Houses

[SivaVelliangiri]

The Two Windows of my Room

A shock of hibiscus buds swayed
outside the rectangular window
leaning on the inner side of the compound wall.

Directly below on the soil
land lilies threw out their pink horns
facing the sunlight.

Crossing the street with the eyes
one saw two brothers stand on a grinding stone
never at the same time and the mother who watched
what her sons were eyeing at.

On the other side was the square window
outside which ten o'clock and four o'clock flowers boomed.

There was so much beauty so you knew
something would come flying into the room
to shatter its blood on the writing table
a disarray of green feathers, like that dead parrot.















A Different Kind Of Journey


We went to Courtrallam, year
after year, in the same Ghat section
they permitted me the side-steering. I recall
well remembered parking places
as much as Appa’s Wills cigarette smoke,
the taxi-driver, I and my Amma;
how she burst into love song for Muruga Sami!

The waterfalls scared me but
water always arches forward
so when they thrust me against the force
I found a gap between
the rocky crag and breathed.

Whenever the driver forgot to pocket
the key, Amma took us on a mad trip
(her driving tests still incomplete)
a real-life roller coaster ride in those narrow
British made roads into the deep dark green gorge.














The Chingarathopu House

A pentagonal house that architectured
into four rooms; the sideways led to a corridor
which opened into the bath;

the boiler on a tripod stand,
iron for the coal and copper for the water.

One morn I swooned in smoke and moaned
with carbon mono-oxide.

It was Amma who split open the door,
lifted me like a soldier and hauled me out;

Appa sat with his head in his hands
helpless like pounded tamarind.



























Leaving the Chingarathopu House


Eventually, this house too had to go
or rather we had to go out, leave
move out, move on. Except for a little

nostalgia, which I treasured, the parents
carried our household items to the centre
of the city around the temple of the reclining
Lord Padmanabha.

Appa said, ’High time I bought a six feet by three
of crematoria where no one can move me.’’

I carried no illusion ; looked forward
rather to the reality of being
at a walkable distance

from the heart of the city.












Padma Nagar Evenings

Like peacocks their feathers
Malayali women flaunted their hair
dripping wet with coconut oil
drying it in the evening air.

Children in their colourful frocks
and skirts hopped or skipped around
taking rest after school.

Boys played Gilly or Kabadi
the occasional cricket on the streets.
The Sastha Temple elephant took its food walk
scouted for green coconut leaves-
Mother gave freely not asking a hair of its tail.

The adolescent Don, Salim
walked the streets with his gang;
the gates flew shut, but I stood my ground
remembering Androcles and the lion.

I was the slave, I had smiled at all his sisters, once
and could tell them by their burkha eye slits alone.

In the maidan, we staged plays, once
in a blue moon and spoke about social service.

In this Padma Nagar house I learnt to kill
huge black pregnant spiders
all by myself with a broom.

[Bernie01]

Siva---


is this your current poem?


The Chingarathopu House

A pentagonal house that architectured
into four rooms; the sideways led to a corridor
which opened into the bath;

the boiler on a tripod stand,
iron for the coal and copper for the water.

One morn I swooned in smoke and moaned
with carbon mono-oxide.

It was Amma who split open the door,
lifted me like a soldier and hauled me out;

Appa sat with his head in his hands
helpless like pounded tamarind.


i certainly like the concluding image:

helpless like pounded tamarind.


but the opening is eventless, a little dull.



A pentagonal house that architectured
into four rooms; the sideways led to a corridor
which opened into the bath;

A blind man might have seen
our four rooms destined to burn.

the ancient boiler crammed precariously
on a tripod stand, iron for the coal
and copper for the water.



and then the rescue...but a note of description about the rescuer....



bernie

[SivaVelliangiri]

B
Thanks.Can I use these lines?
the ancient boiler crammed precariously
on a tripod stand, iron for the coal
and copper for the water.

S

[Bernie01]

Siva

of course, all yours.


but i never saw this Padma poem....i like it very very much.

the stately and very visual opening, the sliding action that allows me to see the small town.


i might mention the fresh air blowing from nearby Retteri Lake.

