I will write (a roseate sonnet)

I will write, I will write
until this world is a riot
until my funeral flames ignite the torch light.
I will write, I will write

until there are no more tomato hearts to bleed
until war Rests in Peace
until corporate conspiracy stops to breed
until the incessant plunders of earth cease

until the topaz oceans stink no more
until my rhymes break apart into free verses.

Rocks undergo metamorphosis too
Oh! human glacier hearts, will you not melt?
Slumber is a sly serpent, wake up!
Exert yourself, until then I will write!

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh


Autumn arrives like an elegant princess
wearing a tiara of golden leaves.
Burgundy, brown, purple and yellow
as sequin shades stitched like sleeves.

Winds unfurl like redolent memories
smelling of cinnamons, berries and fresh figs.
The musky perfumes of patchouli and currants
dancing to the whistling rustles of sprigs.

This Winter must be a wicked queen
like Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth to slither.
Stripping off the mahogany trunk and twigs naked
as broken bread crumbs the leaves fall to wither.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh


Prose based on a prompt.

She drove past a little late than usual.
Her languidity nibbling the fatigue of a tiring day when struck on a traffic jam near the traffic light that made no sense at that juncture at the junction.

The moon was a complete circle whose slivery rays of silver silhouetted a rather morbid night.
Her own honeysuckle fragrance fading into a whirlpool of dollops, she looked around in frustration at those vehicles moving in a tortoise’s pace.
“What the hell is this traffic jam?” she vented to herself, her angst mere whispers across the four corners of her four-wheeler. She looked around, opening her windows, gazing through
motorists trying to peep and peek through between narrow gaps, one with a wife carrying a baby at the back.
“Endangering their lives!” she lamented unveiling her own anguish.

Across the pavements, a dozen people were walking, clothes tattered, carrying bags like bundles of pillows, seeking shelter, two young children among them, emaciated, dried flum
from their noses, trying to match and catch the steps of adults.

An array of appalling thoughts spung past her like a quick reverie; her windows opened her to a new world, a dawn of thousand thoughts flashed, her infinite dreams faded into her own shadows of complacency.

“Pom, Pom”, a car behind her honked. She came back from those quick whirlpool of thoughts that taught her contentment.
Reality jolted her.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

The end of the game

She exudes the radiant fragrance of her white jasmine smile as she walks through the day’s unfolding.

Come nights, she is a pomegranate
inhaling the breath of her red fury
beneath the veiled mask of the seeds that are her smile.

She is her own Government.
She is her own court.

Is she a Lady Robinhood?
To brood as one would?

Past tense.
P.a.s.t. T.e.n.s.e.

As transparent as lucid dreams
as pristine as newborns
was she, not long ago!
In a game called rape played by
four brutal men,
she lost her virginity.
As wildly as the game was played, she reacted.

C.o.m.e. b.a.c.k.
A great comeback!
Time is ripe and so is the pomegranate of nights.

Tonight is the big day!
As mysterious as the gossips engulfing the deaths of her three predators,
she treads through the mysterious valley,
wearing her mask for the final time.

All four done!

And finally, she marries death as her
eternal companion,
confessing to her conscience!

Copyrights @Brindha

Navarasas(nine essences) and their corresponding bhavas( emotions) for monsoons

Haasyam: mirth , laughter, etc.

sparkling smiles,
a million a moment,

Shrinagara: Love, attractiveness, etc.

Raaga: amirthavarshini
Dance recital: Peacock
Accompanying artistes from Devlokam:
Krishna’s feather and Karthikeya’s vehicle
Guru: Nature
Venue: Open auditorium

Raudram: Anger, fury

Is it the anger and anguish of
infinite mustard seeds spluttering on hot oil
the lava of sound waves erupting against humans?

Kaarunyam: compassion, tragedy, etc.

Oh Varuna, God of rain!
Neither has the Boologam sinned nor the Devalogam for the rains to be born from the womb of virgin clouds.
Why is there a monsoon failure?
Would you not bestow your blessings
for bountiful harvests?
Oh, Varuna, would you not show Karuna?

Bhibatsam: disgust, aversion, etc.

Oh! The Agni (fire) 🔥 of ire, jealousy and
evil Pyres are burning!
Varuna, come and extinguish the flames!

Bhayanakam: Horror, terror

Oh! precipitations of snow and sleet!
Will you not show mercy upon the naval fleet?

Veeram: Heroic act, mood, etc.

Incessant, record rainfall, splash!
Lavish lash of Mazhai in a flash!

Adbhutam: Wonder, amazement, etc.

The dance drama of sunlight and rains!
Subtle reflections of colours, rainbow!

Santham: Peace, serenity, etc.

Man vaasanai, the plesant scent
emanating from silent droplets!

Human interaction with the monsoon.

I sit on my verendah, frustrated,
a sort of feverish feeling engulfing me
when suddenly to my merriment and glee,
the first song of Amirthavarshini reverberates!
( kaarunya, adbhutham)

I venture out, excited, euphoric
to dance to the rhythmic taalams of rain
like a child, evaporating the feverish pain,
kissing the first Pallavi of this season!

