Author Archives: Sarala Ramkamal

About Sarala Ramkamal

A lover of poetry. Love to read/write poems.

I am a Poet

I am a Poetess
(Everything about a poet/poetess is poetry only)
When I was a newborn
I wrote poems with my four limbs
Throwing them up in the air
Only God knew what I wrote
When I was a little bigger
I wrote poems with my lips
In an unknown lingua franca
Only my mother knew what I wrote
When I was a school girl
I wrote poems on the river water
Which flowed westward
Maybe Arabian sea had them all
When I was a teenager
I wrote poems on the western sky
With my dreamy eyes
On the golden canvas where the clouds rested in many a shape
When I got married
I wrote poems with the broom
On my new home’s floor
They were very dark
When I was pregnant
I wrote lullabies with my breath
Hearing them my baby kicked
And I knew it liked them all
When my child started walking
All my poems I wrote till then
Came back once again
Through those little feet, with their new steps
Now, when the kids are up and on their own
Poems come to me, I pick pen and paper,
Write them; the alphabet is known to the world
Many reads, likes, dislikes …
All poems written in my life till now are there
Lingering in my breaths, sighs and inside the dreams
They are so sweet with all spices mixed in the right proportion
I am a poet, still writing, may be will be writing through my death

Welcome Home

There is fire of gold
in the sunflower, hidden
in its veins.
It stands
turning towards the sun
all the time
in greed to suck
more gold.

I thought the sun
begets a million suns
inside its veins
and I tried to find
a way to open
the veins in vain,
to scoop a few
to put in my veins.

It is good that I
couldn’t do it,
for, after a while
the flames of the fire
soar high and high
and burn the whole gold
to brown earth
in its petals, and
then the petals bend
towards the earth.

The earth smiles
through many tiny
flowers in her lap and waves
its green hands of grass
saying “Welcome Home”

You and my poem

Today, I would have you in my dream
Walking between the lines of my poem
In the wee hours of this rainy day
It must be an unusual dark night
Light from your eyes must lit it
Fragrance of Elanji flowers must arise from-
Your footprints knocking lines on both sides
Your hands should be moving above the lines
Patting letters assuming their roles among others
I will sharp my ears to hear the silent words
You utter in reflex in each single step of yours
I will twine them with a delicate thread of light
And will hang the garland by the eastern-window
To adorn the new day. For, that kind of a poem
Can’t be written for eyes; but just be left silent.
Today, I would have you in my dream
Walking between the lines of my poem



The Pride

April 30, 2016
The pride is a lion with no teeth
Yet, do we keep him in a kennel dark?
Indeed, we keep him rounded by our teeth
We wear it on our sleeve when we bark
The dynamic verve of the life slith’rs
The tongue twists silly, the stark a quirk
And hiding in the murk, it wrings one’s with’rs
The life, you see, leaks through the gaps of fing’rs
The pride is a lion with no with’rs
In berserk with pain, the pride sliv’rs
The hearts and souls and every righteous mind
Surrounded us: And we walk with fake silv’rs
The pride is a lion with no friend
The pride is a lion like a dark fiend
Withers – the highest part of the back at the base of the neck of a horse, cow,sheep, etc.
Idiom: wrings one’s withers – to cause one anxiety or trouble:
eg; The long involved lawsuit is wringing his withers.
Terza rima is composed of tercets woven into a rhyme scheme that requires the end-word of the second line in one tercet to supply the rhyme for the first and third lines in the following tercet. Thus, the rhyme scheme (aba, bcb, cdc, ded) continues through to the final stanza or line.
Terza rima is typically written in an iambic line, and in English, most often in iambic pentameter. If another line length is chosen, such as tetrameter, the lines should be of the same length. There are no limits to the number of lines a poem composed in terza rima may have.
“Terza Rima Sonnet,” is Terza Rima in which the final stanza comes in couplet form.
In this poem I couldn’t follow the iambic pentameter strictly in all lines, which makes it imperfect one in this form, but otherwise the structure is followed.

A Poetic Diptych

Two poems – Palindrome and Roseate Sonnet

Life glass (Palindrome)

upright sit
scrawl, stand
walk fall walk
walk fall walk
stand, scrawl
sit upright


A palindrome, by definition, is a word, phrase, verse, sentence, or even poem that reads the same forward or backward. It stems from the Greek word palindromos: palin, meaning again, and dromos, meaninga running.


