Oh little purple flower ― standalone, blooming, in the silent graze of the wind, sip at your nectar and watch the visitors for they come in numbers but a few, and have their hearts painted with the slate-like shade of dusk.
Oh, write a good poem and go to sleep - to wake up in a place where poetry grows on trees and she plucks them every morning to decorate your room.
Woman, when you dress in that sari - clad in its creases, decorated in jewels that hang from your ears and the curve of your neck, and fit your tender fingers, I lean back on my cold steel chair and suck out smoke from a cigarette, crushing the filter between my lips. Woman, when you smile,… Continue reading Woman: Part II
I met Kelli Gunn in the Poetry Review and Discuss group on LinkedIn, weeks before she published her first poetry collection 'Pot of Uncertainty At the End of the Unsettled'. I immediately got myself a copy on my Kindle and finished reading the poems in a single sitting. Her writing, I thought, was like a… Continue reading An Interview With Kelli Gunn, the Poetess of ‘Pot of Uncertainty At the End of the Unsettled’
Now that I have drank coffee, I seem to be fully awake, and morning is still happening, bringing in the monotony in my part of the city - young boys roaring on motorbikes, men and women at the temple, grocer's cart, bakeries, and flower shops; girls from the aviation institute in their mini-skirts, showing their… Continue reading Stray Morning
When I was with you, the sound that the rushing traffic made, consisting of bikes, scooters, cars, buses, and an ambulance, were to me as pleasant as the sound the cow makes while grazing.
Paralysed in bed with your thoughts and morphine.