Oh, Why has the song stopped abruptly?
why are the charanams not being sung?
Why am I adamant and naive like a child young
to listen all at once to the entire song?

Oh, Sakhi, I miss you! Your warmth,
Your embrace and your presence!
Infuriated by the thoughts of your absence,
I yearn more for you at this untimely hour.
(Shringara, Raudram)

Aah, what magic is this of the monsoon?
The song resonating with renewed energy,
but alas! my energy is down to be in synergy,
I sit and enjoy quietly in the bliss of peace!
(Adhbhutham, Shantham)

Continuous spells this time, determined,
I refuse to sleep, the incessant melodies
invigorating me, drenching me in rhapsody,
making me her ardent fan, Oh, Amirthavarshini!
(Veeram, Haasyam)

Is it a quick coffee break in the concert?
Yes, I relish my first sips of filter coffee from freshly brewed decoction,
from the greatest granules of concoction,
when the uninvited croaks of the toads nauseate me!

The toad and the scorpion creep
as uninvited guests distorting the mellows,
like a cross talk of irritating hellos,
repugnant and frightened, I shut the doors!
(Bhibatsam, Bhayanakam)

Amirthavarshini- a raag in Indian Carnatic music to beckon rain
Hindu mythology terms:
Devalokam- the house of the Gods
Boologam- Earth
Varuna- God of rains
Pallavi- the first stanza of a song
Charanam- the subsequent stanzas of a song
Taalam- rhythmic beats
Sakhi- a female friend/ companion

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

It’s enough:

Enough, it’s enough!
The tears of war widows have withered,
why drench them with fresh spells of blood?
Enough of beckons of radicals leaving no one to the seemingly beautiful rhythms of war.
When you die, your power becomes
powerless, meaningless.
All blood is red,
across borders and boundaries too.

It’s enough of all the atrocities and abuse,
fighting and killing in the name of
caste and creed!
Capitulating to the captivation of imprudence
and dichotomy is not an act of pride,
it’s a syndrome of ignominy.

It’s enough!
The migrant laborers walking on
sands of shattered dreams,
swallowing pangs of sorrow
today amidst an uncertain tomorrow,
traversing between the edgy bridges
of life and death, all lives matter!

It’s enough of hearing,
seeing and complaining.
It’s time to act.
When one is born, one is destined to die.
A breath does not distinguish,
acts of kindness,
acts of humanity do!
When one dies, nothing matters,
your ego, your wealth and superiority
burn as ashes too!
But they remain, remnants of your
good deeds,
as sown seeds,
and that’s when people get to see
the dead living!

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Random Reflections:

Instant inspiration,
a lightning flash.
Sudden eruption of emotions,
a volcano.

Poetry, a hybrid child from this unorthodox marriage.

The air is a smoke of avarice
choking me to death,
bit by bit.
I am afraid I might die a premature death
for so obnoxious is this breath
that I inhale commercialism
and exhale poetry.

Copyrights @Brindha Vinodh

Peace: A lost voice

Fragmented like bits and pieces
here and there,
me, Peace,
a wandering soul,
an incomplete whole!

I quiver within
like a shivering patient,
the knells of nuclear bombs
piercing me like agonies. Ouch!

What can I do when my torso is hoodwinked,
and annihilated by antagonists
speaking violent languages of war?

I can only cry
and soak in tears like you
in aftermath
beneath the smokes of the black sky.

If only your ears you would lend,
you good-hearted human friends-
a vanilla dawn might not be as elusive!

Will you lend me your ears?


Lies, like Statistics,
have colours,
depending on the source.

When from a distant end
the honey-dipped love of
my mother pervades like an aroma
enquiring if all is well
whilst from the embers of a viral fever I suffer
uttering “Yes, I am ok,”
muttering within in unease
with puerile eyes of anticipation,
my child comes with a silhouette of a landscape from her sapling hands
asking if hers is the most beautiful art in the world,
and I nod in the affirmative
when there could be better ones,
I speak white lies.

They bear no impact,
yet have an impact
but I carry no guilt
for white lies are like elixirs,
and do I need to tell you that love is blind
be it of any dimension?

But there are other lies,
reflecting true colours
of men, money, mafia and much more
to be soaked and washed by waters
sans sins.
No, detergents shall not work here
for they are artificial and superficial too.
Monsoons, monsoons and more monsoons!


I like this sail in the silence
of a diamond night’s pride
under the cashew crescent moon,
blushing like a glittering bride
to the winks of the sapphire lake.

The trees are swaying, singing
odes to Wordsworth,
adding colours to his verses
from their rainbow blooms.

The night jasmines are adorning us,
you and I,
with garlands of their white pearls.

We are getting married again,
dear mate,
with greetings from Nature.
A rich wedding indeed!

This moment is an aurelian memory
for age, like time, is a mere nothingness
and now if death shall invite me,
I shall graciously accept it with glee.