here,
when you speed through the freeways there.
You need not think about the putrid water here
when you drink bottled mineral water there.
You need not worry about poverty and famine
when you go to buffet dinners.
As long as you are happy,
you can stay there, but don’t forget.
If you find a better man,
don’t ditch me. I am your father, son!

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Icarus

a poem by

Abhilash Surendran

Were you the seed of ignorance?
The restless flow of vice
shows a pattern, doesn’t it?
What appeals to the eye as false,
often, false they are not.

Your wings are my blood.
designed to flow.
Crete was no match
to the stem of ingenuity.
I evaded the solid terrain,
and the restless waters,
and chose the stubborn air.
yet you, my own blood?

Fly not too low,
or the burden of the damp
would encompass all the burden of Minos.
Fly not too high,
or you begin to question
the authority of the one above.
Instructions don’t always make sense do they?

Fly high, you did.
And the devil’s own wax did melt;
while this anguished father cried
‘Icarus, where are you?’
I couldn’t hear your pleas,
you were in your own world by then.
And this poor artist,
watched as his art floated on the sea below.
And no signs of Icarus.

Icarus,
were you the seed of ignorance?
I wished to be the wind beneath your wings.
But when I saw, there were no wings at all.

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My better half

a poem by

Abhilash Surendran

Every moment spent without you
is devoid of life, just a huge void.
And I fall deeper and deeper,
until I am ashamed of the depths.
They stare at me, laughs silly,
and pour contempt all around.
‘Is this you? Whom are you kidding’?

But the moment is too much to bear.
Like a hundred knives stabbed into my flesh.
But through the pain, I seek clarity.
And the truth stings like dope.
And its the high, the omnipotent high
that throws me into this mess.

How many fallen miles we walked,
to fall down, regroup and keep walking?
How many wretched nights we talked
to see the shining ray coming through?

And beneath the hundreds of masks
was there a sigh of acknowledgement?
Like a flutter of those fish eyes?
Something I missed? Or wished to believe so?
And the voices in my head
are getting more clearer by the hour.
They call, they shout, they yell, they scream
‘your life awaits, why keep waiting’?

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Touched by an angel

a poem by

Abhilash Surendran

No one ever knew how to walk in
to the deep, abyss of my heart.
They fell, they faltered
but the depths never gave away.
They thought they were scratching the walls.
Ignorant souls! they never knew!

Like leprechauns and naked elves,
they wait, pondering success.
They walk tightropes around me.
Parading themselves around in
motley patches of lust.
Showing what they are.
No soul. Just flesh! lost in virtue!

And the angel flies above them all
like a beacon of light;
of voices known only to the soul.
Of unspoken words and unsought feelings.
Of splattered images and colours.
And she can cover the abyss,
disregard the depths,
sitting pretty on the walls.
And the sight of her alone,
could make a million tongues ask,
‘have you been touched by an angel?’

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Nomad

a poem by

Abhilash Surendran

Nomad is what you are.
Across the rugged, treacherous desert of life.
You walked. Kept walking.
Many a miles you looked around for
water, the ocean of life.
Many a times you felt you found it,
only to falter, and turn around.
Mirages. Fucking mirages.
Mirages exist in realms of thought.
within which you chose to live.
Scared of breaking the realms?
Adventurous you said? Don’t think so.
Not by soul. By spirit, maybe.
And the mirages grew in number.
They encompassed your thoughts,
the way you felt.
And one sudden day, nomad…
you had no feelings at all.

You never recognised the oasis.
You think it is another mirage.
So, what are you going to do?
Turn around and walk away,
along faltered paths?
Why wouldn’t you?
Maybe the very realms of thought are
breaking up?
Maybe there are no thoughts anymore?
Remember? It is better to feel with the heart
than think with the mind.

So, across the arid Sahara,
you finally found the oasis,
quenched your thirst,
yet doubt its very existence.
But you never realised,
that the oasis was always there.
A hundred thousand years.
Waiting for the solitary nomad.
To make it feel complete.

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Purple

a poem by

Abhilash Surendran

Purple be thy color.

Its not about the homosexuality,
which never existed in the first place.
Pink is your foe
and lavender your abhorrence.
Its not about the royalty.
There was no one more royal than you.
Yet there was no one more banal than you.

Its probably the pride.
Christians might call it a deadly sin,
but not to you.
Not to us.
Pride is the way we walk
or rather, the path, the means.

But the best reason,
is the high.
The high of being with you.
The high of the warmth,
so engulfing.
so reassuring.
so comforting.
It has to be about the high.
The all-encompassing
purple haze.
My LSD!!

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