Born on the 5th of October, 1963, Johnson P. J. is an Indian national. He worked as a teacher for twenty years. He has published 6 novels and three books of poetry. He won six state level awards and two international honors. He has the space theory Einstein and Carl Sagan predicted, which challenges many fundamental ideas in physics, and is working with it. At present, he is a teacher in Arunachal Pradesh, India. His pen name is John Kolyav.
The paddy fields of my memory are parched
After the harvest of sorrows
The parrots of oblivion had gathered
The grains of dreams scattered here and there
And flew far away.
Though the sheaves of my remaining days
Are piled up for threshing
In the courtyard of solitude
When you peck my mind
With the sharp tip of sickle
I draw mysterious pictures
By the blood oozing out,
From the quivering feet of wandering thoughts,
Along the arid land of life.
O my dear,
We had threshed together lots
Until the last grain falls
At cockcrow when the flickering flame
Of lantern begs to shut its eye a while.
Even when the incessantly lashing Monsoon
Soaked all our hope
We waited patiently to dry up everything
On a glorious morning of comfort and leisure.
Before the curtain falls
You abruptly wound up your role
And our children in their own stages
Also left me alone.
Still, why do you pierce my mind
With the sharp sickle tip?
‘Along the Red Street in Mumbai
In this twilight, let’s go
Obeying the street’s law
Don’t be surprised
If this road resembles a cloyed serpent
Wriggling against its dark conscience
And if these ghettos with weathered walls
The last stage of syphilis
I rarely use, my friend, this shortcut
Where betel-chewers’ stinking red spittle
Displays cartoons on the pavement
Where darkness from the broken sewage pipes
Like a caged beast
Tries to unleash itself before its time
Behind these walls, in the dark unseen corners
Shivering fingers and burning bellies
Are waiting for some middle aged man of fat pocket
Here, microbes stick to coins and notes;
Blood, sweat, tear and semen
Mix up forming a viscous liquid black
Sufficient to stain the national pride!
Here give way cries and sobs
Of some abducted maiden to resigned sighs
After begging in vain to a minister or a multimillionaire,
Paid heavily for the hymen
While their armed bodyguards
Keep vigil to shoot anyone frowns
But safely let’s go,
Obeying the street’s law…
I walked along The Great Wall of China,
Glimmering under the crescent moon,
Stretched like an endless girdle
Around a cold and secluded civilization
A guard shouted behind,
‘Sir, you may remember the Ming Dynasty
But don’t forget to respect the dead!’
Yea! Each foot of it was built upon the corpse
Of a peasant, slave or prisoner
Perished under forced labor
Who remember the throbbing hearts
Of the concubines
Buried alive with a dead monarch?
Who hear the muffled cries
Of the slaves mummified alive
Within the Egyptian pyramids?
Who perceive the stains of blood
On the stones of the spiritual monuments
Kissing the holy sky?
Religions and regimes
Had one torch or another of faith behind
For aiming clearly their sword,
Cord or gun on every execution
Faith, the crescent moon,
With its hidden dark side
Was shedding enough light
Leading me along….