(a complement to the swans...)

a little less about the games played by boys...better their skinned knees and colorful school uniforms....

Children in their colorful frocks
and skirts hopped or skipped around
taking rest after school.

Children in their blazing red frocks
and skirts hopped or skipped around
until falling still under Cyprus trees.



use the word once only once.

I had smiled at all his sisters, once
and could tell them by their burkha eye slits alone.

In the maidan, we staged plays, once



but the burkja eye slits is a wonderful detail


and the elephant laboring through the streets....made for poet!


The Sastha Temple elephant took its food walk
scouted for green coconut leaves-
Mother gave freely not asking a hair of its tail.


if you use the French line i suggest, then you can use a French word for the elephant:


The Sastha Temple elephant mammoth and tristesse,
took its food walk scouting for green coconut leaves-
Mother gave freely not asking a hair of its tail.



In this Padma Nagar house I learnt to kill
huge black pregnant spiders
all by myself with a broom.


wonderful close...see if you want a little more sentiment here:




In this Padma Nagar house I learnt to kill
huge black pregnant spiders
all by myself with a religious broom
blessed by the Sastha Temple elephant.


wonderful poem, wish i had written it.



bernie







and if i remember correctly....the French school....a small cluster of girls, head bowed, murmuring their french lessons like western nuns their vows in Latin.


wonderful poem, great job....


bernie

[BobBradshaw]

I like 'The Chingarathopu House' especially

[SivaVelliangiri]

Padma Nagar Evenings

Like peacocks their feathers
Malayali women flaunted their hair
dripping wet with coconut oil
drying it in the evening air of the Arabian Sea.


Girls in their blazing red frocks
and skirts hopped or skipped around
until falling still under Asoka trees.


Boys bruised their knees and soiled
their half trousers in roadside skirmishes
looking like advertisements for detergent.

The Sastha Temple elephant took its food walk
scouted for green coconut leaves; the mahout for bakshis.
Mother gave freely not asking a hair of its tail.

The adolescent Don, Salim
walked the streets with his gang;
the gates flew shut, but I stood my ground
remembering Androcles and the lion.

I was the slave, I had smiled at all his sisters,
could tell them by their burkha eye slits alone.

In the maidan, we staged plays, once
in a blue moon and spoke about social service.

In this Padma Nagar house I learnt to kill
huge black pregnant spiders
all by myself with a coconut- stick hard broom.

[SivaVelliangiri]

The Chingarathopu House

A pentagonal house that architectured
into four rooms; the sideways led to a corridor
which opened into the bath;

the ancient boiler crammed precariously
on a tripod stand, iron for the live coal
and copper for the steaming water
with no ventilation what so ever.

One morn a moan like a death song
crooned all around the house;
I swooned in smoke and chocked
with carbon mono-oxide gas.

It was my fragile Amma who split open the door,
who lifted me like a soldier and hauled me out
like the man of the house.

Appa sat with his head in his hands
helpless like pounded tamarind.

[BobBradshaw]

I like the writing here:

It was Amma who split open the door,
lifted me like a soldier and hauled me out;

Appa sat with his head in his hands
helpless like pounded tamarind.

[Kenneth2816]

I am literally transported to another world. These are magnificent

[BobBradshaw]

The last 2 lines are killer lines...just great

[Michael (MV)]

 
Hi Siva,

Is Houses the major title of the series of poems here?

Maybe it's just me, but some of what I'm reading sounds familiar; for example:

It was Amma who split open the door,
lifted me like a soldier and hauled me out;

Appa sat with his head in his hands
helpless like pounded tamarind.


as if read before

a literary déjà vu déjà lu déjà entendu -


and speaking of déjà vu
the opening of your 2nd place IBPC poem Kodaikanal 5 years later resonates with the August 21st 2017 Great American eclipse:

The observatory draws tourists
who come to see dark spots in the sun.

and too Troy Jollimore's commentary:

And the line “Each dark spot is bigger than the earth” has a strange beauty.

