remedies

the horror, the horror
murmur the girls at the parlour
this layer of the working man's
tan marking the climb
(the wrong way) down
and hushed whispers discuss
whether to bleach it off or not
perhaps a traditional rubbing off of
while friends and family debate
whether a suitable boy would make
it alright, make it all white again

family resemblance

daughter you have stolen
my face and i cannot bear
to see how you wear it
askew as if it were true
that it now belongs to you
to do with as you please

a chance of rain

a hush fell

oppressive

like unfallen rain

then a voice

heavy and humid

spoke to the waiting

brace yourselves
for here it comes!

slicing through
sharp and cool

clarity accompanied

by the

d
r
u
m
m
i
n
g

of patient

condensation

whose time has come.

touch

your fingers
flutter
and come to
rest
like lazy Sunday
afternoons
in mute response
to mine
tracing
the outline
of your bare
back

mother, not wife

i thought of telling you what the children did today
but you no longer want to know and it isn’t my place
to say any more

woman

i carry all that remains
of you with me
not just in my heart
but divided up neatly
in heart, handbag and uterus
a soul, a snapshot, a memory

write writer write

maybe it's time to embrace
that other face; the one
with the solitary fate
to stop finding side streets
and shortcuts and head
for that winding way,
the destination that has remained
constant since the age of six
maybe its time to combine
life and a living, becoming
at last who i was meant to be
poet alone with her poetry

single

because life happens
i won't wait around
for it to happen to me
i will walk out on my own
and just happen to be
a living and loving
version of me
i will sleep in my bed
diagonally
i will rise with the sun
and sip a truly girlie tea
cinnamon or camomile
i will go out and smile
at all that i see
and refuse to explain
when suddenly night falls
and i want to go home
to be alone and sleep
diagonally

only just

i only want
the love of one man
so let it be
yours tonight
i only want
to hold your hand
to hold it forever
but just for tonight

discovery

i went on holiday
and that’s where we met
me and who I could be
it was awkward at first
common ground was hard
to find and we had to turn
to talking about the weather
it was a sunny day
and it was raining
somewhere else

the same room

tears fall from the ceiling
and the walls shudder and heave
at the memory of bearing
the weight of my sorrows
of holding me close as I died.
coming back now i can see
it has yet to forgive and forget
about me.

possession

They’re crowding me out.
The picture frames from past lives.
The dusty books from college years
with philosophies I used to share.
All those clothes I used to wear.
These odds and ends that hold me down
and don’t take no for an answer.

past/present

it already feels like an impossible dream
my very existence at this moment seems
to be fading slowly away into the pages
of a dust colored old photo album or magazine
of some sort, relegated to the back shelf
and eventually forgotten.

farewell for now

why do I look at myself as if for the last time?
it is not as if I shall cease to exist after all
as the plane touches down on the runway
and kicks up the dry hot sand, nor is it likely
that my skin shall slip right off my bones
and lie in a crumpled heap on the dust
to be replaced by my patchwork suit
that coat of his desires and her dreams
of their perceptions and those crazy scenes
so why do I feel as if I need to say goodbye
to that slightly left of center me?

sweet

hey angel face,
do you know
what’s even better
than a bowlful
of sugar cereal?
yes, indeed
that would be me
a lucky charm
tucked right into
my belly button.
stay in touch
it's been crazy
let’s get together
sometime later
and I’ll tell you all
about the weather
in the south

just browsing

searching the eyes of strangers
i see a rainbow of me
replete with hopes and dreams
fears, limitations and wayward
curls flashing across windows
of brown, blue and green
like window shopping sometimes
i find exactly what i was looking for
a naked reflection in the glass

coming home

some are born lost
and come to find
that home was just
not where they left it
but just a little way
to the right
and they know it
when they find it
for the earth rises there
to embrace her children

Thank you people of Galle!

