{"id":306,"date":"2007-08-07T06:01:13","date_gmt":"2007-08-07T06:01:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/nucleus-import\/?p=306"},"modified":"2007-08-07T06:01:13","modified_gmt":"2007-08-07T06:01:13","slug":"thampi-jayasingh-5-poems","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/thampi-jayasingh-5-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"Thampi Jayasingh —5 poems"},"content":{"rendered":"
null<\/div>\n

\nWhat makes this
\nLonely Dravidian tea picker
\nTo pour out her heart,<\/b>
\nAs the odor of pesticides
\nCut through the lungs,
\n As the hard labored leaves
\nAre made high-tech currencies
\nIn the global markets?
\n1. Waves won\u2019t Die<\/b>
\nWhen he was a child,
\nHe put a tiny stone
\nInto a silent pond,
\nThat made ripples,
\nAnd still come in his dreams.<\/p>\n

In the green paddy fields,
\nHe found waves in childhood,
\nBut in their greediness,
\nThey fed with pesticides,
\nAnd killed the earth.
\nYears later, he found
\nOnly a green less desert,
\nBut still waves were there,
\nThat time, only heat waves.<\/p>\n

He watched -later in life-
\nA roaring ocean kisses the shore
\nWith its everlasting waves.
\nWaves made further waves
\nNot only of water but of sound:
\nSound of the roar,
\nSound of the lively speech
\nOf the fisher folk,
\nSound of the little kingfishers.<\/p>\n

His first love
\nWith her jasmine fragrance
\nMade a wave in his heart.
\nThe first look of a beggar,
\nAn injustice done, the taste of God
\nAnd all made in him waves.
\nMonths and years passed,
\nBut still in silent nights,
\nHe is caught, moved and shaped
\nBy all these waves.
\nWaves won\u2019t die…<\/p>\n

2. The Lonely Tea Picker<\/b>
\nThe same red sun
\nSpreads his light
\nThrough the tall pine trees,
\nThe same silver clouds
\nGlitter and move towards the mounts,
\nThe cool armies of ghost like mist
\nCome out of the greenish tea plants.
\nNow I hear a mild sweet voice
\nReverberating in the
\nGreen clothed valleys,
\nThat cannot soothe
\nThe bleeding hearts!<\/p>\n

What makes this
\nLonely Dravidian tea picker
\nTo pour out her heart,
\nAs the odor of pesticides
\nCut through the lungs,
\nAs the hard labored leaves
\nAre made high-tech currencies
\nIn the global markets?
\nWhat brings this divine voice
\nThrough the cropped tea plants?
\nIs it the tragic stories
\nOf long done wars?
\nIs it the pain of
\nDrought or flood or famine?
\nOr is it the tragedy of burning stomachs
\nAnd dying hopes everyday?<\/p>\n

The bending estate woman
\nWith a tea basket on her back,
\nAnd her divine warbling,
\nThat couldn\u2019t soothe tired laborers
\nMade an eternal impression
\nIn my heart.
\nI gently passed, not to meditate,
\nBut to burst out.<\/p>\n

3. Her Marble Legs<\/b>
\nEvery move of her marble legs
\nMade millions to fly in dreams:
\nMore than the winking of her eyes
\nThe eyes of cameras flashed,
\nCapturing her every
\nPhysiological parts;
\nPerhaps to magnify,
\nTouch, retouch and print
\nIn every possible angles,
\nAt last only to sell.<\/p>\n

While entering into
\nHuman seas,
\nHer minute sighs, smiles,
\nBlushes and all sexual moves
\nWere admired with zealous and jealous.<\/p>\n

Everyone tried nearing,
\nTouching and kissing her:
\nShe was a touch so near
\nBut miles far away,
\nAnd her untouched virgin heart
\nWas a world far away.<\/p>\n

Oh she knew that all these were
\nUntil her skin got a shrink,
\nUntil these fickle minds
\nTurned to another pair of silky legs,
\nWhen tears rolled down secretly
\nWithout camera flashes.<\/p>\n

4 The Train I Travel<\/b>
\nThe train I travel is moving.
\nI see uncountable heads:
\nBlack and white;
\nChubby and bonny-
\nSmiling, sleeping, thinking-
\nAll are human heads.
\nThen why there are glasses
\nOnly in some bogies?
\nWhy there are classes,
\nFirst, second and third?
\nI hear horrendous sound
\nPeculiar only to a train:
\nThe sound of the clanging of iron,
\nThe sound of machine;
\nOh! Machine, which made
\nAll the differences.
\nThere is a stop- a station-
\nAgain the rush, the pull, the race,
\nThe sound of the machine
\nSpread through the station.
\nPerhaps they sing, listen,
\nSleep, swallow and enjoy;
\nThe blessed classes.
\nBut who cares,
\nThere are human insects
\nSurviving in the third class!<\/p>\n

5. In My Country<\/b>
\nIn my country there are
\nPeople of two categories:
\nSome are begotten
\nAnd the others are down-trodden.
\nBut like the creamy layer
\nBetween chubby buns
\nThere is another group
\nWhich is always forgotten.<\/p>\n

Among the hectic morning activities
\nWhile rumbling sound of preparations
\nCome from every house,
\nThey too make their presence felt
\nBy scrapping their old coconut shells.
\nWhen the begotten diet to be fit,
\nAnd the down-trodden fast to pray,
\nOnly this down-trodden pray to fast.<\/p>\n

With rented clothes
\nAnd gilted ornaments
\nAnd fragmented hearts
\nThey usually go to the
\nMarriage functions
\nWhere the high class
\nOccupy the front seats
\nWith much glamour and glitter,
\nAnd the low class simply pass
\nEnjoying the feast.<\/p>\n

When all stand in a queue
\nIn front of a ration shop
\nAnd come home sack full
\nThey loiter around a supper market
\nAnd stealthily abscond
\nWith empty bags.<\/p>\n

In my growing country
\nThere are still people living,
\nCrushed between people
\nWho are always forgotten.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

What makes this Lonely Dravidian tea picker To pour out her heart, As the odor of pesticides Cut through the lungs, As the hard labored leaves Are made high-tech currencies In the global markets?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":546,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[45],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/306"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/546"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=306"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/306\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=306"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=306"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mahmag.org\/archive-english\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=306"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}