And my soul claims her wholesome

Today morning
Birds lost their feathers
Plants their flowers
Mountains their dales
Deer its horns
And I lost my pen

Piercing out of my heart
The lark has flown away
Heavens have claimed her songs
Angels her smiles
God her soul
And my soul claims her wholesome

She had a bird in the cage
A falcon with screeching cries
And with a sharp beak
Ready to pore love and ties
It had a fragrance
Spread everywhere in the labyrinth

The tree is still there tall and high
With a lightness of cool and warmth
Standing sentinel to soldiers of love
Shading a roof for fighters of lust
Beyond the hamlets of stags
Orchards of butterflies
And slums of values and priests.

Literature has become poorer

The world of literature has become poorer with the demise of celebrated writer Kamala Surayya popularly known as Kamala Das, who with her candid writing forced readers to introspect and delve into the nuances of humanity.
Kamala Das, born on March 31, 1934, was one of the leading bi-lingual writers who wrote both in English and her mother tongue Malayalam in her sobriquet ''Madhavikutty.'' Born to V M Nair and renowned Malayalam poetess Nalappatt Balamani Amma, Kamala had spent her childhood in Calcutta, where her father was employed, and Nalappatt, her ancestral home at Ponnayurkulam in Kerala.
Kamala took to writing poetry at an early age under the influence of her uncle and writer Nalappatt Narayana Menon and her mother. But she wrote professionally after her marriage. But just because she was the daughter of Balamani Amma, or the grand niece of Nalappatt Narayana Menon, one would not become a writer of Kamala’s genre. Writerhood is not a position that comes by genes alone. And Kamala was some thing special to her readers. And came the criticism: oh, she writes sex, that is the reason. Was it? Would the so-called worthies introspect now?
Like a colorful parakeet, she would wear a burkha, she would go on speaking through her stories, through channels, through words to her listeners. She deconstructed the sense of values at least among her readers. What is the loss of value? She asked how does it happen? Is it because a girl and a boy speak in the public or even go to a grove to kiss? It is quite natural a thing, she would argue. She went ton to say that to be a lover is the realization of womanhood. It, says Kamala, a small piece of paradise on earth.
In 1965, through ''Summer in Calcutta,'' Kamala wrote about love, betrayal and its consequences and it was received with great enthusiasm by the readers. Kamala broke away from the shackles of the stereotype few women writers of that time and through her frank writings even wrote about sexual matters, which were usually swept under the carpet by the Indian society.

In The Stone Age from The Old Playhouse and Other Poems Kamala writes:
“Ask me why like
A great tree, felled, he slumps against my breasts,
And sleeps. Ask me why life is short and love is
Shorter still, ask me what is bliss and what its price.... “

Kamala is no more. We pay homage to her fond memories.