Author Archives: Mohamed Umar Farooq

About Mohamed Umar Farooq

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

As You Wish

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Tomorrow
Roam the streets,
Pick rags
Wear tatters,
Stink bad
Stink stink stink
And eat stale.

Want a better living?
Salute the corrupt
kow-tow to politicians,
Run for money
Run run run,
Go stab all
Drink the blood
Smear it over
The putrified images,
And fill your stomach.

Want a better better living?
Blow them all,
Palaces, monuments and hotels
Watch them coming down
Falling at your feet,
Laugh out louder
Beat your breasts
Keep the heads high
Make a pride march
Justify your deeds
And fill your pockets.
Ha ha ha!
I am democracy
And
I enjoy the show.

Dreams

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Dreams are the same,
Cheats like the above blue,
Which dream I dreamt
Has dreamt its blue dream?
Every inch of its
Plethora causes a tumult,
Being it in the sanctum sanctorum
Of the temple top wishes.
March may come and
Join with May,
Like an April,
I stand a fool.
Dreams at heart,
Wishes at the brow,
Future deep in eyes,
And it’s a tarnished dream,
Can’t get its way,
Even to a distance,
Where vision plunges.
And who can read my poetry?
Who can judge
The depth of its inner intensity?
I can write an elegy,
But who shall I show it to?

Relationships Are Like Public Toilets

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You said relationships
Are the same like public toilets,
One who is in desperately wants to come out
And the one waiting out
Eager enough to get in.

But which relationship you talk about?
And your comparative philosophy
Will not appeal to every relationship,
A parental relationship is exceptional
Once you go in you need not come out
And there is no outside for to get in.

A mystical relationship with God
Bounds you and me in divinity
And when once in there is no out.

Hold on! i know which relationship you mean,
You mean the love-relationship
Oh dear dear! coming out in love,
Is prohibited and never divine
And if you do
There is no true love in its base,
And who calls it a relationship
When there is no love.

Yesterday I learnt a lesson
A sweet little one for a life,
That i love myself first
With kindness and passion,
Ah! it feels so good now
Look at me,
I love me more than I
Thanks to the teacher
Who taught me so.

Yet Not To The Cemetery

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It all started
Remember! the good old days
When we planned to sit in the cemetery
To talk about love and life
But finally walking down
The dark cross roads
Embracing after each alternative steps
And kissing violently
Under the moon light
Catching every single noise
For a threat that will end up
Our untold passion
That has bound us together
And entwined us in love
To live in pleasure
And you felt the danger
Of passers by and
Your open windows down the hills
Still clasping my hands tight
Which was a rejoicing moment
Luminous as a fire ball
And as cool as
The frozen western ghat’s
Wind like breeze on my cheek
Caressing soft gentle love
And also hitting cold
The hard realities of future
And gone are those
Golden days of love
Which ignited in our hearts
A spark to fight
And win our love life
which indeed we have
Half accomplished
Waiting for a better outcome
Tomorrow or the days next
But remember
We have yet not been
To the cemetery as per the plan.

Costly But Nasty

1 Reply

Drain pits
Neighbour’s unknown
Smoke and effluents
Hard and fast traffic
people more harder and faster.

A jammed scenario
Entrapped youth
Lust and breasts – panoramic views
Dirty stench
Washes down the poison perfume worn
And sweat in humidity replaces.

Piled up duties
Untime work hours
Ear banging drum beats
On Saturday nights
Cheap opium sales
During immovable peak hours
Pimps and friendship clubs
At the door steps
Discounts displayed billboards
Bridges and Thar clad roads
Leading to malls and super shops
With bulged pockets going sick
Returning home in drenched clothes
Redefines the posh and slum life
Mixed and fixed culture.

Life in Chennai
Is costly
But predominantly nasty.

An Elegy To My Mobile Phone

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Whose eyes can behold?
Without blinking
When there is
A deep sleep
Around the eyes’ pupils.
Where to search?
And ask to whom?
When your favourite
Sometimes is lost
With no vestige.
It came in my hands
Covered with coloured wrapper
A formal decorative essential
Unnecessary
When it is from my dad.
Model of the year
Most admired
Much desired
A gem like gift
A sister to walkie-talkie
Mobile phone it was.
And I sensed
My father’s love perhaps.
Random thoughts
Preoccupied with ecstasy
I started to walk and talk
Lingering the mosaic
Verandah place.
Where not?
And to whom not?
I spoke for the whole lot
Even after occupying
Entirely in stupor state.
A blissful intoxication
Surrounded me.
I and my mobile phone
A pair so rare
On common grounds.
Not just words
But all the feelings
And my endearments
It saved and kept closed
To unleash in reverie.
I closed my eyes
When sleep tortured
To haunt.
Hound by ghastly figures
And obscure faces in dream
I woke up
With a sardonic yawn
And a ruthless visage.
I crept my hands
Inside the pillow
Only to find
That my mobile phone
Was lost and gone.
Bloody! Who took it?
I harangued my comrades.
In a state of trance
They said
That a thief for sure
Has proved for once
A jack of the trade.
A thief
I thought
In a thieves den
Is seldom
And incredible.
Suspicious I was
And uncertainty
Leapt past everyone
From Tom, Dick to Harry
Turning futile- my endeavors.
All at stake
My hopes
My joy
And my posterity
Again in fantasy.
Giving endless thoughts
I was searching
For a lie
That would suit
My dad’s taunts.
To this moment
In memories abyss
My mobile phone
Scrapes green wounds
Cause of a day’s stay with it.
I am helpless
I cannot trace
Who the culprit is?
So I do feel
Thus I do weep.

