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Rajesh Paramasivan (rajesh@viagrafix.com) writes: "I have sent a poem ("a syndrome") to REAL POETIK.As you have suggested I have gone thru the wonderful poems in REAL POETIK.Iam afraid I should not be reduced to an ugly plagiarist when Iam entering their shoes. However I scuba-dived their thematic coral reefs of beautiful agonies studden in the plank of thinking-bliss.That is why my groove is yet tied in my poem. I will be very happy if you find that I am still in your band-wagon clinging that poetic charms rather than the dry norms.





a syndrome

02/10/97
at that
rendezvous of
a sub-terranean kiss
with a hot-emerge,
the bushy-hairy goose-bumps
in green vegitation
brim and break-loose
the outer earth.
a poetry is imminent
for a brew.
but it is a poetry of a
devastation
from sub-cutanous tilt.
the tectonic convulsions
surf on all our
caps with feathers that tell
our motley patches of
glory in civilizations.
that eruptions spit
on our heavens
in clouds of fire.
the gushings
brush aside all the scenes
off the
canvas itself.
is the sky blotting
the blurs?
or is it sieving the lava
of the adversaries
to our viability?
every earth-quake
breaths out a message
of a transition
to edge out all our
coarse fringes
in thriving out
an ideal model
of our existence.
a stone and a rose.
a rose from that stone
is yet to zip-out.
but
a club is made
from the stone...
a sword is born
from the club..
a gun is glorified
from the sword..
now the war
is crowning to all.
the wars
silence
the words.
still the poets
are the worms
in the corpses.
when the seeds of life
are the ignition-sparks
to quell this
dark-corpus,
we debate
to abort or
not to abort
the essence of life.
the poets lament.
but finally get laminated
in the pies of
'tomb-stone' pizza.
where from
the poets come?
do they make the paper
their fleshy womb
to hibernate a
great void?
or the skyful stars
are their
panspermia
being ready for a
'discharge' and 'descend'
to the earth?
they lay all the cards
on the table.
their verses
bleed always for
'universal love and peace'
to the core of
the chromosomes
of the 'flora and fauna'.
their themes range
from neural pulses
to astral 'quarks'
of 'excitons' to life.
but you feel
their cynic phrases
are the erasers
of our beautiful evenings
with
rush and rash drives.
we are
the point-blank target.
the hanging gun-holes
are the 'ozone-holes'.
let our bone marrows
be wiped out of
all our dreamful morrows.
the sun rays may
grow harsher
with anger.
the genetic prints may
go freak.
the viruses
will chair our 'houses'.
all our knowledge
will be in the
books of a sanctuary
when we are all
hooked-up to be
in the mortuary.
we are singing the carols.
to the creator
offering some candies
with pictorial
prayer-cards...
and we
hide in the condome
against
'His Killing Syndrome.'

Epsi (E.Paramasivan)




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