Suicide Of Farmers
When the whole families of some
are jobbing in banks and offices,
the sons of farmers
frivol away with politicians
seeking a job.
The womenfolk of farmers
labour all the day in fields
lose their florid face
and roam as skeletons
They fall on evil days
if the darker clouds fail to burst.
Rising in the early morn,
they hurry to places far off,
seeking work in the earth.
Till they be back at midnight,
with some savoury packets,
their children wait unfed
like the fledglings in nests
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Welcome my Grandchild
I got up that morning
with a beaming smile
for I could see my grandchild
jumping down from the Brindavan Express
at twenty five minutes past eight.
I was busy on that day
buying biscuits, chocolates, cherries and fried nuts
as she could have now a little firm teeth.
Toys, pipes, electronic cars
I bought in the evening.
My wife had been decorating the house
for a week as our kiddie was coming.
At Six I was at the Central Station,
exhausting reading of all the eveningers.
When there was half-an-hour
for the train to roll in with a satiating smile,
I went out to buy a pair of ‘idlies’,
for our little queen would be very hungry
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Nothing Remains to Lose for Freedom
Half of the Tamils of Eelam in Srilanka
had fled and migrated to countries
where the people humane and rulers divine live.
The poor, old and the disabled totter there
to receive the cudgels and bullets from the Sinhalese.
The tigers who fought for freedom are no more.
The parents of the tigers got their limbs broken
or shot in day light before the scared and starved.
The womenfolk lost their virtue and killed themselves.
The young boys and girls are ostracized and disabled.
The lands of the Tamils are colonised with gangs of goons.
The Tamils have linguistic, racial and religious differences
from the Sinhalese who grabbed the reins from the British.
The idols of their deities demolished in desecrated temples.
The honour of the Tamils was annihilated
before the very eyes of the UNO which holds now polls
to decide their fate and change the blood-stained soil
where the soldiers raped the corpses of the women-tigers.
They have lost their land, men, wealth and honour.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Easy-Going Youth of Today
Being old I'm in the myth still.
When I advised my grown-up students
not to fall in love with the girls
either at the first sight
or at the second sight
for their hearts would break
if the girls cheated them,
they at once would retort:
' If the heart breaks, we will replace it
with an artificial heart
or transplantation we'll undergo.
Human organs are changed nowadays
as ICs and electronic components'.
' You are weak in physique.
You can't bear the shock
of a devastating defeat in love',
I waxed in eloquence.Having no second thought,
' Sir, we're not tearful and brooding,
as that of conscience-stricken lovers of the past.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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The God Blessed Wedding
The driver of our hired Tata Sumo
was enjoying sad songs in Hindi
by letting us to sip the music.
He stopped and got out at Soneprayag
and spoke to a grandma.
A blooming girl with tousled hair
had a stroll out of her house,
casting a glance of gloom on him.
When the car began its course again
towards the Gourikund,
we saw the girl staid on a rock
as a statue drowned in tears.
The driver turned round his face towards her
and slowly curved it back.
I lost my patience and asked him
who she was to tell her tale in tears.
The young driver after a thought
struck up his story:
“I am from the plains
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Children Misled
Children learn fast these days,
hurling the elders into wonder.
Three Class- Two students
stole out of the school,
approached an egg- vendor.
The cat of them engaged the vendor
in an interesting conversation.
The rat of them pilfered the eggs
and passed down to the third, the bat,
squatting on the floor under a bench
on which the goods were kept.
The bat stored the eggs in his trouser- pocket
and walked back to the class with a soaked trouser.
The teacher called them in as the Sun was hot,
and frying every living thing.
The teacher was kind but strict to truant children,
smelt unpleasant and asked them
why that odour of a broken egg from them?
One fellow bent forward to clean his wet pocket
and an egg from his pocket in the shirt fell down,
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The Great 'Grandma
The fussy Grandma
was on her last moments.
Sensing that she was knocking
at the doors of 'Death',
her grand children were
brought one by one before her.
Memories stinging
of momentous years
began to come into her mind.
How with tricks she drove out
her aged mother-in-law
just a week after her
coming into that house
as the first daughter-in-law!
The eldest grandchild
trickled down sugary water
into her mouth.
Her henpecked husband
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The Hand Wielding the Pen and Gun
I write poems by this hand
which helped my mother
to crush the grains in a stone mortar
by raising and hitting down with the pestle
before the grinding mills came to a nearby town.
I write poems by this hand
which got wounds swinging the hammer
to hit hard on rods to make holes into the rock
in our deep well, and filled them, with explosives
to blow off and find the burst of water.
I write poems by this hand
which drove the bulls cracking the whip
while ploughing and moving the cart
and drawing water from the well in leather sacks,
before the electrons flew through the wires to my village.
I write poems by this hand
which uprooted for wages the groundnut plants
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Who Gave you Inhuman Rights?
Who gave the inhuman rights
to the SriLankan army
to sever the heads of innocent boys
and set fire to the heaps of their corpses
at Mullivaikal and other places?
Who gave the inhuman rights
to rip the limbs of children,
the womenfolk and the old
and litter everywhere
for the vultures to eat or to rot?
Who gave the inhuman rights
to rape the wives of
the surrendered rebels
before their very eyes,
torture and kill them all?
Who gave the inhuman rights
to some mindless nations
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Our Wonderful Boys!
I like the perverted youths
for they let me take their seats in crowded buses
as they are being sickos prefer to stand
and make for the girls.
I like the crazy youths so much
for they hang on footboard of the trains
seeming courageous before the girls
and leaving me to lie down on their seats.
I like very much the magnetized youths
for they carry the girls to star-hotels
and feed them with chill creams and food
and make the business dynamic.
I love so much the ducky youths
for they don’t visit the library
to disturb me by joking aloud with the girls.
But they take Xerox copies of books.
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poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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