Because Memories

Because memories aren’t memories unless they spin
in a haze of blue, firmament and ocean overturned

into an infinite mist, congealing into an occasional
cloud. I’m beginning to separate the shades, the unsaid,

cobalt at the edge, the untouched, pale as covered skin,
the unawakened, dark and restless in the middle, waiting

for words, for warmth, for touch; the unforgotten,
whirling in random patterns, blurry, wet, between the

truth and the want, the azure of unloved seas, of unkissed
sky, the virgin cerulean of hesitant dreams, daring to

reveal, only to disappear. You didn’t teach me the colour
of a fallen promise, of an abandoned love, of a shadow in

the unsunk depths, of the hue of the past when it floats
sapphire, an imploding moon inside unopened eyes.


First published on Visual Verse (Vol 05, Chapter 03)
Check the link to see their picture prompt


But there is the manifest form with all its imperfections,
and an amorphous mind, soul you call it, consciousness,

being, a viscous cloud of fear and time and knowing; one
the sum of the past trapped in tired skin, the wind of millennia

beginning to erode its edges as it does mountains and earth,
the other still learning, still yearning, an aggregation of

everything wrong and something right. Yet what is your love
that arches its body and frees its limbs and lets its eyes fill with

the light of invisible suns, when I remember another that can’t
be held except by another emptiness, the edges dark with the

warmth of stars that must have once lived; who mourns these
dead stars, love, who knows that the absent, the unseen, is

accentuating the immediacy, the salted curves of the present?
What is my aching form but what your mind gives my body?

Just Yesterday

Just yesterday, you said even the wretched moon, always
knows she has to leave, her veil trapped by the gaze of an

uncaring sun, and that wind, clinging for a moment to oak
limbs is only gathering her skirts to run, yet I hear them argue

in the grainy twilight, blaming each other for inconstancy,
for caprice, until they stop for a moment, eyes purple with

remembering, like an odalisque on shifting sands – the music,
silenced a long time ago, only the echo stumbling alone through

the silver desert for all eternity. Maybe love too wants to be held
even as it yearns to be free, a perverse atheism that secretly hopes

for the redemption of a wordless faith. Just yesterday, you spoke
of impossibility, as if it were certain, like a god, like the paradox

that rustles the way a virgin pirouettes in the darkest night, a point, 
a whirl, a fleeting forever that the sky knows it can never have.


That night, time and I sat on the couch,
barely talking, the ginger tea growing
cold in ochre mugs,

ignoring the moon
that walked in through the window,

its dark half draped over its arm,
shaking its head at the improbability
of a moment that wasn’t.


Published on 2nd Jan, 2018 at One Sentence Poems.

Ritual of Departure (On Autumn Sky)

Happy to say this poem was published today on Autumn Sky Poetry.

Many thanks to the editor, Christine Klocek-Lim.


I walk this dying year slowly down to the edge. You laugh, tell
me I am holding his shrivelled arm too tight, he totters now, his

voice feeble, not that he has anything left to say. I wait for him
to crumble to ashes so I can hand him back to ocean that birthed

him, how many times have we done this here, how many times
have we stood at this door, me empty hearted, this silent Bay

of Bengal, waiting in seeming nonchalance, wave after wave,
counting down the seconds. Remember the time he was broken

before the winter solstice, I brought him in pieces, in black plastic
bags, parts missing, and once, long ago, when I did not want to

let him go- all that crusted angst has turned blue wine to salt, yet
this sea burns the fire of a new day in her belly, our ancient…

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Beating against a door that
will not open,
a portal to the other side,
where gardens are watered
with moondance and wine
and truth blossoms like roses,
heady and coloured by sunsets,
again and again, 
pounding the door with tears and cries and
fists that bleed,

and yet when I wake, I stand
on the other side,
holding shut the door that
will not open,
pounded by fears and lies
and fists that drip
with wine,
bloody and coloured by sunsets,
again and again.

Was it Better?

This poem was published in the December Issue of Peeking Cat Poetry.


Was it better when
we exalted wind and earth
and sea and sky
and bowed to them as gods,
was it better when
we hadn’t stripped
tempests of their arrogance,
penumbras of their veil,
the eccentric moon of her moods,
when the only dreams we had
came from birds and stars
and there were no words,
so from a single smile
we could make up a million stories,
everything we needed
we found in clouds shaped as deer
and deer that broke the
mist on the morning hills,
now I feel you shift in your sleep
a shiver curling into the space
between us,
the rain drifting down
my window pane gives me
a curious glance,
and I wonder what it might
have felt like
to never look for shelter. 

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