departure

i just want to lie still and bask in the glow
of the recentness of your absence
all these moments where
the walls still echo your words
my sheets lie exhausted and crumpled
and my heart still beats in time with yours

good advice

i heard your voice today
as my feet were burning
on sand as hot and as coarse
as on the day you died.
and clear as the ocean
i heard you say-
"walk like a camel!"
and i couldn't help but laugh

listen

in the middle of the jungle.
all alone at night.
i swear i can hear it.
jazz.

being

i am beautiful again
because i no longer have to be
beautiful enough for you.
i know where i'm going now
because i no longer have to wait
for you to follow me.
i have found myself again
because i am no longer looking
for you to come find me.
i am my own.
beautiful.
sure.
found.

unclaimed

the earth of this land sticks to me
as if i'll never be free of it.
my feet are ever sandy,
my skin always coated
with an indiscriminate layer;
a grimy mix of hot humid air
and dark, damp soil.
why did your pale dust
never lay claim to me like this?

lost

you say we are lost
on islands apart
oceans of words
and worldly wisdom
between us
i say ride the silence
and let your whisper be
an empty page in a bottle
that crosses the sea

home is...

never felt so alone
and so loved
marvelling at the silence
of a million souls shouting
welcome home traveller!

silver

sometimes my body thinks it's a ghost
can pass through walls thicker than death
making you shiver when i come too close
stealing away that very last breath

wordlessly poetic

burn

how can you hope
to burn brighter than the flame
and then cast blame on those
that chose to refrain
from holding you closer?

flashback

all it takes is a tiny tear
a rip
a cut
a dream
and the worst of what was
bears in like a flood
and wipes the new story clean

recognition

soft black curls
cascade across
shoulders bare
knees kissing
feet dismissing
awkward shyness
in a downcast glance
mirror likeness
gazes back
never felt
so shy before

for marc

the most romantic moment came

sitting on a bus
with someone i don't know

not speaking
not touching

my heart brimming over
with volumes of poetry

mirror, mirror

look at me
my ashy knees
the cuts and scrapes
along my legs
the low lying slopes
of belly and breasts
the tangled mess
of manic hair
look hard
can you find me there?

hmm...

sometimes
i feel the wind
will take me
up...
up...
up into the sky
till my feet
lose their memory
of land

the author

i’m in such a mad rush to read your book that i can’t swallow
the words fast enough and i trip over myself falling
headlong into your pages stumbling
over words, reading, rereading, reveling
in the voyeuristic charm of your voice
as it tells tales of extraordinary love
etched on the faces of ordinary people
while I race towards the conclusion
and you.

a momentary lapse

how could you have made me forget
the possibilities of a night-sky fading into dawn
the tug of kite string in the stiff morning breeze
the wonder of a touch-me-not furling in tight
the miracle of a morning through a child’s eyes

on the subject of me

a friend from yesterday met you last night
and told you of me, how I used to be
a random collection of grasshoppers’ knees
and too much caffeine
you laughed politely and said, yes – isn’t she?

Change

if you were ever to find me
once I have gone away
don’t turn around or hope
to recognize me for I
will not remain the same

first day in galle

white cotton sheets
still cool in the morning sun
that comes slanting in the door
as tiny footsteps clamber
into my bed and tiny arms
embrace my sleepy self

____________________

i want to live in this town
which is kind to strays
and is also kind to me
and holds out its arms
to all those set adrift
from homelands across the sea

try me

i want to put all the important bits,
the ones that make up me,
into a food processor, cuisinart,
or something of the sort,
mix, it and bottle it,
even label it perhaps,
and casually take to
carrying it on my hip
maybe one day you could try it
and then tell me what you think

late night radio

a song my first love sang to me
plays on the radio as I grieve
the loss of you, my last
and I am moved by the universe
which has deemed me fit to love
more than just once in a lifetime

no words

what to say to you – i have no words
to describe the sadness that had devoured me
to indicate the depths to which I fell
how to tell you, my love,
of how hard it has been being barefoot
in this valley of embers with its hills of flame

