Jyoti Nair

The quintessential transformation evangelist, Jyoti Nair, has acquired professional prowess, in the capability development and project management gamut, incessantly catering to rapidly diversifying business needs. She currently spearheads multiple operations for L & D and Quality Assurance, spanning across HR and Recruitment, while being employed at an Indian Multinational Technology Company, acclaimed as an unparalleled global leader in IT Services, Digital and Business solutions. She finds the process of writing therapeutic and nurtures the poetry raiment as her second skin. Her works feature in numerous, global poetry anthologies and distinguished poetry journals, has won many laurels for her literary pursuits, however she inherently cherishes her solitary quill and fervently whets her pen in stoic resilience.

Clair de lune…

Transience of lucent, 
Perhaps that’s how I should illustrate my summer lineations...
The albatross flapping through my pinnae
Reciting that cinnamon scattering cinquain... 
Will it decide the dichotomy of tonight’s quarter moon? 
Will the moon’s explication be a monochrome trickling cataclysm? 
Perchance, she will be a monostich heave, 
Unveiling the brachylogy of those erroneous embers, my scalded nights, in a few inflamed convulsions... 
Hope it won’t be a hackneyed
Cryptic prophecy, or an approbation... 
An aria clasping the bellowing ankles of mermaids entwined with sea tides? 
These are vapid life-rigmaroles, run of the mill balderdash, 
Curdled air, coagulating from wily blood-wheezing into cudgelled gelid cobblestones... 
That pedestrians castigate as discourteous... 
What my twilight doorway yearns for, is ‘clair de lune’, 
A mosaiced marmoris, that her glances will dwell on... 
That hummingbirds will pick twigs from, to make toys for their squeaky nestlings... 

Annaprashan

Preface:
Facts on female Infanticide:
In India, there are less than 93 women for every 100 men in the population. The United Nations says an estimated 2,000 unborn girls are illegally aborted every day in India.

Annaprashan: First Rice Eating Ceremony. 
When the lady was shoved into the police van, 
Her jubilant blood-simmers primed her jugular veins, with condensed purple blatancy! 
In tandem, was a blood-grinning sickle, audaciously screaming in combustible decibels... 
The lady’s crime: succinct snapping of lives, of husband and mother-in-law... 
A conceited slaughter, executed with equanimous flair, 
As if she just had to spread her starched cotton saree on the clothesline... 

As the police van inhaled through the swarming Dharavi populace, 
The lady sat, prancing her clobbered collarbones... 
With an air of haughtiness, as if being ushered onto stage, for an award... 
But she has won... Don’t you realise! 

She has won, innumerable awards, although she killed only two... 
She won because she saved her daughter, her bosom-blessing, her Durga’s tender mouth... 
From being smothered by Oleander seeds... 
The saree that she bought for ‘Annaprashan’, has an embellished red border... 
“I could have worn that today”, she muttered...
As she heard the lady cop order the staff, to prepare some rice porridge for her child... 

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