How Writing is a Journey

      Writing is about writers and readers going on a journey together. The journey is beautiful in and of itself. And there might not be an end. But what’s important is the reason why we’re journeying together. We’re on a journey to unravel our own individual purpose in life. Literature has replaced religion….

Before Emigration

      September 1964, a week before Independence     The summer was bright over the rocks and the sea. A seagull dived into the water. A young boy watched it and thought of German bombers diving over ships and cities during the war. He was young and he wanted to jump into the…

The Nature of Innocence

The Sun Rose Too Soon   The sun rose too soon over the horizon. It wasn’t an act of defiance, but of Fate; For the sooner the day breaks, the sooner night falls. In the weak early light, fear of the nocturne Is at its height. Yet each morn we forget The comforting dreams of…

Beauty and Impermanence

  He first noticed the girl the day after her mother died in a car crash. It was such a perfect day. One of the first days of spring that fills the sky with screaming brightness. How such a tragedy could happen on such a divine day was a mystery that hung heavy in the…

One and Only Childhood

One and Only Childhood   A house lit by the solitary sun Crowns a hill too distasteful to name. A white sky and a grey vertical climb, Greets the memories of my One and only childhood.   Days spent in the cobweb of fantasy Travelling, scheming and manipulating, Universes that only I knew existed. These…

Numinous Childhood

From Childhood to Eternity Those eyes, still so fresh with the dew of youth, Will see things no poet’s pen could ever entrap; Noble Mexican tapestries, French vineyards of olden silk, Azure domains, verdant realms, celestial weaves, Waves without ships or men, races of a thousand hues, Greeks, Kurds, Quechuan and the ancestors of man….

Inner Landscapes

Childhood   What world is this With so many blues? Birds fly like planes And houses Have balconies for faces. Olive trees Shake hands With palms. And beaches Drown with the tide. Oh mother, I don’t know!     The Pen   Like snow To a mountain, Or the cocktail To the man who screams…

Poems That Stretch And Contract

Snails Among Bones   Quiet, and listen; a blade of grass is impregnated by the sand, Blown across by southern winds that hoover the Sahara. But the grass doesn’t matter; it’s a backdrop. The backdrop doesn’t matter; it’s a blade of grass. A bird of violet blue flies like a nationalist overhead But don’t worry…

It’s So Cold I Could Die Again

  If the Howrah Bridge faces West, then, am I looking East? Boys in black boxers bathe in the murk of the river, cleaning themselves with what is unclean, laughing at what isn’t funny. A stoic girl, too too tall for her age (she thinks she is eleven, but for all she knows she might…