approach

i saw you once but only from the right
it haunted me a while at nights
i needed just another view, the same
experience but felt anew
i will fly over hill and dale again
return from the land I call home
walk right by and you won’t even notice
that I have captured your other side

someday

write me a letter, tell me the story
someday. down the road.
of why you felt it right
why you thought it proper
to wash away all that was
traces of me

pick up, move on

I always knew I’d be the one
to hold the memory,
and so I set you free.
I’ll be the keeper
for this lot of sorrow
and that bit of despair
and you can continue on -
for only one is really required
for this task. I know
I’ll buckle under
the weight of that pain
– the heartache,
but you should rest
assured at night sweet love
that I’ll bear my load well.

__________________________________________

It’s time to pack up the scars
And pick up the shards
Of my red, red heart
It’s time to pack up old sins
Place them in old jam jars
And seal them tight in
And you know - it’s time to pack up your face
To give it time to erase
From a soul hard pressed
To letting you go.

prayer

we sit on the shore
shoulder to shoulder
where palms come together
and bow low in homage.
absent, we sift the sand
thinking of distance
and the souls of the dead.
there is grit beneath my nails
silence and salt spray
burns your open wounds.

shadow play

i took a great big knife
shiny and serrated
and sliced off my shadow
my feet from his
he's been unfaithful
and i have reason to believe
he flies from me at night
to rest by your side

being helen

even little girls
in the pimply blush
of an awkward youth
and stately matrons
gliding like battleships
over ornate carpets
can be seized up
by a Trojan at any time
to be recast as Helen
beautiful forever
if but for a moment

shoelaces

it’s 8 am and I haven’t slept
for thinking about shoelaces
and how sad I feel when I see yours untied
wearily tempting fate to trip you up again.

69 Pedlar Street

let me show you
how you never grow old
i can hold back the ocean
and time too, if you need
let me be
the sanctuary for your soul
i can wake you in the mornings
with kisses and tea

31 July 2005

blow out the candles
and pass me a slice
cut at least one for
each facet of your life
admire the layers
both bitter and sweet
revel in the textures
use both tongue and teeth
alternatively though
you could put it all away
start a new life
and live it your way

lick it

Jazz.
So liquid.
Thick.
Like molasses.
Roll it on your tongue.
Taste.
Thick.
Sweet liquid.
Then,
Sharp.
And silky again.
Roll it on your tongue.
Taste that.
Jazz.

be there for me

I made you exist.
I made you be there.
When I hear the screaming
I feel the pressure of your hand.
Comforting.
I made you my hero.
I made you be there.
When I lie alone I feel you kiss
the salt from my cheeks.
Loving.
I made you for my anger.
I made you for my pain.
I made you for my love.
You’ll never exist again.

that ain't good

the sweet notes of nina
bless the sour notes of whisky
in this my dusky hour
they play on the strings
plucking out my pain
and dancing on the deathly
silence of this soul
that’s got it bad

tall tales

For a very short while,
I knew my story.
Inside and out.
A tale taller than my being,
larger than my soul.
A spirit testing
the extent of my love
as I have always prayed
to be asked to prove. I was
a battleship in full sail,
heading into a storm..
But then they told me
I was to be shelved,
in a bottle made of glass,
in the fiction aisle.
And I lie broken,
waiting for you
to read my reality.

keep going

let me live
in exaggerated motion
a flurry of movement
a fury of emotion

once you’re done

take a drop
just one, mind,
of his blood
add to it another
of your own then
keep the vial
close to your skin
blood cools faster
than you’d think

nieces

the littlest hands
want to put on my shoes
carry my handbag
walk in the mist
of my perfume
the littlest feet
clatter around
trying to be me
all grown up

colour me tomorrow

the afternoon sun painted swirls of yellow
on the bare canvas of me
then evening came and night fell down
dousing its blues and blacks
melting away the golden glow
i wait in the darkness tonight
for the blood red dawn

shadow child

i see you,
shadow child
adrift on the edge
of awareness and being
you inhabit my soul,
reject my body
remerging year upon year
asking for deliverance.

