Lethargic
Lobotomised
Listeners
Literally
Lactate
Loathing for the
Listless
Lingering
Lowlife
Lyricist.
              How
                   do
                     you
                         like
                             the
                                 ludicrous
                                             limerick?

Gargoyles live on my awning
The one overhanging my bedroom window

Like bats, they'll hang upside down
And stare in at me

Maybe this will be my year.


*Maybe not.

She can be my Juliet, her heart is my prize.
Save me from myself but lead to my demise.
Ill be her Romeo, more or less I suppose.
Ill die for her, if that's the way that it goes.
Our love is forbidden, shunned by our surrounding persons.
But without my girl, the pain only worsens.
So ill take a stab, straight into my beating heart
If it means, in the end, we never see need to part.

I was always so lonely
when I was with you
You spoke of the weather
and other mundane realities
yet I hung on to every word
held helplessly captive by your voice

And even now I’m solitary
long after you've evaporated
I have frequent and interesting
conversations with others
but it all seems empty
I’d rather hear you speak of the weather

- Vijayalakshmi Ramachandran
   03/09/2006
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

it just doesn’t seem fair
that i’m at work
while the world takes a holiday
and it certainly is annoying
that you are at home
and i can’t be with you
i while away the hours
on this and that
talking, laughing,
trying to get some work done
but Einstein was right-
it feels like the seconds are dragging on
this day just doesn’t seem eager to end
i think – “I hate working Saturdays”

but then finally its time to leave
and that’s when i realize
what is so special about today

today i don’t return to an empty dark house
i return to you!
You are at home to welcome me in
with a hug and a kiss
and some little surprise
that you always have for me
every working Saturday
suddenly even in this twilight
the day seems brighter
and lovelier
i think – “i love working Saturdays”

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   05.01.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

when is a work of art not just a work of art?

at what point does it stop
being only a thing of beauty
and transform-
the self
the society
the Universe
                                                                when does it transcend the real
                                                                and become something magical
                                                               helping one fall through –
                                                               the rabbit hole
                                                                the wormhole
                                                                the black hole
                                                                                                                                      when does it become
                                                                                                                                     an unstoppable force
                                                                                                                                     and cause –
                                                                                                                                     a revolution
                                                                                                                                     an evolution
                                                                                                                                     an absolution


                              and at which moment does  it make you stop in your tracks
                                                          stop breathing and exclaim
                            “Gar Firdaus, ruhe zamin, hamin asto, hamin asto, hamin ast!”

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   05.01.2013
  Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish,

a wasp flew a straight line
from its nest to me
cloaked in puny sunshine
it thought itself to be free
unheard was its buzzing
unseen its rainbow wings
untold was what it carried
i only felt it sting
the suspension like a drawn sword
cut through the silence within
the absence of feeling retrieved
was healed by the relief of loss
an epitaph if to be given
would affirm the infinity of the end
a promise given in portions
partitioned to satisfaction
make one see through the gloss
to the plainness within
that grieves in honour and truth
shedding tears of blood
it tastes the purest fruit
in the acceptance of its pain
lies the moral of our story

- Sneha Iyer & Vijayalakshmi Harish
   04.01.2012
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish & Sneha Iyer