Author Archives: Dr.Mary Annie A.V.

About Dr.Mary Annie A.V.

Dr.Mary Annie A.V. hails from Trivandrum, India and writes under the pen name 'anna maria' . She hails from a family of writers . She holds a high official post in the University of Kerala,Trivandrum,India. She resides in India with her husband and three children. Her poems have been published in various e-magazines , print anthologies in India and abroad. She has two collections to her credit, titled "My Beads Unstrung" and 'More Beads Unstrung'. Her definition of a poem is : Virgin white paper raped. Rapt. Writing is her passion :)


Our names are the same
but our shadows have changed.
No more the light hearted
that danced,
hop scotched beside us
throwing in the dice,
for us to step on,move on.
The shadows
are dressed differently now.
Sans innocence,
their gait shuffles
with fear lust and indecision.
They struggle to adhere
having lost themselves,
And us
having lost them
to something that
is no longer us.
Only our names remain,
the charred remnants
of playful shadows
that once was.

Paper Stars

They strung them paper stars all the way,
bright fancy ones
in all colors and sizes
hung out like clothes to dry
dust laden, upon the weary roads
that leads to the church where
man in his quest for God,
as time treads.

Some long tailed
like the comet said to have led ,
the shepherds
into the abode of heavenly rest,
reminiscent of
the magi, the three gifts,
the family, bowing their heads.

At night it looked as if
the sky had lodged itself upon the earth,
the stars they hung surprisingly bright,
like rats in tons ,coming out
mesmerised by the Piper’s flute
the five points the six points
the Froebels, the Moravians,
the hoop wreaths,the golden rods,
to the weary eyes
ah! what a grand grand sight.

For a season, for a time
the paper stars glistened
scorched in the sun during day,
wet in the mist at night,
upon stairways, on empty roads,
in front of houses ,even in pubs
shining, when man willed it to shine
and pulled down, when,
for man, the gaiety was done.

And I stood amidst the brightness
looking around for some confirmation
of Him in whose name the stars were hung,
His presence in it all, where does it come?

And the still small voice of the Ages said
Beloved,let them ! in everything
My name shall be blessed.

From the crevices of my memories
arose the hymn “Gloria in excelsis Deo”
my voice broke out loud and clear
to reach the star lit skies…
as when from the skies the angel’s sang,
Glo ohohohoh ho Glo oh oh oh oh ho
Glo oh oh oh oh ho
Glo oh ..r……ia in excelsis Deo….

The farmer

The Farmer:

They said they would come again
the promises still remained,
the wait was long and a pain.

Nothing took away the pain
of seeing him hanging
from the mango bough
he had marked out for his final rites.

Rightly done, the same bough
that sheltered him after he had spent
time in the fiery sun sweating
out with the spade and the seeds,
now wept barren,unable to fulfil the last
obligation it had made with its master
the seed sower,grower ,the farmer
now dangling, his open eyes seeing
the emptiness where the greens
should have been ?

His wife dry eyed,asking that the bough
be cut down,that the last rites
be performed by the three year old son
who played outside,
posing like a child artiste
for the avalanche of photographers,
that he may find rest from his labours
while they began theirs.

Since no one came any more,
in spite of the wait,
all promises in vain,
she bore the spade,
dug the earth, started to sow
not as a desperate widow,
but as the farmer
who begins with ambition and hope.

Death of a mirror :

It is in the mirror
that I search for myself.
The one that never flinches
to tell me the truth.

No mirror for me that
says I am beautiful
when I feel
downright ugly mean

None that tells me I am loved
when I hate myself
for not being
and for hating.

One that lets me
pretend and preen myself
in costumes I fancy.

And what with the faces
I make at it
in distaste.

The kisses I have blown
a thousand dreams
I have lived in its presence.

The mirror takes it all patiently
it never shouts backs
never weakens,
stays untarnished.

One time just one time
I saw my mirror weep
when within me there
was a death
that could only lay down
and sweat,in the coldness
it felt.

Though I tried and tried
I could not wipe away the tears
it grieved and shook
in its anguish
jumped off
breaking into
a bits and pieces
which bore images of me
it never should have all along.


Nirbhaya :

Where one can dwell in safety
be it woman or man,
be it Christian or Muslim,
be it any of the others.
Nirbhaya :

in India, just another word,
to start a controversy
the fear of being exposed,
the fear of ridicule and shame.

To step out without fear
to practise my own faith
to begin when all seems
to have ended,
the second chance,
with strength.

Where the Mind

Where the mind
is full of eagerness
and the hand wields the pen,
Where words are chosen
with care, rhyme and reason
and the spirit is crushed
into shards like glass
by unseen dismantling forces,
Then springs of poems
gush out like rivers
molten ideas like fire
like lava from ‘canoes
And those restless striving
will spin on to perfection,
like the silken webs broken,
not discarded.
Where scorched
remains the heart that bleeds
with passions untold,
then ;
my Beloved
Arise and spill
ink upon all that shatters
and build brick upon brick
the broken bridges together

The conch shell

The creature
that has been wounded
now lies dead
somewhere trapped
in the labyrinths
of an unnamed world.
The shell
that housed it
litters the sand
where our footsteps fall.
Within my palms
I savour its smoothness
my fingers
caress its’ emptiness
From its cave
I hear it bellow
a funeral dirge
as I raise it to my lips
to bid farewell .:

The Crow’s Eggs

Long time back,
remember us gazing
into the crow’s nest
he brought down
after combing the tree clean?
Remember our fingers
touching the eggs,
holding them in our palms
all the five of them
still warm from the crow.

And how the eggs
were left to remain
barren and unfruitful.
our palms nestled them,
for days .

Little did we know
little did we care then,
for us it was
just the childish excitement
of a nest and eggs.

But now
having lived so long,
I wonder
what it would mean to us
if our nests were
just taken away,
suddenly uprooted,
our children left barren
away from our sight
while we circle around
the tree of life
searching ,
searching, and crying
louder than the caws
that rent
the air above, then.

And it fills me
with such sorrow
such shame
that nothing I do
can turn things around,
my childhood days
cannot be brought back,
the nest be placed
where it belonged
the crows
to raise their young,
my future
to remain as bright .