Eggy Poems

This is a triology of poems that revolves around the subject of an egg. The poems may sound nonsensical or rather whimsical but i am sure it will tickle some portion of the soul. I laid them some time ago, to be exact while i was a collegian. It had gathered dust over the years but not rotten i hope. SOOO here i present them to the reader to brood over...

LAYING AN EGG

Upon the castling cloud
laid the bird
an egg.

Down went the shell swishing and swishing
through the branchless skies,
until finally a thud and a splash.

The great Newton rubbed his eyes,
Waking up from his brown study,
Set out to probe the levity of the bird_
wasting her egg on his head.   

                                                       
                                         George Manjooran



HATCHING AN EGG

I saw a pregnant hen clucking around
a hospital to deliver
Where no stealthy hand would_
snatch away the issue for a price.

But often the ducklings follow_
the foster mother hen,
And the koel disowns her egg_
in the nest of the maternal crow.

Everywhere, everywhere I see_
cartons of eggs being mislaid,
and peopling the land with_
hens crowing at the nightfall, the sundown,
And ducks oblivious of their birthright_
to swim.
                                   
                                       George Manjooran

EATING AN EGG

Each time when eating an egg
I fear might chew upon a_
baby hen.

So I try to feel the little beaks,
legs and unfledged wings.
And when cleared of the_
biological doubt
I gulp the might-have-been-bird
along the gut.

Yet I feel the recapitulation of an_
abortive sin,
rising up to a sour_
heartburn.
                             
                            George Manjooran

remembering Clint...

I remember how on the morning of April 16, 1983 this part of our world paused for many agonizing moments when we came to read in the morning papers about the

death of the child prodigy, Edmund Thomas Clint,

barely 7 years of age.

The lone son of his parents, MT Joseph and Chinnamma Joseph, Clint left behind 25,000 paintings, most of them imbued with strokes of precocity far advanced to that of his age. By any standards it was a tremendous achievement for a child after a short sojourn of hardly 7 years in this world.

While trying in vain to come into terms with the death of the little master artist, one stumbles over the seemingly comforting proverb of Solomon viz: “Being perfected in a short time,they (he) fulfilled long years”… Solomon (4:13).

Our memories of this wonderful child and his paintings conjures up both the colors of rainbow that would never fade away from the sky and also the brooding shadow of Death that hangs heavy over our lives as if it could snatch anyone, anywhere, anytime...

Red Coffins on Wheels

The private buses of cochin are more and more becoming a menace to the cochinites by their rash driving and lack of concern for the traffic rules. Driven by teenagers or just-passed-teenage drivers(who are actually handpicked by the bus operators for their rush of adrenaline and young impulsive blood) the buses continue to take the lives of countless fellow road travelers.

Its high time for the cochinites to wake up from their callous slumber and put an end to this freewheeling goondaism on the roads and hold a tight rein over these red coffins on wheels. Let their rightful indignation rage high and burn down the nexus between the bus operators and the traffic police.

Stricter law enforcement is the need of the hour or if need be implement new drastic laws that would require the bus operators to employ only those drivers who are over 35 or 40 years of age, which would inevitably tame down the speed and rashness of the private buses and thereby avert the deaths that are awaiting to happen.