Home » Poems » Best » Fabiyas M V » Best Fabiyas M V Poems

Best Poems Written by Fabiyas M V

Below are the all-time best Fabiyas M V poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

The Anxieties of a Widow

May stretched its legs into grave.
The thunder heralds the rains.
A hut on the bank of Kanoli canal
Is not re-thatched this year.
Her infant’s illness made the doctor gay
With all the wages she had kept.
Summer takes the last breath,
But the coconut leaf thatched roof
Is not re-thatched this year.

As the widow stands on the threshold,
The rain clouds gather over her sky,
And the wind scatters terror in her corridor.
Will the tattered roof be flown away?
Will the rain drops make pores
On the roof of her life?
Where will her child crawl and smile?
Question waves are thus getting high;
Her canoe is ready to be tossed.


(The summer season ends in the month of May and rainy season begins in the month of June in Kerala)

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

Type- Writing Class

A.S.D.F……..he typed,
Retyped,
Again did it, again, again………
Tick….tick, tick….tick……minutes sicken.

Soon his nearby seat she took,
A new student with hairs black,
Just a glance,
Next day, a smile, sprouted silent roots.

She got up and turned;
Her shampoo smelling hairs patted
On his face,
By chance.

That night on red bed his,
Fancy dress contest of fancies.
In love birth pain,
He does roll, twist, turn…………

He is earlier student, day next,
In attires newest.
But she came never,
Vanished in the life clouds.

Slim…..brown…..gentle…..
Still lingers shampoo smell.
His solitude pokes the sensorium,
Recollections….tick….tick, tick….seriatim.


(Set against shy rural background)
FABIYS M V

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

A Coconut Tree Climber

He climbs up rhythmically 
keeping his legs
within a ring of rope 
like his life.

Intuition assures
the ripeness; 
life-nut falls down  
from the tree top.

Just a slip
will end in all end, 
but practice
rarely slips.

Though the ways are hackneyed, 
he’s honeyed and free
under his calluses.

Morrows and yesterdays,
he never climbs upon.
He hugs today, green and yellow
like the coconut tree leaves.

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

A Girl Who Sells Peanuts

She floats on the saffron shore 
holding a bamboo basket.
Her heart beats 
within the shelter
of peanut shells.

Toys and text books, 
picnics and pamperings; 
all collided on a wall, 
but death dropped her 
to be tossed.

The girl in a dirty frock –
she sells parched peanuts
for coins and eye-pricks. 
‘Peanuts’, ‘Peanuts’ – her 
withered call haunts
 her parents in the grave.
Her pale figure walks away
with Time Teacher.

Fabiyas M V

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

A Lunatic Lady

In the harvested field near the canal,
she roams with a mind slid from its rail.
Her muddy skirt and brownish hairs 
flutter in the salty wind like flags of insanity.
A lonely night – the west wind smells the burnt canal fish.
Fire burns like her emotions on the bank.

“During the windy season, lunacy’s let loose” – her shrieks
and shouts are neglected in the rural logic a night.

As her stomach swells like a ball day by day,
many questions bulge out.

First printed in my book, 'Moonlight and Solitude'(Raspberry Books, India).

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

The Holy Book

Let its light of peace
Not be shaded by
The bullets and bombs.

Let the wounds cut and shot
By some senseless
Not scatter terror around it.

Let a few blind 
Not choke it, locking it
In private drawers.

Let its words, ’’To slay one innocent
Is like  slaying all the humans.’’
Put your guns down.

Let its fields, where 
The truths and miracles ripened,
Be reaped by all.

Let this holy bloom,
Bloomed in the boundless desert,
Fill its fragrance in the rotten valleys.

FABIYAS M V
(Dedicated to Mr.Abdurab,a social worker at Maranchery,Kerala ,India who requested me to write on this theme.)

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

A Jasmine Garland Seller

A female tongue pushes me down from the swing of sleep.
Rain kids rouse the stink of railway track in the dawn.
A long chain of complaints tinkles on her lips.
Worries about her female children at home
rise up like the black smoke from the train.

His liquor reddened half opened eyes gaze
at the life-like-fan – its rotation makes him dizzy.
His sweet brown lady drags him into his duties.


She arranges attractively jasmine garlands 
in her basket on the floor of the compartment.
Basket never enjoys the fragrance, but only carries.

First printed in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope, by Punkswritepoemspress, US.

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

English

We explore –
earn and exist –
with a language 
of old exploitation. 

Like a mulatto,
Indian English 
is a hybrid. 
It’s as our culture –
there’s a unity
in diversity. 
We winnow ideas out
of dialectal chaff.

Language
mustn’t be imposed. 
Linguistic
extremism is a myopia. 

Wherever you grow,
your mom and hue 
remain the same,
but your tongue can be 
changed from the cradle.

English thrives above
creeds and colors,
connecting continents,
never demanding a passport.


First appeared in The Literary Hatchet

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

Nimisha

In her layette, she looked fair.
‘Nimisha’, the parents called her.
When aged five, the polio plucked
the strings that her legs moved.
As a stringless violin, her legs rest.
In the wheelchair, she grows up
along with her mother’s tension,
and father’s anxiety.

The rustic children wish her
but nobody takes her
to the festival
in a shrine rural.
She wears new dress
but as the butterflies in her frock,
she also cannot flit
to the shrine yard.

Cough waves, today also, 
shake her lungs so.
The distant drumbeats and the holy music
move her fingers in the wind rhythmic.
The clarion does resonate and ripple
the divine thoughts in her ears.
She never knew 
pneumonia packing her soul.

Serenity of the twilight collapses
as, again, the drum storm develops.
Few knew Nimisha swooned.
Later, the people intoned,
“Being holy, 
an apt day it is.”
In emptiness infinite,
her parents knew her truly.

Details | Fabiyas M V Poem

War and Children

…Cambodia, Rwanda, Syria…
Wars never cease 
on the earth. Peace is pulverized. 

Each battle drags children into a
vortex of anguish 
in the front line or at home. They 

lose their butterflies among bombs 
and bullets. 
Pure rapture curls like mango peel 

in tension. Tender lives tarnish.
Lullabies are 
lost in the death rattle. Scattered 

young blood stains history. The 
voice from beneath 
the headstone is not an auditory 

hallucination, but a doleful echo 
from a little soul.
The orphans get food in the refugee 

camp, but where will they seek their 
lost mom and dad? 
Childhood charms are mutilated. 

They’re prisoners of trauma. A 
platoon of terror marches 
through their mental corridors.

First published in "The Humans in the Wild" anthology by Swallow Publishing, US.