^^ http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/poems/kodaikanal





Michael (MV)
 
 
 
 
 
 

[SivaVelliangiri]

Hi Michael

Thank you for remembering so much.I am afraid of posting too much here because sometimes it appears in Google.Is there any method of attaching a few poems here?
Thank you
Siva

[SivaVelliangiri]

Hi Michael and Group

Please go through my manuscript(half complete) if you can spare the time.
Thank you
Siva

[SivaVelliangiri]

Hi Michael and Group
Please go through my Manuscript which is half complete.

[FranktheFrank]

The Two Windows of my Room

A shock of hibiscus buds swayed [I don't know what you mean by a shock.]
outside the rectangular window
leaning on the inner side of the compound wall.

I prefer present tense for the opening:

Hibiscus buds sway
outside my window
lean into the compound wall.

Below land lilies throw out
pink horns revelling
in sunlight.

Aross the street I see
two brothers stand on the grinding stone
Mother watches the objects
of their longing eyes.

Carry on in this vein, cutting and pruning those hibiscus buds to make the poem work for you.

How about you responding in kind Siva and write a decent heavy critique
for all the ones you receive. Yes, it's hard work for you especially
as English is not your mother tongue, but you will gain immeasurably
in the trying. Don't be afraid of making mistakes. This is a workshop
the emphasis is on work (sweat and tears) and shop (to show, present).
One liners are not really in the spirit of the workshop process.


On the other side was the square window
outside which ten o'clock and four o'clock flowers boomed.

There was so much beauty so you knew
something would come flying into the room
to shatter its blood on the writing table
a disarray of green feathers, like that dead parrot.

A Different Kind Of Journey

We went to Courtrallam, year
after year, in the same Ghat section
they permitted me the side-steering. I recall
well remembered parking places
as much as Appa’s Wills cigarette smoke,
the taxi-driver, I and my Amma;
how she burst into love song for Muruga Sami!

The waterfalls scared me but
water always arches forward
so when they thrust me against the force
I found a gap between
the rocky crag and breathed.

Whenever the driver forgot to pocket
the key, Amma took us on a mad trip
(her driving tests still incomplete)
a real-life roller coaster ride in those narrow
British made roads into the deep dark green gorge.

*****

The Chingarathopu House

A pentagonal house that architectured
into four rooms; the sideways led to a corridor
which opened into the bath;

the boiler on a tripod stand,
iron for the coal and copper for the water.

One morn I swooned in smoke and moaned
with carbon mono-oxide.

It was Amma who split open the door,
lifted me like a soldier and hauled me out;

Appa sat with his head in his hands
helpless like pounded tamarind.


*****

Leaving the Chingarathopu House

Eventually, this house too had to go
or rather we had to go out, leave
move out, move on. Except for a little

nostalgia, which I treasured, the parents
carried our household items to the centre
of the city around the temple of the reclining
Lord Padmanabha.

Appa said, ’High time I bought a six feet by three
of crematoria where no one can move me.’’

I carried no illusion ; looked forward
rather to the reality of being
at a walkable distance

from the heart of the city.

*****

Padma Nagar Evenings

Like peacocks their feathers
Malayali women flaunted their hair
dripping wet with coconut oil
drying it in the evening air.

Children in their colourful frocks
and skirts hopped or skipped around
taking rest after school.

Boys played Gilly or Kabadi
the occasional cricket on the streets.
The Sastha Temple elephant took its food walk
scouted for green coconut leaves-
Mother gave freely not asking a hair of its tail.

The adolescent Don, Salim
walked the streets with his gang;
the gates flew shut, but I stood my ground
remembering Androcles and the lion.

I was the slave, I had smiled at all his sisters, once
and could tell them by their burkha eye slits alone.

In the maidan, we staged plays, once
in a blue moon and spoke about social service.

In this Padma Nagar house I learnt to kill
huge black pregnant spiders
all by myself with a broom.

