Poetry, I realised wasn’t something I could force. There were times, it came to me like a revelation. but mostly I maundered, in search of a word, like a missing puzzle piece. I knew there was a word. That would fit and legitimise, my expression. I knew it existed, somewhere in the hollows of my […]

I thought of her, lying there, under the spreading of a java plum. Its warmth had my nana’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 […]

Its a Thursday morning. People are hurrying like ants. All in motion, trying to get somewhere. Probably their non-desirable nine to fives. Heads buried in flimsy screens, ears plugged. Seeming focused. Ignoring their kind. March rain falls quietly. Seated at last, I notice a child of four beside me. With his mud brown skin, glistening. […]

Its a real tragedy that every prose, every verse has already been written. In some way. Every pain has been felt, every sorrow expressed. It steals our take on originality. and stirs an avalanche of unease.

Stellar deaths, atoms colliding, constellations forming, all happening, right this moment. In my teacup.

A shadow lurks again. Hovering over the rooftops, looking for the previous tenant. Displacing my belongings. Searching for a prey. Its furry and malignant touch, topped with disgust and hunger I let it. I’m calm. I’m not who you’re looking for. Not anymore.

Nazim Hikmet 1902-1963 “I mean, you must take living so seriously that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees― and not for your children, either, but because although you fear death you don’t believe it, because living, I mean, weighs heavier.”