Poems, and more.
Pollen in air nostrils, shirt, . . . Sneeze! Goes wheeze - thin mucus film; hands rush to cover face's embarrassment; impulses quicker than reflexes. Handkerchief lies crumbled in pocket, then instantly taken out - clenched in hand, wiped harshly on the nose in an upward direction. These pollen fly hither and yon from dusk… Continue reading Spring Sickness
I am often left with: a) countless drafts b) filled ashtrays c) low self-confidence d) strained eyes among other things when I try to write about you. It used to be easy - my pen would draw you out of my memory, make your impressions on the paper, at which I would gaze - a… Continue reading Farming my Blues Away
A guitarist plucking on the G-sting, your hand, a feather against mine come a little closer if you please, and I'd speak to you the secret of wine. Wrap yourself in your hand-crafted scarf, and make a little room me too, for this night has now shed its only layer of clothing and urges me… Continue reading Unaddressed Grievances For The Passing Winter
The dead leaves fall at my feet - has spring arrived? Perhaps, for I felt its ecstatic warmth when You brought your face nearer to mine, saying: isn't this day a warm one? A warm one, indeed. Winter now only gets to touch me at night when the Sun is not around anymore, is gone… Continue reading The Spring Of My Life
A crest of feathery pillows, your eyebrows, govern me sternly to reconcile with that dead self of mine which would spend hours musing, drawing them in my memory. *** Art by Jackie Morris
This winter, the Sun drew far away from the Earth; drew me away from you. The season arrived with coconut oil freezing in the plastic bottle; the skin longing for the affection of the Sun. The day passes by and the night gets colder; a fire is lit to kill time and to kill the… Continue reading Unaddressed Grievances For The Winter
The rain in me drips and platters, runs down the parched surface of my coarse skin, and I find my self in a pool of rainwater which grows and grows until it becomes the sea. The sea in me roars, and engulfs whatever I hold dear. It's dark and deep like the abyss. It spurts up… Continue reading The Rainy Days Are Yet To Come And The Eternal Sea Is Already Roaring
A Peacock in a forest of trees so high, dances in its bluish magnificence - the long glittering tail spreads like a fan and the crown, like tiny flowers offered to the Gods, sparkle in the dainty Sun. But women who chop off their glistening hair! *** Art by Christy Freeman
A man with his unfading spark is worth caring, for: this is when he can be nothing, but himself. The spark in a man must not die; the spark in a man must glow briskly. But alas! Such has Providence taken a turn - man coats himself with lust and greed - a coat of… Continue reading The Portrait Of A Man
She lights a cigarette: ripe black berries - her lips - hold without regret the cigarette which she rolls with the smoothness of silk - her lips horizontally caressing the glued end; the warm Sun collects its warmth and places it in the fierce flash of fire struck by the matches gripped in her palm.… Continue reading Morning Ritual
Ribhu 