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Cauldron with no Steam

They say hope is good
- hope is the house
in which faith dwells,
faith that swears by god.

I say desire is the house
from of which all seeds
called hope,
in mortal clusters sprout.

If desires are dead maggots
hopes the bad eggs,
faith is an empty cauldron
from where no steam rises.

Saranyan BV © October 2011

poem by Saranyan Bee
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Hopeless poem

They say hope is good
- hope is the house
in which faith dwells,
faith that swears by god.

I say desire is the house
from which all seeds
called hope,
in mortal clusters sprout.

If desires are dead maggots
hopes the bad eggs,
faith is an empty cauldron
from where no steam rise.

Saranyan BV © October 2011

poem by Saranyan Bee
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Noon time- Sunday

we sit on a television cable
hanging vertically
down the roof of a four floor
apartment building,
she, me and the male house sparrow
with whites around the eyes.

from there we watch the stray dog
eating the left-over chapathi
fed by an old greed fed up with food,
three crows wait
for the mongrel to finish
his portion of the meal,

all of them are dressed in adequacy,
the furry dog,
crows in black tatters,
the male sparrow softness of whose feathers
wring my envy drip,

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poem by Saranyan Bee
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Tragopan

There is fire in your neck, Tragopan!
fire in the goose-steps
dealt with deliberation
one leg after another, you scare me,

your hard mouth
uttering those guttural noises
left, right, left, right, left, right,
like an army in rampage, you scare me.

I fear you, O Tragopan
I haven’t come for your hen - believe me,
she is behind pecking the Gojji berry,
fear me not, I am not for amour!

my eyes feed on the purple clouds
borne by the silver gray
in the depths of jade,
whose playful slaps are gentle on my feet,

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poem by Saranyan Bee
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Travails of a Lab Attendant

I view
the homing Indian bull-frog
with pink thighs,

lying flat on the dissection table;
a flag pinned on it’s webbed hind foot,
says “Hoplobatrachus tigerinus”

the viscera looks
everything like the mangled cosmic whore
from the ancient gully I co-habited long ago.

I scoop the un-laid cluster of her eggs
and carefully mount
on the compound microscope

empowered with condenser lens,
the stage is prepared but
it takes time to focus a genuine specimen.

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poem by Saranyan Bee
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Pain Can't Speak

pain cant speak,
if pain can
you would have heard
my heart squeak.

pain can't see,
if pain can
you would have seen
my ribs squeeze.

pain cant' smell
if pain can
you would have sensed
something foul.

poem by Saranyan Bee
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I Write Poetry

I write not poetry for the poor
for tears from their swelled up eyes
smudge and erase my words,

I write poetry not for the rich
for the splotches from their fat and cheese
hide my lines of wise,

I write poetry for not men to read
for in their skirmishes, poems are trashes
like beans spilled in pond full of slush,

I write poetry for the men not to read
for poems are little words, little music
little cry that the men cant touch or destroy,

poem by Saranyan Bee
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Cow Catchers

Those days there were cow-catchers
at all serious gateways
like St.Peter’s
which made your teeth clatter
and collected water.

They were implicated in the murder
of one Moreas,
a Matador from Moraco
who had large conspicuous gap
between his bunny-like incisors. (Upper jaw) .

It was said the murder indeed took place
because the cow-catchers thought his teeth
mocked them when the paparazzi
reported a mosquito with dry wings
couldn’t find the way in.

poem by Saranyan Bee
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Philosophy Of Parameters

Another wintry noon
under the gray umbrella,
the yellow sign board
at the patio reads in pulp letters
(pls look for no hue-related
allusions here) ,
“Reserved car parking
for members only”,
the sign does it’s job well
as the car ‘s on errand!
but two crows sit on the post,
a kind of irony,
one checks it’s breast
with the huge beak
for micro-organisms
hiding under sunshine,
the other in stillness
viewing the pretty mate
on three parameters
all life run,

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poem by Saranyan Bee
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Elegy On The Death Of A Church Mouse

‘Colonel Gaddafi is dead; long live Gaddafi’,
- whose words those are?

don’t shoot, don’t shoot,
enough blood is spilled!
Gaddafi,
a leaf from the tree is dead;

leaf sprouts, leaf eats, leaf sleeps in the sky,
leaf waves the world in the cheer of palm,
makes no sand out of storm,
no beating themselves by the horse drain,
no hanging noose by the cock’s strain.

Leaf feeds the tree with green
when upon it’s tender face, the horrid-sun shine,
leaf, bearer of flower, bearer of seed,
never the taster of the sap from earth
till drops dead in the paleness of red,

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poem by Saranyan Bee
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