Author Archives: Mohamed Umar Farooq

About Mohamed Umar Farooq

I am a humble professor at Jamal Mohamed College, Trichy, teaching English literature.

The bestest of the bestest contest Is free

You can’t question my integrity
Nor can you denigrate me and my brains.
Hundred fathoms deep
In the river of conspiracy
I throttled my cerebrum
To swim against the current.
I had replenished my cerebral hemispheres
With ideas of chronic wit carnage.
My superfluous ebbullience
Is a camouflage
That shrouds my shrewd valour
That can toggle between
Past learnt distich
And now unlearnt pastiche.
I distill my perception whiskey
With fermented seventh sense
Aged and cased
In a white oak skull casket.
Now my perception whiskey
Has aged like fine wine. It
Smells fine and tastes fine.
And I know, a pint of its spirit
Passed on to you
Will make your tipsy flight,
A migration into the
Perpetual realm of
Sagacious cognizance.
But then again ,
For brewing my perception whiskey
In your distillery, firstly
You need to be
The best sommelier of the world.
And you know not
The bestest of the bestest contest
Is free

Soups and soup

Seagulls fare well, on the shore
It’s better to have duck soup.
Stoves blaze, inner skull heats up
Thought soups wash down duck soup.

Seagulls are unworthy, above the shore
It’s better to have creamy soup.
Stoves blaze, inner skull heats up
Idea soups wash down creamy soups.

Seagulls are fat, under the shore
It’s better to have brain soup.
Stoves blaze, inner skull heats up
Creative soups wash down brain soup.

Seagulls are unruly, beyond the shore
It’s better to have turtle soup.
Stoves blaze, inner skull heats up
Vision soups wash down turtle soup.

Seagulls are incorrigible, over the shore
It’s better to have buffalo soup.
Stoves blaze, inner skull heats up
Sense soups wash down buffalo soup.

Seagulls are lousy, beneath the shore
It’s better to have tongue soup.
Stoves blaze, inner skull heats up
Mission soups wash down tongue soup.

Seagulls are buffoons, upon the shore
It’s better to have goat soup.
Stoves blaze, inner skull heats up
Humane soups wash down goat soup.

Seagulls are dead, in the shore
It’s better to have fox soup.
Stoves blaze, inner skull heats up
Attitude soups wash down fox soup.

These full lips


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These full lips
Like two halves of cupid’s bow
Intersected with love forlorn
Capped with a trilling sweet voice
Cupped with a chin
And when you grin
The smile sways
And life rocks.

These full lips
Are so pink
So wet and so do I get
Lustrous, sensual, sexy
And it speaks on its own
Thousand words of love
Unuttered.

These full lips
Grow round
Encircling my life
When you pout
And try to imprint them
On my cheeks.

These full lips
Savour my starved lips
And give them life
Nourishment, passion
And a reason not to die.

These full lips
Make me pounce
On your glory
And bifurcate my heart
And it’s each part
To crave to live and perish
But hold them under my lips
When my breath pass through
For one last time.

These full lips
Speaks of my life
Bygone and life that is
By your side and
Each minute when I am
Clenching them
Between my teeth
Unable to bite and chew
Yet taste and relish
your smile and you
As a part of me.

And a part of me
Slowly, carefully and steadily
Is melting down and
Converging the whole rusting me
To a shimmering something
under these full lips.

“Light of Life”

Is it you
Are you the one
That is filled with me?
Is it you
That should have crept in
From the start.
Where from did
The helter – skelter tide
Of love hit me?
My remorse
My passions
All buried and done,
With weaker limbs
Did I not forget to exist?
Sullen and pale
I did roam the empty streets
Devouring candies of bitterness
Like oozing beer can
Your flow in me
Gushed out the scuffle marks.
The virtue of being
Living and existing
Cremated once
Now erupts with jubilation.
Your lashes have strengthened my stagnant limbs
Your hands have smothered my pitiful punctures
You are disguised as me.
Revelations never end.
And here I am
Sniffing your musk
And walking behind you
To the light called love
Love – for a woman like you!

Is there a remedy for this pain

Is there a remedy
For this pain
That has become a cult.
A cult of drowning
Beyond the tear zone
With deadly aspirations of death
Cutting memories of Trodden
Happy paths so serene.

Is there a remedy
For this pain
That has ovulated
In the heart’s abysmal core
Breaching all the ties
Cowardly pushing joy
Into a fatal past’s past
That was non victorious.

Is there a remedy
For this pain
That is now static
In thoughts and soul
Relinquishing all that fun
Cremating wits and wisdom
Down the love lane
That was boisterous
With your name and only yours.

Is there a remedy
For this pain …

An Independent Candidate’s Frustration

Elections are over
Results have come
People failed
And failed for a long time.

I stood with hope
Against a flock of bastards.
No money
No Power
With education high
And warm blood
I contested with hope.

They had it all
Money
Power
And also an ugly wrinkled image
To crush me down
And boot on my chest.

I now forgot
That I am a citizen of
A democratic paradise
Filled with people
Who carry herd thoughts
And stitched attitude to
Stay stereotypical
In making alternative governments
Enthroning him or her.

I contested with hope
To create a change
And build betterments
Through education
… to employment
But people proved intelligent
They rather prefer freebies
Than my upliftment schemes
And now dumbstruck I sit
Thinking that people have failed
And failed for a long time
Pity!
Their fate is so
Their heart is so
An independent candidate
Is one among them too
A literal fool.

Tears…

Tears are due
One drop each
At each of your crude love.
It drips with a sullen care
And with it drips
Your unintentionally intended
Words of hate and disgust.
The words of solitude in me
Forces an extra drop
To drip and flow down
Inch by inch
Reaching my chest part
And the warmth of my tears
Consoles the cold heart within
That already fumes
With love fears.

Red Rose Goblet

I kissed the goblet
Filled with blue wine
And touched your cheeks
To get intoxicated.
Inebriation was incomplete
And you touched my lips
With your nail – art fingers
To fill my gut with the feel that
I am tipsy and topsy turvy.
No, I am still not high I say
And you kissed my wine wet lips
With your red rose goblet…
I drank from it and
Here I am, facing blissful eternity,
Feeling super highly drunk and
Sweetly love-poisoned, which is
Killing my senses and driving me
Towards oblivion to wake up in heaven.

This is me

Blatant was the idea of
Drowning my sorrows,
For my life was bleak
And eyes blood shot.

There is a hubbub
In my own thoughts
And some of it cry
That I, a fool,
Some say incapable
And many feel pity.

I dabble in my daily business
Completely gagged
With only gallons of tears
Filling the halcyon days
And my subsequent idiocy.

Pep up, Pep up
Says my soul
For I was bludgeoned
With disasters all in a row.
And from some corner
I hear a strange voice whisper
That I be proud
Of what is capable of me
And disasters won’t last long
When I carry the free spirit of mine.

Where are we hung?

Money for signatures
Duty done
Ripping the poor
Throwing out their rights.
Limping boys
Not for a cricket game
Get thrashed with the bat.
Hungry man begging for tea
Gets his face burnt
Along with the burning stomach.
With mobile phones in the hand
Driving rash
They die cumbersome deaths
killing innocents.
Nuclear bombs and machine guns
Loaded trains go unladen
Sparing not a child.
Young minds
Corrupted thoughts
Stab their teachers
And kill their posterity.
Where are we hung? India.