Poems by Mini Babu

Pic courtesy : Pixabay



I am a Store

I am a store open for sale.
The takers marvel at my deals,
and the goods offered for sale.
At times, an acquaintance passes,
“How come you had all these?”
he says.

Someone frequents now and then,
twisting and trying me,
few place me on wish list,
when many add me to cart,
but I delight in the ones
who come along window shopping,
they absorb.

I am a store open for sale.
On days I stay shut,
I make and unmake me,
From A to Z and from Z to A.



Boatmen who row from the land to sea,
do they picture more sea than land?
Do they turn more tolerant,
upon striking the shores?
Does the expanse of unbeatable seas
blow up the peripheries of their minds?
Have they come upon a dwelling,
where mermaids feed their little ones
amidst sparkling schools of fishes?
What does it connote to conquer the tides?

I had attempted coming up with queries,
But the boatmen become so shallow
on nearing land, that they narrow down,
to a lane, a family, a home and
start out negotiating on their day’s catch,
to establish their selves.

Ought not they to be more generous,
as there are more waters than land
and more fishes than every life on earth?



When your land is separated
into two nations,
and watched over by armed men
how do you walk back,
to that part where a family reveled?

Whatever was that drove
thousands to get on trains to Pakistan?
And the Jews to an Israel
of their conjecture?

Do the rootless dream of roots
and wake up as light as air ?
How do you convey, “home”
to one who has by no means
trodden a strange land?
What does “comprehension” mean at all?

There are sisters who remain
on the other sides of two states
and greet one another
knowing that things are altogether
different on the other sides.


Poetry and I

Poetry runs in my veins.
It runs parallel to blood,
when the blood count dwindles,
poetry usurps
breathing life into the self.

Otherwise, it stays,
holding back for a chance to seize,
and when it does
all things that should have been done
are being done.



Our local madman
(every neighbourhood has a mad laureate)
at all times, picks up stones from the roads,
sparing the tyres of running vehicles
although, the “less mad” and “no mad”
walk off acknowledging the stones.

While, I who prefer to be regarded
“less mad”, exult at the sights of stones,
and walk away guilt free,
more stones, more accomplished

I even, in secret, desire
that atleast a few stones
on the roads that I journey
certify my sanity.


About the Author

Mini Babu serves as an Associate Professor of English with the Dept. of Collegiate Education, Govt. of Kerala, currently placed at  BJM Govt. College, Kollam, India. Her poems have been featured in various anthologies, journals and magazines. Her published collections of poems include Kaleidoscope, Shorelines and Memory Cells.