Behind the glass door (form: roseate)

the heart stands the steel
that carries the burden of wheels
of each passing train, alone,
letting creaking sighs to elope

the mind stands the glass door
smoky and wormy a décor
dull light gets the gate pass
creating illusions that gloom and amass

time, the sentinel inherent,
guards the one-way torrent

Recoils life into its shell of silence
Oblivious to be, from the tiring defiance
Seamless flow of mystery awaits, Sarala,
Effacing every surfacing hope


Roseate sonnet: The rules are as follows: the sonnet must have two quatrains first, followed by a couplet and then by a last quatrain that starts the first line with an R, the second with an O, the third with an S and the fourth with an E to form an acrostic that reads ‘ROSE.’ The form has no other constraints like rhyme or metre or blank verse having to be used, unlike its earlier forms or variants. There is no fixed syllabic count for the lines.

The wall is my sorrow

April 16 2016



The wall of misunderstanding

Made of unnatural concrete bricks

Between two is my sorrow

For, it lasts inexplicably long

Delaying the natural meeting


The wall of ancient anger

Made of burnt clay bricks, red,

Plastered and rendered strong

With dark and variant reasons

Between two is my sorrow

For it is too reddish and tall, and

Delays the natural meeting forever


The wall of infamous ego

Made of sand grains of pain,

Ashes of dead dreams, and

The stiff “I”, unbending, using

The thought churning process

Between two is my sorrow

For it is too grey and hopeless, and

Delays the natural meeting infinitely


Trapped among the walls

The life chokes as if it is locked

Within a labyrinthine eerie castle

Breathing the damp air fetid

Unable to find a way out to fresh air

And I say, loudly than the thunder

“The wall is my sorrow”

“The wall is my sorrow”

“The wall is my sorrow”

The Fruits of Poetic Passion Vine


images (13)




From the moment, on the wings of

The first tender rays of the dawn,

This day landed for me,

I see the poetic passion fruit vine

Has crept all over this virtual sky

And the fruits are hanging like those

Planets, in different size and shades

Some ripened, some  half-way to ripening

And some very raw.

As for me the passion is poetry

Its sweet-sour taste is always such a

“Unforgettable by the tongue”


Around three and half decades ago

The front yard of my family home, huge,

Was canopied by giant elanji , moovandan

Maavu, neem and two jack fruit trees

Which kept the entrance into the house

Cool and serene with a divine welcome

My mother planted a passion fruit vine

Just near the far end jack-fruit tree

And in no time it vaulted the front yard

With fruits like those dangling

Planets, in different size and shades

Some ripened, some  half-way to ripening

And some very raw.


The fruits had very sharp “sweet

And sour” taste, in orange coloured

Juice and full of seeds within its

Hard sphere like outer shell

Very hard to cut with a knife

Our summer holidays were smelling

Passion fruits literally

We added sugar in mixer to make

Its sharp taste affordable

(With a little cool-well water too)

The juice was still sweet and sour

But I had another passion over

This passion fruit – I made holes

Round and added sugar directly

Then spent almost an hour with a spoon

To finish it, like a small-lettered

Novel reading, making round

And round, in and out of the house


There were few birds frequented

And perched during the hot hours of the day

The parrots, manjavalan kili, thoppi thalachy

And the other usual small winging friends too

They tried to eat the fruit, but ended up dropping

Them down , then left with a feeling in me

“the unreachable grape tastes sour”

But at times they succeeded in picking some from

The ground and holding it with their claws

We didn’t get surprised while crossing the front-yard

If they bestowed our head with orange juice, and

Made us walk the whole day with passion-smelling


Here in this virtual world, while I cross the streets,

I too bestowed with the fragrant juice of this

Poetic passion fruit, almost everywhere

And they taste not only sweet and sour but

At times very bitter with sweet pain

Yet, I loved them as my passion is

Running in their vines and running all over here


They, I wish, would canopy the entrance of my happiness

Ever and forever

I would not search for the shield of Achilles

I would simply pick and taste the fruits:

Ripened or raw, that doesn’t matter

I know the fruit has only one taste,

The “sweet and sour”, and I would add

My passion’s sugar cubes to make my drink





Author’s Footnotes :-

Ekphrastic. Ekphrasis or ecphrasis, from the Greek description of a work of art, possibly imaginary, produced as a rhetorical exercise, often used in the adjectival form ekphrastic, is a graphic, often dramatic, description of a visual work of art. In ancient times, it referred to a description of any thing, person, or experience.

