Saturday, October 11, 2008

poems of sree devi nair

Serpent’s Travel

Why should we look for the lines
On the hands which come to soothen?
I stand on the side of the breasts
That comfort me.
The look of the loving eyes,
My angst.
The beauty of the eyes that bo\ehold,
Another domain
I do not need its tradition,
Nor its beauty
Honey drips in words:
I do not need it
Words slepping out of tougue
Do not provide staple
For my anger.
I search for love
In all lips.
More than the beauty of lips
Do I need, not the clinical preciseness
Of the dentals
Looking into my soul,
I can see this all.
My belief
Is my breath.
I cherish the sigh of
That mind which comes searching for me;
Not the beauty of the nose.
I do not seek the beauty of
The hands that embrace me.
Remember the touch of the hands
Is a rare love, silence.
I am not in the firmness of the
Breasts which love me,
But in the over flowing love
Will I plant myself.
Not the ornamentation of the feet
Not its shapeliness
Will decide my path
The firmness on
The earth
Like unending power of will,
Like a serpent, slithering comes
Though my thoughts.
My feet
Follows that serpent’s travel

Scattered Rain
A drop of rain
Male me love-torn
Is somebody coming
To land me through the
Labyrinth of Love, unknown?

I received from the sharp nails
Of rain, tiktats unknown, sighs.
Is it that the rain drops
Could steal the lust of my eyes?

Like some organism,
Rain drop beckons me,
But I cannot ever see
The rain
Like scattered idols of life, rain.
Yet my mind
Not cooled.
On each glass piece of
Shattered mind, a rain reflects, may be
In the sky, into the mind
I keep seeking the rain.
May may love
Come as rain

ശ്രീദേവി നായരുടെ കവിത

'സാഫല്യം'[kochi] മാസികയുടെ ഒക്റ്റോബര്‍ ലക്കത്തില്‍ പ്രസിദ്ധീകരിച്ച കവിത

silence of ancient times -poems of sree devi nair

The unworldly silence of ancient times

In poetry words explain about some planets. Communicating in different ways it demolishes established habits of the words. In Sree Devi Nair’s poems, words do break out tearing the grounds of such a forlorn planet. The poetess could communicate with some deities who sleep under the earth where we live. In those rare moments the belief that ‘I’m a woman’ motivates her to be more unique. Personal rigidity is not a burden but it reminds us that one has to surmount many heights.

Every experience points to some other experiences. Poetry is not what a poet talks to us directly. There are a lot of glimpses of some alien planets in all poems of Sree Devi Nair. There are words ready to slide away from the normal life and their meanings do seem to drag the poetess away into an unfamiliar tradition. An experience amounting to this feeling is evident in all the poems in this collection.

A penetrating silence in between the words, an emotion frantically longing for timelessness, a deep thirst for a forgotten love, an eternal sorrow that is beyond what is humanitarian… all these in Sree Devi Nair’s poems do give an earthly touch to her works.

--Bluemango Books.

My fate was to surrender.
Like the steps to success,
Tried in vain to count up
The steps to failure too.

While failing lamentably
I saw myself clearly.
I understood me.
Through my downfalls
I grew to a philosopher
In that way.


The elephant, brought to the festival,
Didn’t catch musth.
There were women, men and kids
Thronged to see it going musth.

Seeing the human crowd
The elephant lost all its interest.
Thinking of the orgasm
Elephant raised its trunk
And wrote many things in the air.

The pundits did not understood a word of it.
The elephant then decided
That it’s in vain to enlighten the fools,
But listened to the beats of the drums
And cursed its own fate.


Yesterday’s morning was blank.
A sort of loneliness
Stood like stagnated sewage water,
In office, in house,
On road and in the shop-verandah.

There was an air
That all have gone vain.
In the void ness of the day
Tried to remember the friends.

Couldn’t get anyone.

Memories got choked heavily.

Picking up the phone book
Called a dame.
Even she was not available.

Tried to sleep, but never slept.
Changing the dress
Went straight to the theatre.
First, ‘Sivaji’ and then to ‘Panthaya Kozhi’.

Still got bored.
Due to the crowd
Came out of the hotel.

While standing by the road side
Without being hungry
Understood clearly
That life is a big stupidity.

A bird creates conflict

That bird came yesterday also.
There was something wrong
In the eyes of the bird
Whose name is not yet clear.

The bird that flew away
Came yesterday again.

When the bird comes
It flies around the Ilanji tree.
Kids enjoyed this.
They shooed away the bird.
But in the night also
Did the bird come.
Seems the bird does not sleep.
What use if it flies
Around the Ilanji tree in the night?

