Under the spreading java plum

I thought of her,
lying there,
under the spreading java plum.
Its warmth had my nano’s scent.
Slender branches resonated her arms.

She planted it as a young girl,
my mother once said.
It grew with her,
aging as the seasons passed.

I plucked a fruit;
staining my palm crimson
and tasted its bitter sweetness.

A picture flashed before my eyes.
A woman with a timeworn face
and tattered clothes
lulling a baby to sleep.

And I wondered,
how trees could be so mysterious.
Silently watching as
the years passed.
And with them, lives.



March breed strange desires
Reviving dried ideas
Mixing seeds with morning rain
Stirring movement in the dead




(PS. my lack of punctuation is often deliberate if not accidental, it serves my thought process. I’m a firm believer of Paul Valéry’s words that “a poem is never finished, only abandoned”).

Words soften into
a mumble,
Your demeanour—volatile;
opinion flattened
to fit the shallow cabinets of others’ minds.

Dreams lay bare inside of you.
They wake and roam through the night while—
You rot in sheathing
during the day and
choke on their malignant folds.

I don’t know you—I only
remember how you once were.
An eager fixation with life.
An autonomous lover,
fierce and unapologetic.


Jacarandas bloom again

I step out from the dark swamp
into purple haze,
where the long wait ends.

With eyes shut, arms drawn;
I breathe sun’s warmth and converse
with the wind,
in a language —only two of us

And I too— feel the urge to shed all my leaves
and grow utterly


They walk pass me,
All of them
blending into each other,
their shadows endlessly stretched.

A double-shot long black in hand.
Extra focus is needed today,
it’s a God forsaken Monday morning!
They move in and spread out,
mindlessly following the trails.
A pack of scurrying ants.

I come to a sudden halt.
Does no one notice the amber colour man on the sidewalk?

With his head held low,
hair brushing the ground.
‘You’re invisible to them.’
I say to him.
But he doesn’t look up.

‘it’s a nice day’ I try again,
a little louder this time.
A shot in the dark.

He lifts his head, taking all the time he wishes.
And mumble a few words.
I rush closer, afraid that I’d miss them
and he wouldn’t repeat.

“Am I invisible to you too?”


Had I not seen you,
I wouldn’t have believed.

That men with sturdy hearts and
acid tongue often have
kindness concealed.

That their voice –although crude
have softness around the edge.
That they too mourn their dead wives
tearlessly, and often
confide in their children.
And clutching a pillow in the dark,
they too hope for forgiveness.

If I hadn’t known you,
I would fear men with erected moustache
and sickly tobacco scent.
I would mock their medals
and self-recited tales of bravery.

And finally, I’d fail to understand,
that they too have a soul
that surges to rise,
out of its capacity.
But quietly dies with a whimper.