a minute at most

cut lose
all articles
life; now poetry

____________

open your coat
as you round the bend
let the wind catch you
and fly

pauses

I like it best
When the light turns red
And we ramble slowly
To a stop
Absent to each other
Bathed in that glow
Waiting casually for
The other shoe to drop

past tense

How will it feel
to have to breathe life into you?
to have to deal
with your three-dimensionality
when it has taken so much
strength to let you in
-to my life as an idea?

How will I come to terms
with you being an idea
with a personality,
opinions,
a mind of your own
and a body impossible to deny?

How will I accept you?
Sitting across from me,
eating for sustenance,
conversing to pass time,
extending a hand in friendship?

How will it feel to have no choice?
To be a hypocrite bound
by who I intrinsically am?
Fallen. Your body will fill spaces,
your voice will have to be heard,
your eyes met,
and your feelings acknowledged.

It feels as if my world is limited.
And you will take up all that I have.
You will do so unknowingly.
You will not realize that the air you breathe
freely is the last breath I have.

You will step unfalteringly onto my ledge;
your step is my slip. No room you see.
How much room can I make
in this heart after all? I don’t know
why it is asked of me.

anarkali quits

no evil king with merciless eyes
no broken hearted prince’s plight
i built these walls with my own hands
no starvation, no shelter less sun
no strings to tie me to this post
i have built my own prison
one brick at a time
how could i have failed to ask
just who this prison pleases most
how could i have failed to see
that i built this on my own

don't say a word

it isn’t difficult
to betray yourself. do it
everyday in some capacity
or the other. it comes
as easy as changing
clothes, even easier
considering fabric struggles.
necessary betrayals. learn
to drown out your voice so
it is lost forever. one less
voice to be concerned with. it can
only help to allow the others out
as they jostle and elbow
their way to the forefront clamouring
incessantly for attention. give
them the right of way,
amplify them in hope
that they will wear themselves out.
or otherwise, if you are that sort,
reach your hand into the water,
grope blindly for the voice
you buried there, resuscitate it and bring it back
to the surface and hear your own call
and wonder how will it stand apart
from the din?

who me?

Characteristically capricious
Unabashedly usurping
Sometimes my other self
Surprises me

walk tall

with my mixed up bag of idioms
slung unapologetically over these
shoulders like a lean cow’s behind,
parchment skin tenting over sharp bones
that will no longer have to curve inwards
to protect this heart that beats wildly
with that fluttering fear in my breast
like a sparrow caught unawares
I will leave here, to return transformed
maybe, baby - one day.

no return

you haven’t any home. never did. so when you say you feel
homesick it is just a desperate emptiness pulling you deep
into itself. when you curl up and cry you have no space
in your heart to return to. no past to blame no childhood to
hold to trial, just an empty dock, a finger pointed
in accusation at the abyss.

exhale

push thoughts away
like wayward strands
the breeze blows carelessly
into your eyes
and pay no attention
to the world that rushes
while you stand idly by
forget a while
the life you led and the hopes
and dreams you had
take for yourself just this
moment and deeply,
deeply sigh

no blame

the oddest thing is that
there is no blame
you had your reasons -
i had some too.
intoxicated we stumbled
blind in the need
to shed our skins,
we of no identity
for i have none for you
and you never knew me

going nowhere

Today I have no place to be
No one is expecting me
I am not filling the space
You would expect me to be
Today I am a loose end
Rather than a tree, no roots
No shoots, no sky above me
There are no signposts
Where I stand, and that you see,
Is the irony of someone who
Always knew the way from A to B

urdu

like a stranger’s tongue
it feels foreign in my mouth
while lips part and meet again
surprised at the unexpected reunion
the tongue curls and probes,
a friendly wrestle forms words
undulating with a decadent languor
as I float away on the sound
- treacle waves of molten meaning

pearls

I can write like string
of moments like pearls
each created alone
irritation made tangible

sell by

They have a lot
of funny pageants
in some places.
The even have one
for mature ladies.
Past their prime
but still acceptable
enough in a bathing suit.
But they have to be old.
They have to
be 28 and over.

can you feel it?

