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Poems by: A. Thiagarajan

To Those Who Ask

To those who ask
Who seek
And inquire
Only you should be the ones.
You who are the ones
Who dance and smile
Yet cry and complain too
You who are the ones
The sons and daughters
Cousins and nieces
You who are the ones
Who take tests and answer
Pass, be passed
And pass like others did to you
Or fail, be failed
And fail others like did to you
I am here-
No test for me
Nor to any from me-
I am here-
Only to pick up
A word here
A word there
Did you see any?

With words and hues

Oh what is that you have
in your bones
Which neither shapeless thoughts
Nor endowed tongues
Could conceive..
You have it
in the smile of the new-born
In the gentle motionless breeze on your face
What are they-
who should care
But the guys who need
To pen and pin them down..
get into tangled maze
Stumble all over
Dislocating and tinkering
With words and hues
In the falls and ups their skies..

Unknown & Unknowingly

You looked for me, I know,
It is not any footprints
The sands of time, we talk about...
nothing that makes even a feeble wave
nor even cause a whisper
... ...

How come the blades missed
How did the dew travel upto & onto the leaves of grass..
how did one get into it..
to blissfully lie -
stealing stealthily the light from the light around
So, so quietly..
You look for me,
because so unknowngly,
I took you away...
Where was this teacher

The little one in the cradle
His postures all yogic
Saint Pathanjali to take a cue or two,
Not knowing nappies bathes himself
Pure and clean
All is nice and good
Clean and pure
Only when filled and full
All smiles to all
To you and me and anyone
But who is it who
Taught him
The comfort of an embrace
The seeds for future seekings
How did you hide this teacher
Right in your wombs?


From temple to temple, place to place, man to man
All I looked for was Peace- Shanthi.
With fastings and priests
With offerings and donations
Prayers for the dead too.
My father came in last night
In my dream, in my dream.
I cried and cried all night
And asked him what did you do to me dad?
Isn't it you I am duplicating?
He tried to touch me on my shoulder
Then on my head he placed his hand
I am sorry son, I did not know myself
That nothing is there - elsewhere
Nothing to do nor to seek..
You call from where, and ask of whom
I don't have an answer to give you, Or anyone else
Didn't you find it or not , dad – I asked.
I did, my child. But that is not yours, my child.
I turned on my back - My little one's cry woke me up.

Wait to get out, to be back

The doctors and the nurses
The sweepers and the cleaners
Do not stay there
Nor want to.
True it is
Very healing to be there
Immaculate it is
The gods are there
The priests
You hear the prayers without fail
Oxygen mask
Glucose direct into the system
On direct contact..
Why is it that
You wait for the day to get out
Day of deliverance
You wait for it
Like my words
Waiting to fly out
Of the eternal silence
Only to be
Once in a while-


Let them be- let them preach
Leave them alone- to themselves & their ilk..
Do they see, what we discovered together-
the agony and the bliss-
the breathing and the bash
the heights and the depths
the pain on the breast& the gasp in the heart
Let them be- leave them to themselves...
They only keep themselves
immaculate and clean
with denials to us of life and living
Let them be -
They love to feed on your deprived flesh
And ask you to close your eyes
And roll on beads of deadwood.
Let them be, to themselves, alone, my darling
Let us leave them & sail together onwards
hand in hand,
explore and delve the depths of the oceans and the seas
together in each other, with each other..


It is 10 PM.the sitout-
I sit with pen for some lines of emotions recollected in tranquility..
The TV in every house blaring songs in
multi languages but all the same-
sequence of the dreams and if I weres
with my parents, wife, children
the whole body of my lane before the box.
Some stray walkers on the street,
Some kids screaming for what I don't know..
I confess
If it is trying to putforth from deep within
On the paper out of consciousness
of the confusions
oscillating values and gushing tears;
the delivery summons
the services of physicians and priests
who to heal to whom?


A postgraduate in English, A. Thiagarajan taught in colleges in India, before joining the finance sector. Currently employed in a multinational bank , he has been writing in English and Tamil since college days, though quite a lot of them remained on the paper he wrote on (that is, when not consigned by him to the waste paper basket). Nuances of relationship between individuals, mental pain and cruelty we inflict on each other and ourselves are his obsession.

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