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K.
JAYAKUMAR
Malayali Poet,
Translator, Lyricist and Script Writer,
Senior Bureaucrat in the
Government of India.
Born in 1952, in Kerala, India
Address: R-62,
Type V,
Nivedita Kunj, Sector 10,
R.K.Puram, New Delhi - 110
022
Tel:23381198 (O), 26715273 ®
E-mail:
k_jayakumar@email.com
With equally eminent
profiles as an I.A.S. Officer as well as a distinguished Poet and
Lyricist, Jayakumar has straddled both spheres with élan.
His creative oeuvre
encompasses:
3 published anthologies of Malayali poems; the first
published book on Tourism in Malayalam; Malayali translations of Tagore's
'Gitanjali', Kahlil Gibran's 'Prophet and Jesus, the Son of
Man'.
He has penned lyrics
for over 80 Malayalam films, scripted two mega serials and over a dozen TV
and film documentaries and also written and directed a children's film
'Varnachrakukal' in Malayalam.
Scripted an English film shot
in kyrgyzstan (Mama is waiting)
Wrote and directed a children's
film(Varnachrakukal) in Malyalam
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After the
storm
The landscape is now
a fainted demon.
The frenzy,
a wild memory
punctuated by uprooted trees.
Duels and betrayals
are swirling leaves.
Gruesome graffiti
and chilling omens are
splashed
on the patchy walls of memory.
My roads are strewn
with
shards of forsaken dreams.
My valleys are smothered
by the fog of
guilt and fears.
My desires are scattered
as swarms of torched
beetles.
Chained to the rock of helplessness
mind moves in tragic
circles
like an abandoned animal.
I am vengefully in love
with
my loveless existence
and its sad finiteness.
I tamed falcons
in
sparrows' cages.
Here I always followed
my ugly shadow in
fright.
The storm was
a cloudburst of misfortunes
and a whirl of
miseries.
My gifts of love were returned
as accursed totems.
My
words and silences
were misquoted
and my tears and wishes
misread.
In the abacus of a bruised fate,
treachery moved the
beads
in sardonic victory.
In their conspiracy of hatred
I was a
minotaur and a vampire.
Perhaps
in the act
of forgiveness
my wounds could heal.
In the torrent of a new
light
I could glimpse
a new sky of beauty.
But how do I ever
forget
the war heat
that shrivelled my heart?
How do I transcend
these trenches and fences?
How do I outgrow
these hedged and
narrow roads?
Can the stillness
of this chastised moment
ever
make this restless flame
cease to flicker?
After the storm
The
sky is an eye.
In the after-rain-freshness,
familiar sights are
awash
in a new delight.
Though in twilight,
beyond the
silhouetted foliage,
is it the promise
of a serene
moonscape?
If only love would
course
in the vessels of my being,
I could melt and flow out;
or
transform into a sparrow
and wing skyward.
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