Prescription hunger, caught in a bottle;
curative elixir for the anorexic soul.
Just two teaspoons dawn dusk
and in between displace your body
with those who cannot voice their pangs.
Just two, remember, taken daily
Clear crimson, liquid sympathy.

don't move

I don't love you.
Rather, you are the wall
against which I chose
to break myself.
You will never move.
I will never stop.
And if ever you do
move to embrace me
all that lies between us
will be lost.

2:58 a.m.

Sometimes.
I think about you too.
It happens.
The mind wanders.
Unavoidable.
It settles
in its favorite spot.
That well worn dip
in the mattress.

laugh lines

laughter lines
aren’t really wrinkles
but more like badges
of merry merit
and I just can’t stop
trying to earn mine

_________________

someone saw me
laughing out loud
at nothing at all
in the ladies’ loo
i had to explain
that like most things
a good wrinkle takes
constant practice.

meeting

If this space
is actually a map
how many words
up until
I reach the place
where I meet you?

_______________

I almost
don’t
want to
ever see
you again.
Almost.
I shall go
in wound
tight
and then
unravel
like a piece
of string
that gets stuck
to the sole
of your shoe.

child's eyes

how bad
and how
bright
things
get one
after
the other
like god
playing
gleefully
with the light
switch

_________________________________


the clinking the clattering a smattering of tinkling laughter like silver sprinkles mixed together with bubbles of giggles popping at the surface like willful children peering out charmed by the grown up smell of the smoke the spirits the ash in the brightly perfumed air mimicking a profusion of hothouse flowers blooming unabashedly making me wish I wasn’t just six tonight

poet

yes, that’s my daughter. as a matter of fact
she often does sit in the corner by herself
like that. no she’s not special in that way.
but i would say quite unique. she has
a strange way about her. but more than anything
else you see, she makes pearls. yes, you know
those glossy white round things. fortunate?
i would hardly say so. poor child just can’t
seem to string them together.

________________________________

I remember
the evening that
I heard someone
say, I am a poet.
I bristled, was
indignant in fact.
Even though
she was indeed a poet.
I had her books.
Had read each one.
But how could she sit there
and just simply say yes,
I am a poet?

in your garden

A fist sized lemon drops
Embarrassed
And tries to hide
Its largesse
In the arms of the earth

apology

Forgive me this trespass that is none at all
Forgive me this absence for I have never been
more present to myself.
And forgive me too, for coming first
to the realization that we are of no help
to one another

stepping out

I don’t really run,
but I have
this walk
that’s always
threatening
to break into
a run
it allows me to say
that I have never
run after
a bus
for instance
but today
as I tried
to keep pace
with my run
-away life
I happened to step

right

out

of

it

and a pace that does
for asphalt
and corporate
carpeting
does not do
on parallel roads
with their pine needles
and errant pebbles

entry

when you walk into a room
the earth doesn’t stop
its spinning
the chatter doesn’t stop
its bubbling
it has even been known to happen
that someone didn’t notice
you’ve entered
and that my soul is singing

transformation

If I stand still long enough, in the shadows of the frangipani, I will melt into its waxy limbs. Holding out my palms, my bold leaves, I will stroke the the cool summer breeze as it carries a stray hint of jasmine like a torch before it, coloring the night with its charming scent. Softly watching the summer sky with wide eyes, containing a hint of tomorrow’s sunshine in my heart, I will be glad to have stood so still.

trinket

Tonight her tiny looped earring unfastened itself. A silver curl broke away from its circle. It’s sharing a bed with another body that’s the fault. There’s no room to turn without something getting caught against the covers, or him.