elanji – bakul, moovandan –is a kind of mango, Maavu – mango tree

manjavalan kili – yellow feathered bird with long tail, thoppi thalachy – a small local bird with a crown

(I do not remember the English names of these birds, but I hope you may recognize them)

Author’s Postscript


Since I gave importance to the form, I would love to add few lines of Socrates here about this form:

In one instance, Socrates talks about ekphrasis to Phaedrus thus:

“You know, Phaedrus, that is the strange thing about writing, which makes it truly correspond to painting.
The painter’s products stand before us as though they were alive,
but if you question them, they maintain a most majestic silence.
It is the same with written words; they seem to talk
to you as if they were intelligent, but if you ask them anything
about what they say, from a desire to be instructed,
they go on telling you just the same thing forever”.

The different songs I hear around me

April 6 2016
(Sestina, plus todays prompt “murk”)



She wrote, love poems, in curvy silver lines

To the beloved moon with a milky smile

In the murk of an unusually long night

He indulged in the sweet lyric silently

The tidal messages continued incessantly

A lover, so perfect; Lo! Behold her, the sea!


Wind crossed the smiling-path of the moon and sea

It tried to interpret the curvy silver lines

To the shore it sent them incessantly

All-knowing land witnessed with a smile

The land wept in its heart about its loveless life, silently

And the thick air it breathed, day and night


Heroic stories were sung by the birds of night

Which didn’t reach the ears of the sea

Autumn leaves in pilgrimage listened silently

On the forest ground, patterned in red- yellow lines

The songs were filled with tears and smiles

The stars sharpened their ears incessantly


The stories of golden days were sung incessantly

And the stories of fireflies of the yester-nights

Who filled the nights with phosphorous smiles

The wanton wind circumvented the land and sea

It tried to judge the songs of birds and silver lines

Up there, blinking stars wiped their tears silently


City lanes sang a different kind of song, silently

(New stories filled my weak chest incessantly)

“I was the mighty Ananthan Kaadu*” – a line

I heard so aloud throughout the gloomy nights

“Now they made me a concrete kaadu by the sea

And they polluted the ways to cry and smile”


“I forgot”, the city cried, “to hope and smile”,

“Filled dirt they in my stomach, sobbed I silently

The steams died before reaching the sea

Filth they heaped everywhere incessantly

No more singing, here, of the birds of night”

The sea still kept writing in curvy silver lines


Will ever the silver lines give a smile

In the songs of night, about the land, silently

I shall sing incessantly, like the ever-loving sea


*Ananthan Kaadu is the name of the forest which existed in the place of today’s Trivandrum city. Kaadu means forest.

Unedited poem, just tried to write a sestina, and I agree that I am exhausted at the end and left polishing it for another time.


A sestina is divided into six six-line stanzas, or sections, plus one final stanza of three lines. We’ll call the last word of the first line a, the last word of the second line b, etc. The order of these words in the first six stanzas is like this: abcdef faebdc cfdabe ecbfad deacfb bdfeca. In other words, the last word in Line 1 is also the last word in Line 8. The last word in Line 2 is also the last word in Line 10. Etc. The final stanza, or section of the poem has three lines. Each of these uses two of the words, one somewhere in the middle of the line and one at the end. The pattern of this section is: be dc fa.



The co-existences


They are there

In their usual place

In the middle of the confluence of three roads

In the roundabout

Sit scattered here and there

Selling fish


With the fish, big and small, in front of them

In many sizes and shapes

Under the canopy of a huge tree

Today the tree is embellished with variegated bulb-garlands

As if the stars dangled right above their heads

The nearby Devi temple festival is going on

The music is flowing out of boxes placed in each corner of the roads

Buyers, alone or in groups, come and go

The streets are unusually brighter today

They are indifferent

They sit there, till midnight

Waiting for their daily buyers

Then their vehicles pick them all, back to the houses

Away from the city, by the seaside

These ladies, undaunted, sit, in rain or heat

Fish smelling bodies

They dream, their small children or grandchildren

In colourful dresses and with filled stomachs

And in happiness and health

Nothing more

Their world is small

Their dreams know well the boundary walls of reality

And these luring colours or mellifluous music can’t enter into their being

May be, in Sundays, when they wear the colourful sarees to the church they taste a pinch of life

Or in a marriage, when they sing together the prayers

Or in a Christmas, when they watch the night programs in the churches

The seashore, the churches, the selling roundabout

The universe condensed itself to fit within the boundary of these places for them

They are my co-existences, and I, who do not eat fish, am theirs