Author Archives: K.S.Subramanian

About K.S.Subramanian

Published two volumes of poetry through the Writers Workshop, Kolkata, India titled Ragpickers and Treading on gnarled sand. My poem Dreams bagged the cash prize award from Asian Age, a reputed daily. Poems and short stories have appeared in several web sites of reputation and standing. Writing is a nourishing experience. Otherwise feel emaciated.

My tryst with squirrel

I watched the spry squirrel
scamper away hearing
my footfall; Its ear turned
to even slight dissonance of
sound and it rushed to guard
its nest; a fretful companion,
content to feed its
squealing offsprings, also
hearkening to my short fuse.

Its energy was unfailing;
it would sweep to the
terrace to grab any morsel
It could feed; the red stripes
on its back, blessed by mythical
Lord Ram*, kept egging it on
perhaps; It knew when
the windows would
drop down at night to squeeze
inside for a nap in its niche;
Its squealing heralded
the dawn of dawn too.
Nudging me to open
the window to the trove
of morning breeze flowing in;
And it would rush out.

Wonder what is its missive?
“Wake up Man, it’s time.”

Whir in the orbit

The fan’s blades are still.
They sense they will swing
Only when I want to warm up,
be ready to set about my day.

When still they look like a Yogi,
In evanescent reverie,
an unblemished lotus in the pond.

Untroubled or dismayed by
the coagulating dust on its frame,
Any more than shriveled leaves
Eviscerate the lotus in the pond.
Time breathes on them,
leaves no moss on their being.

The day comes alive only
when one sets on his toes.
Else it is as just vivacious
as the whir in the Orbit.

Birthday

The memorable day is ever lost

In the welter of memories. 

Until I wake up with a start to a scurry of

warm wishes from the near and dear.

They seem to know me more than I.

Every birthday is a renewal of life,

taking fresh guard and wading into

the day;  extending your palm to

grab the gleaming rays of  the Sun,

feel the sheaf of light in front.

Easier said than done;   but without

a tinge of optimism of what meaning

is the passing of your birthday? 

Crowing subsides

Damp still, sun’s rays trapped in the
womb of monsoon clouds,
As if the morning star was too
circumspect to break through
the sullen haze of uncertainty.
A flock of crows keep drilling
Into my unresponsive ears
their anxious search for
morning crumbs.
Blame them not; they need to see
the day ease out.
Yeah! Is the day done with
buying a sheaf of groceries,
craftily spun T-shirt,
relishing mouthfuls of
masala-laced dishes?
Or is it all to an existence
which begins in the dark….and ends there?
A query that peters out like
vaporous wispy clouds;
its hue changes before the
wink of an eye.
Uncertainty too is cloudy,
empties sooner than one can spot it.
Their crowing is down
to a satiated groan now. 
They or some have found their crumbs.

Anger on the faultline (tsunami)

The wall of sea water roars
down in unsatiated appetite,
mashing all on the way;
Anger on the faultline
brooks no favours.

Many affrighted cries were
swept away; convulsive sobs
of the living choked in the
entrails of hopelessness;
Relief may or may not reach
them; where to retrieve the
roots from disembowelled sand?
or to relive the agony of
renewal, the irreplaceable
loss of the dear ones?

On the trail of the mutilated
coastline the debris reveals
dessicated memories; The
orphaned stare at the bleached
skyline; smelling the stench
eagles circle high, darkly
eyeing the emaciated dogs;
vandals reap a windfall
out of sightless death.

Hearts open up in a tide of
compassion for the disconsolate;
Today’s danger could return
in the morrow.

The joy of living expires in
the unforeseen tunnel of death;
And the despair of loss.

Heart’s beloved

Little do they, wrangling in heat

as to whether he exists or not,

perceive that He is a motive force

dear not to the brains but the heart.

Every moment of glory in life

is a sign of our debt to Him;

All deeds, awesome or humble

spring from His grace like a stream.

Firm Columbus saw through leaping waves

warm God beckoning to a distant shore;

Man alighted dazed ….on the Moon

crowning fruition of a feat, so rare.

Things sundry, moving in perfect symmetry,

betray a design of splendid art;

All toll the truth of the motive force

dear not to the brains but the heart.

Battle it out

I yearn for those days last Nov when
When we had the cold blanket
of cares and joys, faced them as one.
Until the malicious genie struck.

I yearn for those days when we
Soothed our dear kin at home
Or abroad with lasting breath of love..
Until words froze in a vacuum.

I yearn for those days when eye
Could see a mate, lips widen into
A smile and hands fold in warmth.
Until walled in a self-made cocoon.

Never in the remote corner of mind
Did we even fancy or foresee a day
when kith was forced to warn its kin.
And feel to be forewarned is forearmed.

This day too will pass into the annals
that tell tales of fortitude and pluck,
straddling the seas and the cosmos.
The enduring breath ever prevails.

Full Moon

Full Moon

I gazed at the Full Moon, pear shaped
glowing like a freshly minted jewel;
Crevices shaped like a wispy cloud
seem to shadow a deep-layered mystery;
Somewhere in the lifeless expanse
Is a beauty that remains nonpareil.
An odd ensemble of precious brains
has unmasked it as bare carbuncle;
Space gadgets unveiled the final visual
of a rolling wilderness without a story;
Yet when a Full Moon ranges in the sky
the endless cosmos fills the eye.

Forest brook

Green blossoms droop in the blaze.

Does the pitiless sun drain them of

 all hope with its scorching rays?

They quake in repressed agony.

The aroma of asphalt slowly moving

In to suck the sap;

Trees, stately and daring the skies

bear an uncanny fear in their hearts;

Even their shadows appear mortal!

They harbor an unexpressed message –

manifold flora has lost its scent.

The brook gurgles quietly below.

The ambience of silence a roaring

curse on the day when it will be

a static sewage.