Saturday, 30 December 2017

Utterly Forgotten

I have been trying for so long to get your attention.
But you are busy arranging bonsai in Burma teak cupboards to notice.
I bring a few words in a velvet envelope but you put it away without a glance in your rosewood box.
I dive after it and I am soon lost in the myriad cubbyholes and draws and secret walkways. 
I forget why I'm there in the first place.
You shut the box and I'm lost in quiet and dust. 
The dust of centuries and ghosts of the past breathe gently next to me.
What does it feel like to be almost forgotten, to be utterly cast aside?
The ghosts know and now they speak.
In whispers. 
Amongst themselves. 
I am not even worthy of a banshee’s shriek.

Monday, 13 November 2017

Master class

Silence is status quo and of course, you should know, my love, the best in the business of building glaciers and chopping calm waters.
You are so desperate that you put your faith in chance. 
Chances and fates and whims and wishes will take you where you are desperate to go. 
And everything else will follow.
You believe you're here for love but the room is too large for you. 
The distance is too much. And you need to touch. Albeit not strange as such.
The ice in my heart and yours has traveled to our inner core and we make angry cold sex and that's as lonely as it gets.
A victim of circumstance. 
A prisoner with the key. 
A seeker with a roadmap. 
But you don't seek or wish for or desire me.

Friday, 3 March 2017

The clichéd poem of clichés Or This Women’s Day, a guide to women etiquette

do not say:
you’ve put on weight.
you’ve lost weight.
you look lovely.
you look tired.
you’re not colouring your hair!
oh look at all that grey!
don’t tell me- you’re one of those feminist types?
do not say:
you’ve filled out in all the right places.

do not ask:
so, when are you getting married?
so when you having kids?
a Ph.D is more important than children?
Surely you can do both?
are you doing nothing with your doctorate?
this is what you did engineering for?

Handy tips to speak to issue-less women

do not say:
you are selfish.
own it.
well, you never wanted children anyway.
wow, you must have so much free time.
being a mother is the true meaning of being a woman.
kids aren’t the be-all of life, so just chill!
you’ll regret it.

do not ask:
why did you get married then?
any good news?
have you seen a doctor?
is it you?
what’s his sperm count like?
are you doing it right?
would you like a doctor recommendation?
you’re not really a woman unless you’ve given birth to kids, you know that, right?
who will look after you when you’re older?

do not say:
It’s this whole modern woman idea, new-fangled notions to start a family late, that’s ruining our country. Too busy with career and studies, to do what you’re meant to do. If your mother had thought that, you wouldn’t even have been here.
maybe you’ll have children when we are dead.
i hope this year at least you’ll make it a truly happy new year for us.
how old are you?

do not say:
you don’t want any responsibilities, that’s why.
we’ll all help you when the baby arrives. just have it.
only a son’s child is a true heir, not a daughter’s.

do not ask:
who will you leave all your books to?

(Based on true events.)

Tuesday, 7 April 2015

Once and for all

unfinished business sets my teeth on edge
makes me dysfunctional like you wouldn't believe.
makes me numb even dead.
the confrontations the anger the anger the speed
these are the stuff of my dreams
when conversation flows to and fro
and I want to hide but have nowhere to go
that's when I am most alive.
these loose ends need definite trimming
chopping hacking killing
this bastard heart promiscuous in its will
will stay still even
if i have to hack it up
i will.
one conversation one letter one text
one post one blog one note and all the rest
loose ends unfinished business and these matters unsaid
when I am done with you
the past will truly be dead.

Thursday, 20 February 2014


i lurk these cyber spaces
there are so many worlds to go
but everywhere i reach to
nothing feels like home.
how sad that though you're
right by my side
search for you this way
but even for
me, dogged pursuer
this journey has been
in vain.
so i move on
as i am wont to do
finding someone better to replace you
and you can go back to your indentured life
but pretend you're your own man
struggling against lies and strife.


If i could i would
steal all the  things
the world doesn't need
and write them into poetry.
an unwanted child
an orphan annie
will feel right at home
with a lost soul like me
and victims of disdain
the unlike other kind
will realise i am good
once i make up my mind
the bird with a broken beak
the woman from a broken home
will find i am broken too
and shelter in my poem
and shall we talk
of books well written
that no one seems to want
i take them in and enjoy
their beauty and their old fashioned font
the desolate man
on a snow-filled peak
finds pleasure in my words’ embrace
he thinks i am his as he reads
there’s no hurry no race
the world keeps looking for ways to discard
the things it thinks it doesn’t need
but for them i ache
and they don't disappoint
despite my indecent greed. 

Thursday, 31 October 2013

Baggage Claim

that battered suitcase
doesn't look like a lot
but maybe it’s got magic
a few sticks, some pot
that ordinary duffle bag
could tell you stories
like you wouldn't believe
of a dirty weekend getaway
where time went by, swiftly, tenderly, fervidly
maybe you'd prefer the matched set in crocodile skin
that speaks of expensive spas, sex, salvation and sin
and there’s the old steel trunk
rustic in its appeal
that tells me a village girl
has made a green card deal
i bet in the box
packed to breaking point
are ready mixes and powders galore
to curb the worst of homesicknesses
when your heart’s hurting for more
there’s that cheap grey vanity case
unobtrusive , the way she wears her face
she doesn't call attention to her age
and the brushes hold back their stories
there’s the guitar and all its glories
and a little child’s bubblegum pink bag
and a suitcase with an officious sounding name tag
and there’s me.
that black bag
filled to the hilt with books
and memories of you.
that’s all i could fit in, in the end.