20 MIN.

Can you hear that.

Can you hear the screaming of the wind

As it is strangled by the emptiness

Of a road we used to walk together

And the dust we kicked up.

The dust settled so long ago,

There are pavements there and the road

Lies broken, and the pedalists fall,

And there is no money.

The train is a better option,

Because the children are never quiet

And I am never left with my own thoughts

Which usually contain you,

And the seats are so worn out,

And the tea sellers have grown old,

But broken cups litter the station

And I will never truly leave

Because there are no destination thoughts

In my mind and the space next to me

Is without you.

You aren’t here.

Have you seen the far away lights,

I wonder who lives there,

I wonder who died there.

Lives are lived on a horizon and we glimpse

Past these bars and broken leather.

I can hear the howling of the wind through

Which the train breaks,

I can see the fields which run through this land,

And the women that tend it.

The same women I cannot touch,

Because I was born into a system made

A thousand years ago,

And perhaps a thousand suns have died

And a thousand sons have died

In the grief of this.

Things can change in a day

I once read. 

But a day is not enough to reorder

A world so stubborn

That I can’t even love you.

I carry that burden in my mind,

And now, I carry destination thoughts in

my lungs which dance with anticipation

as the rains dance with content.

We used to dance in the rain

On a terrace from which Orion

Was seen. He watched us too,

And in the night the stars of a thousand years

Counted us, and our conversations.

One. Two. Twenty.

That’s how many generations we can count.

Two. That’s how many generations it took

For everything to fall apart.

Now we can’t wander very far,

and roads are left unwalked on

and baghs are left undiscovered,

and freedom is held in captivity.

So we seek a world in words and

On marble steps under the trees we become

So wise, but just for a summers worth.

And in the cold winter,

This memory will fade,

Because you can’t see very far in

The snow who’s chill sets of over my skin

And soon I feel nothing at all.

The arrival of a changing season,

The glimpse of a lot more cannot warm

These emotions and that’s why I write poetry,

Because words know no seasons,

And it’s so cold the windows are frosted,

But in hear I can feel the wind of summer harvest,

And the smell of swings.

The subcontinent is calling.

I hear it through the voices of strangers,

And I heard it within you yesterday because

you’re eyes carry a warmth I have not felt in months,

and suddenly it’s summer again.

You are summer.

You are here.

I am here.

And lights have never been bright

Because everyone looks far more beautiful this way.

That’s why they never complain,

Of electricity that only lasts a few hours,

Because when the night graces, 

The poets and dreamers come out from

Underneath the coarse hands of field work

And under banyan trees they sit and pass

a cigarette and wander back to the youth,

when idealism was in freshly ironed clothes

and trains that ran from the east and west.

When idealism lied in new brides and wasted grooms.

Before he beat her,

And before they’re children left with that

Same idealism gleaming in their eyes,

And returned with their own children

Who would never know the winding path

Through mango trees or how the monsoons

Make children of everyone.

They find everything in screens and markets,

Never knowing the beauty of a handmade fan

Or a doll which will be drowned every year

And resurrected.

The cities dig deeper into the ground

And rise higher into a gray sky

And we can barely breathe through the smoke

And dust and we are choking of progression already.

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I trace the empty footsteps you’ve left behind,

Into hallways that hold fragments,

Of your curved back passing through it,

Carrying destination thoughts,

While I carry thoughts of you.

I can never catch up,

Because you arrive so quickly,

and I am always tracing you,

but shadows cannot be touched.

 January 13, 2014




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I have watched rivers take course in your eyes,

And sinners dip within their banks,

to wash their sins,

and your eyelids are now so heavy,

with the burden of forgiveness,

which you could never really give,

because the holy river was never truly pure.  

A filth lies deep beneath its floors,

And as you blink,

The bodies wash ashore.

January 10, 2014

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I have not written a poem in 3 DAYS.

There are problems to solutions we found a long time ago, 

but I never carry through. 

I am afraid of consistency, 

because it fails me and I fail it. 

The only consistency I find within myself

is breathing, 

and sometimes things get so hard, 

even that escapes me. 

This is more of a monologue, 

written as poem, 

because ultimatley 

art is anything, 

and art is nothing. 

January 9, 2014

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It was my birthday

I do not want to hurt you

despite the fact that you’ve hurt me

for almost 3 years now. 

Your sadness makes me sad, 

and that I continue to love you

after all this time, 

just makes me sadder. 

It was my birthday. 

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There is a place people go to die,

But I hear they fly instead

They plunge into emptiness

but find themselves carried by

the wind into the open expanse,

To find themselves weightless,

Cheating gravity.

There is a place people go to fly.

I hear the thud is barely audible,

Like the sound of feet barely touching the ground

And taking towards the sky again.

There is a place. 


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Clouds from our mouths,

And the cold devours us

As we would devour the laughter

Of those we miss too often.

The fog settles on ice

And we pass through it with

Stumbling ease.

I watch so many fall,

Only to rise soon enough,

Mustering a dignity from between

Paining limbs.

There is a beauty in learning,

In gliding amongst the cold air

In holding hands with you.

In falling.

In rising again, even though

The cold devours us,

As we would devour the laughter

Of those we miss too often.


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I have seen letters written backwards, 

because they say life is best understood that way. 

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Emptiness is not an unoccupied space,

But the memory of two day long train ride

Across the subcontinent.

Emptiness is attempting to recall those

Sensations and emotions

But it’s been far too long,

And we’ve grown older.

Emptiness is when the young child comes begging,

But you will not cry

Because you’ve forgotten

What innocence once felt like.

It’s been far too long,

And we’ve grown older.

Emptiness is this house

Whose strong walls could not prevent

A collapse so strong it has crushed us.

Emptiness is what I feel when I

Return to it.

It’s been far too long,

Emptiness is not an unoccupied space,

but the loss of spirit

in the most beautiful of people

and in the strongest of spaces.

Emptiness is not an unoccupied space. 

[January 3rd, 2014] 

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You are the fleeting thought I could not catch.

You are the photograph, which looks so familiar but is foreign because those are not my ancestors, they could be anyone’s. But I can make them mine, because history belongs to no one, and history belongs to everyone.

You are the smell of the dust that rises at dawn and settles at dusk.

You are the empty train, because I did not leave when they announced it was the last stop. I stayed on through the empty tunnels and deep into the night. You are the broken window they never fix, through which the wind travels from one station to the next without a ticket.

You are the swing on the trees  which have lain empty too long, because while the women grew old, their children grew modern.

You are in these lines which you will never read, because a fleeting thought cannot be caught and the trains will swell with the morning crowd. 

[December 29th, 2013]

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