He noticed it first; the glint of silver against the soft lobes held him, fascinated.

Your earring’s loose.

Reaching for her ear for confirmation, she uttered a low curse. She cursed the covers, the proximity, the silversmith and her own fumbling fingers that were never able to fasten the wretched little things anyway.

Would you?

Yes, would you ever be able to slot such a miniscule silver thread into its rightful place? Or would you see that perhaps the circle was meant to remain incomplete – it has been known to happen, after all. You could simply say no, admit defeat. Why tie up all loose ends and why commit to the connotations of this circlet, now hanging from its hinge forlorn?

His fingers brushed her skin in their attempt to clasp the sliver of stubborn metal without causing injury. How he’d hate for her to wince. Not that she would. But still.

There.

It’s done now.

A battle won. Someone had to lose.

pink

Driving home from work today I was suddenly sixteen –

dashing for the door but first taking time to twirl
for a critical consideration of my reflection
in the hallway mirror

You look lovely,

you said from right behind me and the amusement in your voice washed over me in alternating waves of hot and cold as shades of pink blushes went down to my toes.

Driving home from work today I heard you speak to me
ten years later, when I thought I’d forgotten what it felt like.

busy

I made lists
all the time.
I kept account
of each moment
lest any be wasted
or even worse
left unfilled.
It’s the empty spaces,
I used to think,
that threatened
to allow visitors in
but here stands loneliness
uninvited and uncaring
of all that I have left
to do today.

knowing you

I just called
To check the facts
Get an accurate reading
Put my finger on the pulse
And find out exactly how fast
A heart can race
When there is
The possibility of you
On the other end.

_____________________________

You smell like August
and its crushing weight
is a velvet curtain
enveloping me,
I struggle to breathe
While summer rises like steam
from off your brown skin.

_____________________________

I wish I knew more about the weather.

I would speak casually
of cloud formations and low pressure areas,
murmur with concern over the Pacific storm patterns,
and remind you to take your umbrella with you today
because of the slight chance of rain.

The clouds grow dark and scowl
at me through our kitchen window.

I say nothing as you walk out that door.

I just wish I knew more about you.

_____________________________

fear

It builds up at night. Emanates like a breeze from within, at first just brushing by your heart, before your mind is even aware of its presence. There is a tightness then, perhaps you stir slightly, brushing it off.

737

It gathers strength as I watch it form, drawing like to itself, accumulating forces and swelling with its own essence until, heavy with promise, it breaks free and runs down the wet window pane.
My attention breaks away from the raindrops following suit and I resume vigilance of the city that sprawls wantonly before me, glittering and winking unabashedly, tempting the watcher into itself. The sky that embraces the city’s magnificent shimmer is dense and impassive, as lovers of such scintillating objects often are. The searchlights atop the building dance across its dispassionate visage, teasing the thick blackness as they skim across it lightheartedly, eliciting nothing more than a low rumble from the thus tortured heavens.
I reach out my hand and place it on the cool glass, which immediately flushes at this familiarity, clouding my view of the bejeweled city far below, a veil that could little detract from my fascination with it. The glass is throbbing beneath my fingertips with the same energy that pervades the atmosphere in the club; it pours into the walls and pounds from within like a mad, unrelenting heartbeat that imprisons my own until my body is in synchrony with its frenzied pulsations. It is the drum of a city and it’s some 30 million people, their hearts beating in time to the waves washing over them, holding them in their grip, enthralling, mesmerizing; every nerve being touched by the fire raging through their bodies. Controlling, commanding, making them powerless to resist, their eyes shining with the sheer intensity of emotion that every shift creates. Each body obeys orders that aren’t even its own and there’s the mounting excitement of knowing hundreds of writhing bodies around it are similarly bound by this narcotic experience, willing sacrifices upon this altar. The spell cast is irresistible, undeniable. They feel the blood crashing within them; angry tides whipping the shore with a fury that has a sense of abandon and delight. Music takes over, each new rhythm a new form of seduction urging them on further and further.
I watch them forsake all notions of modesty and control as they feel the pounding in their ears, the steadily increasing flow of the hypnotic beats, a pulsating effect fans out encompassing minds and bodies. Imprisoned by music and their bodies’ eager betrayal, the heated atmosphere sets souls ablaze, escapists’ doorways to a freedom usually only achieved through the retreat sleep provides from the day’s anxieties, or death’s absolution. There is an all too temporary abandonment of sensibilities, people spinning wildly in a world at once alone and yet a part of the many, each searching for his unique escape.