Hot Gun

1 Reply

Flame of death
Till the tip
Of the butt
Burns
To the fag end,
Ending altogether
Into ashes
Leaving behind
The filter,
Tipped with
Stained sponge.
Five minutes
In your life’s total
Vanishes
And evaporates,
With the wind
Erupting lava
Of ringed smokes,
From your mouth’s crater
And the face looks
An ugly volcano,
When sucked in
From the death pipe.
Juxtaposed
With the heat of
Passion and fashion,
And to the effects
It eats away
Your lungs’ pancreas,
The air sacs and alveoli
Dusting down
The rudiments of
Nicotine,
Cankering your nucleus
To cancer
Storing behind
Tonnes of
Pus and tumour,
Symptoms persist
And you go unswallowed
Swaying and swinging
To the death bed.
For months
With capsules and
A syringe plugged
Into the intra veins,
With liquid chemicals
And finally
Garnished with surgeries,
An attempt
To de-root the cankered tumour
And scrape out
The stuffed and stuck pus
From the lungs,
Bronchi
And from where not?
Nothing helps
Let us pray
Says the doctor,
And people around
Watch you with sympathy
Mixed with contempt.
Your foes
Inwardly laugh
And take a break
To have a fag.
From the death cot
You look at them,
And pull up a smile
Bitterly crying inside
Feigning you can live.
But what next?
Your suicide attempt
Comes to a pompous end,
Stepping upon the
Victory stand,
Declaring your
Ultimate journey without ease.
You lie in the grave
Yet unrelieved
From cosmic pressure
And people’s pleasure.
All you left behind
Was polluted air
And polluted fame,
Just because of
The fifteen milli-metered
Hot gun.

Tranquilized Thought

1 Reply

A tranquilized thought
At the foliage of a tree
A casuarina in fact
With a carcoon in its bough.
I dilly – dally often
In the heart of the woods.
Wild black woods
Swampy with red pine leaves
Fully shed and
Obscure in foggy dews.
This tranquilized thought
Pre-ponders over the conscience
And I feel scared and scary
With a lubbard friend
Grasping each noise for hell.
I move lief
Like a dottard
Stepping each step
Hoping to slip and fall
Holding the breath for posterity.
A black boar
Crosses the parallel lined pines
Flashing its sharp tongue
As if to eat the whole nature.
It limps and runs
Only frightened but frightening.
I turn to see
And my friend is lost.
He goes through the meadows
While I still tramp
Over the swampy thorn bushes.
Trying to leap a steep
I broke my limbs
Finally to crawl with hands;
Still I whistled that old song
With painful moans as a backdrop.
The hill top is seen clearly
And I need to crawl some miles
Well I still hummed with pain
And looked back
To find him going home
That friend of mine.
I fell to sleep
But that tranquilized thought
Pushed my weakened limbs
To crawl for glory.

To The Dark Man I Know

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Hey! You dark man,
I follow you for many years,
And still i don’t remember,
What you are?
Well recently i found,
My God! A writer you are(ha ha ha!)

After surviving your pesters,
Now i outbreak to say,
For heaven’s sake
Put down your pen.

I wonder why you stopped me once,
And asked, what book i have read recently.
What will you understand?
If I say I read Plato.
I only tried to say,
Dark man, dark man…
Mind your business,
And you started writing.

I accept Shakespeare, Dante,
Russell, Eliot and Chekov,
To be great writers,
But not you… You dark man!
You are an obnoxious writer,
Trying to amuse with your trivialities.
The jokes that you crack,
And with the words that you play,
Honestly…
I don’t even smile man.
It is time,
You drop down your pen,
And pull out the weeds.
Don’t try to make your progenies,
Write commentaries on cricket,
It’s still worse and nauseating.
Take my advice,
For goodness’ sake,
Stop writing,
And go to bed.
It is not time for you to wake up,
I will definitely let you know,
When you grow up.