As poetry is poetry,
Written words,
Spoken words.
Only poetry is not it all,
As the poets create it not all,
Poetry is photography,
The poet sees them and borrows from
And the mason too not less than the poets,
The architects and sculptors.
To me, the little-little temples, the terracotta temples
Are themselves the great works of art and architecture,
The old-old temples,
Centuries-old, made from lime stone powder and small bricks,
Dating back to
An age gone by.
Think of a time when they do the ‘arti’ in the evening,
Showing the oil-lamp
And praying to
In the so many terracotta temples
With the miniature art work,
Terracotta plates.
The sculptures and figurines on the entrance,
The plates telling of
Of love, devotion, meditation,
The public gathering and courtly assemblage
With the door-keepers,
Devadasis (god’s she-slaves) and sevadasis (saint’s serving-maids) .
The clay-baked terracotta plates but adjusted with,
Stuck to the entrance,
The arched mansion,
The pillars round and thick,
Telling of an age gone by.
No less than poetry in grandeur and excellence, belittling the poets
Who pride over their poetic creativity,
The temples are a lively presentation,
Rarer, priceless and valuable,
The prized possessions of heritage and culture.