illusions of grandeur

I’m glad to have not pursued those dreams
Sometimes the failure to do, it seems,
Can be all that remains if you are to speak
To yourself of all that you could have been

bubble

the heart is like a snow globe
sometimes
a tempest rages within
storms of anguish,
blizzards of sorrow
quite out of proportion to the world outside
but sometimes the falling snow settles
and all is clear
and contained.

the same page

I know you’re reading the same novel as I am. I overhear you mention it. My copy is lying on my bedside table. It’s precariously close to the icy condensation left behind by a drink I can’t remember the taste of anymore. Every time I turn the page, I imagine you turning it too, way over there, right across the city. I try to read the words as if I were you. I try to change my perspective, disregard my point of view and squeeze from each page a drop of your reason.

We don’t see eye to eye. When I speak you can’t hear me. When you talk I get confused.

I may as well be reading a different novel altogether.

Perhaps I will.

unmentioned

At times like this the very weight crushes the keys thoughtlessly.
The weight of words that have come and gone, died unborn because of my inability to name them names. Do they matter now, those words at all? Is it too late to beg and call?

meticulous.

you have got your point across
with an economy of words.
you always were frugal.
you meted out my sentence so carefully,
even a pause wasn’t wasted.
and yet
I am still standing here
straining to hear more.
hoping still, wishing hard
for a token of unexpected generosity.

rewrite

Oh, how unnecessary that exclamation
mark is I mean just look at the way in which it sticks out
of that sentence as jarring as the toothpaste blob left there in the pristine sink much like your nomadic socks that seem to wind up not in the laundry but buried in your boots or that strand of hair that meanders so nonchalantly cutting across my immaculate pillow.

This will never work.

framed

for the longest time
all i ever wanted
was a pair of glasses
to frame my world
and give me bite
-sized pieces
of perspective -

glasses which would
make my identity
easy to figure
and let me be
a bookworm

- that's all i ever wanted.

letters

letters
making love
making words
embracing each other
giving birth
to poetry

think of me

think of me
like caramel, warm and languid, leisurely pouring over each sense
think of me
like a moonbeam, bathing your shadows in silvery streams
think of me
like snowflakes, that come to rest on your cheeks and eyelashes
think of me
like a well-worn page, trembling for the touch of your fingertips.

ink

_________________


This talking is heady
and I am drunk
As a page
on the ink of poetry

_________________


I write of nothing
She said, nothing.
I have to delve
deep into this void
to capture the words
to voice my absence
echoes speak of those
that are not there

_________________


Shrill interruption of a fleeting thought.
Jarring shock disrupting 4pm on a Sunday.
Slap of cold water on warm sleepiness.
Heartbreak in the midst of springtime.

_________________

words

________________


like errant butterflies
wafting on an idle breeze
words
with their fragile wings
try so hard
yet don’t get far

________________


pulling a poem
like a magician does
a coin from behind one’s ear
I tug at mine wondering
whether it was really
in my head
all along