Men do not fly
Without any use.
The bird did not hear
The questions of men.
It just flew on and on.

Fed up, someone decided
To kill the bird.
When the trigger of the gun is pulled,
The bird disappeared.

Two days after
The bird that came again,
Was found hanging on a branch, dead,
Being electrocuted.


The crowd is swelling
To see the nude sculpture of a woman
That stood before
A Devadaru tree.

Is nude attractive?
Sculptor loves nakedness.
All the organs
Are made to perfection.

Sculpture doesn’t need sex.
Only the onlookers need it.
Though the sculpture longed for sex
The sculptor forbids it.

The sculptor said:
You’re only a sculpture.
Your face and boobs
And body are all for the viewers.
You need just to stand there.
Those who throng to see you
Will decide what to do.
You’re not permitted
To have coitus.

You need not open your eyes.
To kindle wild erotica
You can lean a bit, if need be.
Even if you lie flat on the ground
It doesn’t matter much.

Sculpture said:
How long does it take
To know what coitus is?

Sculptor said:
Don’t wait.
Waiting for long for it
You’ll go insane.
You don’t have any right
Over your sex-needs.
You are only a showcase-object.

To see the fire catching up on your body
The Minister and the Academy President
Are all coming.
You make them hot.

Hearing this the sculpture trembled.
Out of that shivering
A fire broke out somehow.
In that fire
The sculpture got charred.


I sang some songs.
But none heard it.
They were not meant to be heard either.
What I called songs
Were all turning into moan.

All the music did I play
Became wailings.
Yet many did call me
A singer.


Clouds, tell me
What are your scriptures?
Where do you go
With a fire in your head
Without standing in one place?

What are you trying to tell
As you run on a mission?

Cloud, are you a mirage?
Who taught you
To shower down the dreams?

What you do pull down
Are innards or the blood of bleeding hearts?
Are you alive or dead?

Falling Down

A night is blossoming.
Jasmine buds,
And mango flowers
Prepared to bloom.
Time took shape of petals
And traveled through night.
Night didn’t bloom.
Instead, Dawn
And Daylight blossomed.
Buds have bloomed
Into flowers.
Flowers do not need buds.
They wanted to whither
And fall down.

The Fan

The fan turned on and on.
It didn’t care for the bastards
Who came under to enjoy the wind.
There’s nothing suicidal like
Caring those came to relax beneath it.

Unable to stop the rotation in between,
Body and head competed each other,
Might become a strange fate of the circling.
How funny it would be,
To turn on and on
Without longing for life,
Or seeking assets or addresses.
Yet the fan
Didn’t think of that.
The fan knew it well ahead
It would be thoughtless
To waste the time thinking things.
Fan is a strong
Icon of abandon ness.
It makes the whole truth
Of men and objects
Easily forgotten.

Pumpkin Delivers

The pumpkin
Delivered a hundred kids.
It didn’t call any name to anyone.
Neither did it advice them.
Instead, it went to a Kitchen
That prepared a feast to a marriage,
Got itself ended its life
By breaking into quarters.

The scattered offspring,
Like the discarded placenta,
Grew up seizing the chance.
Most of them
Disappeared somewhere.
Some ran on and on
Through the wild paths
As if someone would come
To save them.


It is ecstatic
To go alone endlessly,
For the pathways.
The paths that go alone always
Gathers people by chance.
Why the loneliness for the pathways?
They stumbled upon a trick
To overcome
The meaningless loneliness.
It’s this:
To make travelers
Misguided travelers
Would come again through this path;
Searching for the place
From where they did come.

Soul of the soil

I am searching my ancestors in this soil.
I remember some
Who came to bore a well
Near our house.
When I heard the noise
They made while boring the earth,
I got afraid.
Memories of some
Dead bodies
Did shake me.

Someone’s picking up the bones.
Some laughed aloud
Hearing the tunes of the last rites.
Some others did
Retaliate something
In a language
That seemed gibberish.
Is it water
In such pits
Or is it the water
Of some departed soul?

The Leaves

Leaves spreading veins,
Became an art by itself.
No one seeks the hidden historical truths
In these spread out veins that can be traced.
In PhotoShop of the computer
Did some leaves appear
As if the memories of death
That left words or tools.
The banyan-tree leaves
Spread as screen saver
But said nothing about
Krishna or Gita.


How dear are the daylights.
Is there some holy note
Sent by someone hidden in daylights?

Unexplainable music,
Crystal-like mental simplicity,
Do these daylights give?