[SivaVelliangiri]

Thank you Frank for your neat editing.You may also read the attachment I have sent in my previous mail--attachment of my working manuscript.

S

[Bernie01]

Siva---

time to begin the grim business of submitting your poems to online zines---our fellow poet Bob has publication credits. why not you?

here are some targets i like.

Mississippi Review,
Pedestal Magazine
Boston Literary Magazine.
Blackbox Manifold (British)
Cortland Review
Cha (Asisn theme)


all they can do is say no...granted, it can be a lonely business. but submit something often. hey, poets ain't wimps.


bernie


bernie

[SivaVelliangiri]

Thank you Bernie. I have three poems in the Asian Cha.

Siva

[FranktheFrank]

My apology Siva, I meant to edit these poems but got caught up in something else, I don't kow why you have an attachment and it doesn't laod for me. I will now attmept to edit your poems if that si what you want.

[SivaVelliangiri]

Frank
It will be of immense help to me if you can edit the English usage in these poems which form the 'three fourths finished Manuscript--of my fictional memoir.'

Thank you in advance
Siva

[SivaVelliangiri]

My Edited Version of the Houses Poems
The Two Windows of my Room

A shock of hibiscus buds
swayed outside the rectangular window
leaning on the inner side of the compound wall.

Directly below on the soil
land lilies threw out their pink horns
toward the sunlight.

Crossing the street with eyes
one saw two brothers stand on a grinding stone
never at the same time,
and the mother who watched
what her sons were eyeing.

On the other side of the room
was the square window outside which ten
and four o'clock flowers bloomed.

There was so much beauty you knew
something would come fly in
a disarray of green feathers,
into the room to shatter its blood
on the writing table
like that parrot.












A Different Kind Of Journey

We went to Courtrallam, year
after year, in the same Ghat section;
they permitted me the side-steering. I recall
well remembered parking places
as much as Appa’s Wills cigarette smoke,
the taxi-driver, I and my Amma;
how she burst into love song for Muruga Sami!

The waterfalls scared me but
water always arches forward,
when they thrust me against the force
I found a gap between
the rocky crag and breathed.

Whenever the driver forgot to pocket
the key, Amma took us on a mad trip
(her driving tests still incomplete)
a real-life roller coaster ride in those narrow
British made roads into some deep dark green gorge.

*****










The Chingarathopu House

A pentagonal house that chartered
into four rooms; the sideways led to a corridor
which opened into a bath;

the boiler on a tripod stand,
in a corner of the narrow bath
iron for the coal and copper for the water.

One morn I swooned in smoke and moaned
with carbon mono-oxide.

It was Amma who split open the door,
lifted me like a soldier and hauled me out.

Appa sat with his head in his hands,
helpless like pounded tamarind.


*****














Leaving the Chingarathopu House

Eventually, this house too had to go
or rather we had to go out,
leave move out ,move on.
Except for a little nostalgia,
which I treasured, the parents
carried our household items to the centre
of the city, around the temple of the reclining
Lord Padmanabha.

Appa said, ’High time I bought a six feet by three
crematoria where no one can move me.’’

I carried no illusion; looked forward
rather to the reality of being
at a walk-able distance

from the heart of the city.













Padma Nagar Evenings

Like peacocks their feathers
Malayali women flaunted their hair
dripping wet with coconut oil
drying it in the evening air.

Children in their colourful frocks
and skirts hopped or skipped around.

Boys played Gilly or Kabadi,
scratched their knee
the occasional cricket on the streets.
The Sastha Temple elephant took its food walk,
scouted for green coconut leaves-
Amma gave freely, not asking
a hair of its tail in return.

The adolescent Don, Salim
walked the streets with his gang;
the gates flew shut, but I stood my ground
remembering Androcles and the lion.

I was the slave, I had smiled at all his sisters, once,
and could tell them by (from) their burkha eye slits alone.

In the maidan, we staged plays,
once in a blue moon, and spoke about social service.

It was at this house where I learned to kill
pregnant spiders
with a broom.