________________


I like the crevices
between words
You can fit so much
of me in them

________________


This is a nod to secularity
that never wins
This other a simple bruise
from those without words
And this a toast to the idealism
of dead symbolists
All marked black
only to fade

unopened rooms

Walking into a room that hasn’t been opened in so long, you move slowly as if to avoid disturbing the thick curtains of past memories. You are so aware that every breath is creating craters in the fabric of the gloom that you almost stop breathing at all. The stillness is palpable and the experience seems surreal. As your fingers graze a tabletop it feels like you have lain your hand on soft skin. The smell of yellowing pages and the remnants of leathery bindings are uppermost in the bouquet of gentle decay here, but it beckons to you, like a comforting blanket from a childhood long forgotten. You cast your eyes over the inhabitants, the heavy vases, peeling wallpaper and the shelves of the bookcases, all covered by the protective, unbiased coat of time. You want to become a part of this place, to find your niche and fade into this composition, barely breathing.

wings

She was as a child when they gave her to me. In a plastic jar that seemed out of place without a medical centre around it. I placed her on my window ledge, where I could see her in the fading light of the afternoons as I worked.
I forgot her there.
I left.
She must have pushed herself out gently at first. She must not have understood why the world was such an enclosed place. Her wings would have begun to grow and she must have felt the inherent need to unfurl them. I wonder if she knew that they were meant to float on gentle breezes. There was no place for her wings in this forgotten world I left her in. They must have crumpled, not knowing what to do with themselves.
Perhaps she felt tortured; felt that no one understood how she felt inside. Felt there was no place for her. I wonder if she knew of her own potential. I wonder if she knew that she was stifled through no fault of her own. I wonder if she knew that she was a biology project that I failed to turn in.

ink stains

Have you forgotten
how ink stains
your fingertips
brushing softly
across the starched white
paper leaving tracks
of thoughts
passing through
as you stroke
your forehead
unmindful?

tea with honey

I like watching you make tea in the mornings. The gentle tinkling of cups and kettle give way to a luscious pouring that reaches my ears with a comforting fullness even before the aroma wafts through to me; my eyes still only half-open, just taking in the sight of you, pouring your cup of tea. I won’t feign to be awake for a while yet, call it ritual if you will. I will lie still, listening to you. The sound of your clothing as you move across the kitchenette, a gently rustle accompanied by the sound of bedroom slippers on old tiles, a familiar and much loved old melody that will never wear away. The honeyed sun is brimming over the window, and as it rises it will burst out of that restraint and pour slowly, languidly, richly into the apartment, lighting up at first your feet and then moving up slowly until, to my sleep-dimmed eyes, you will appear like an angel for a fleeting moment. I will close my eyes then, and hold that image in my mind’s eye, savoring the sense of completion you bring into my life, even before my day has dawned.

old pipes

The tap squeaks to life with an irked protest and there is a bubbling in the old pipes before water gushes out of the showerhead. It doesn’t cascade down in a smooth spray, but makes up its own way, spurting in different directions, heavily in parts and barely trickling in others. It’s a game we play, the shower and I; I try and calculate where I can get the most out of it, and it tries to distract me by spraying a stray shot in my eyes when I least expect it.

experience

Experience seems so stale now. It gets increasingly difficult to recapture that sense of delight and wonder with life. I could do this once, but everything was so new then, the changes had that curious mixture of vibrancy and calm that is so autumnal, that inspiration arising from the cheerfully destructive crackle of leaves underfoot and the fascinating nature of a single, singular leaf midway between deciding on the calm green or the fiery red in its wardrobe.
The days then held me close, offering rain and shine, both with such an open generosity, begging me to sample what it held forth to me. And I, I too looked back in suitable wonder, eyes reflecting the spirit of the day, charmed by my solitude that had drawn it out and urged it to reach out and touch me.

leaves

I have great admiration for those who write letters. Pour little pieces of the heart out into inkwells and scratch the defiant emptiness of paper ships. Scratch at them until there’s enough feeling and meaning to propel their missive over time and space into the hands of another. I have great admiration for those who think nothing of how their thoughts and emotions take on indelible, decisive meanings. Take form and shape and leave them never to return. How do they do it - give birth to something so tangible, at once fragile and yet undeniable, irrevocable, and then set it free into a world full of misinterpretation?