Is this daylight
The smile of a secret of life
That is beyond the earth?
Is it the transparency
Reminds of many habitats?
This brightness makes
Yesterday’s sorrows meaningless.
Nature’s emotive profile.

The actress who left the drama

The actor who came down from the screen
Had a limp.
How clear it is
That all was fake when he laughed or cried.
Still tried to find fun in that.
He never assumed
Himself an actor
Or a character.
But, since knowing his story,
Everything was clear.
Yet he wanted to act.
He showed every act of ugliness
To prove he was not the one who lived so long.
I, who knew all his history,
Left the theatre when got bored.
I could also become
An actress who left the drama.

Computer Bird

A bird did come
Drenched in the rain.
While shaking its
Drawn-out wings,
It did look at
The computer in the room.
Nothing seemed clear first.
It came slowly near the room
And sat watching the computer image.
There was a picture then,
In the computer of a bird.
Did that bird understand that picture?
No. How could it?
The picture was taken
When it came yesterday
To peck the rice grains.
While flying away
That bird laughed aloud.
But I never understood
The meaning of that laughter.

two books by sree devi nair

Sree Devi Nair's first ever English version of poems has been released by the Bluemango Books, Kochi, last year 2007 .

The book is available from the publishers and can be purchased anywhere in the world from them. . (For details look here book is available in India from book stalls or can be available if booked in advance with the publishers. Her second collection of poems is "Love Gave Her Only Fear".

sree devi nair poems

The Rain, seen and not seen
Unlike in dictionary, the words do not carry logic when they come to the world of a poet. The words search from their lost wings, like butterflies them. The poet builds the truth himself, that is not defined in set standards. It is the poet's style that makes him or her think how to burn themselves in a pyre created by them or think how to inflict pain themselves through the orderless-ness of words.
Poetry is an archaic media. Still its relevance to life is made evident because, poets could inculcate wisdom through them.
We present 'The Painted Forms' of Sreedevi Nair into the world of poetry that reverberates with millions of sounds-and meanings.

Unlike in dictionary, the words do not carry logic when they come to the world of a poet. The words search from their lost wings, like butterflies them. The poet builds the truth himself, that is not defined in set standards. It is the poet's style that makes him or her think how to burn themselves in a pyre created by them or think how to inflict pain themselves through the orderless-ness of words.
Poetry is an archaic media. Still its relevance to life is made evident because, poets could inculcate wisdom through them.
We present 'The Painted Forms' of Sreedevi Nair into the world of poetry that reverberates with millions of sounds-and meanings.
. In the poem ' Solitude', she writes:
On the planet of solitude,I am building a monument for my love.
Love is memorial for her. It lives only in memories. It has made life dry like a river in the extreme summer.
Like Jackie Kay, poetry gives her a personal protection. Once Jackie Kay said the freedom that is offered by poetry helps one to think of life in different ways. These wild and varied imaginations help to swim across many difficulties. Sreedevi Nair writes in 'meaning':
In search of meaningWe go to the words.Words too are helpless.Weighed down by somebody's meanings,words too are frozen, still.

She yells words are yet to be discovered.The moment one goes inside, breaking the obvious meaning of a word, one could see different manifestations of the word.Judith Nicholls says: waves, home, mind-something resonates in them. They may not have songs of their own, but I love their faintest sounds. Sreedevi could go restless like Judith. She also searches everywhere for these faintest sounds.

Are human emotionsGreen in color?Is nature green?Is nature's green tooA guise?
The hidden nakedness is every shape in a different world to the poets. But some truths keep her born alive, again and again.
To write a poem, one need not go anywhere. The search for poetry begins from a bus journey or from the breakfast one takes on a fineday, says Adrian Mitchell Life's truth and meaninglessness take shape in these uncertanities. It is the inevitable fate of those who digest emotions.
One who can step into someone else's shoes with care could come into the world of poetry, says Owen Sheers. It is intersting to study the inner self by observing it as an outsider.Sreedevi Nair could enter easily into any world. her 'Bats' is the evidence:
Saddened, cleansedHanging upside down,Bats can see theNakedness of humans.Beauty which humansBear unknowingly.

Must be able to drink and eat poetry, like W.S. Graham. Must make language itself an obsession. Harold Pinter said about Graham that he has made use of both silence and the otherside of the language expertly. Pinter pointed out that Graham's 'Malcolm Mooney's Land' gives an experience of discovering the language. This clear sense is the sixth sense of the poetry.

The physical plains in Sreedevi Nair's poems express the self-expression of the language.Like some organism,Rain drop beckons me.But i cannot ever seeThe rain.
The rain, that's not seen, is poetry.The vital world of creaticity lies in it.