habit, hope, illuminations

A river to forget and another to remember

Here again every evening, like a ritual
I hear this ruckus of seagulls,
so far inland and no signs of rain.
I search for the meaning of this anomaly –
I’ve heard this primal dance predicts
some kind of mishap – a storm, perhaps
the ground suddenly moving underneath.
Equally violent and buoyant are
the games we play with our watches.
Trying to find in mythos an escape
and a healing, even though we know
Lethe only flows in the caves of Hades.
Yet we return again and again flying
to the planes of forgetfulness
looking for subsistence in leavings.

change, hope, illuminations

A prophecy lived


Many years ago in a random rabbit hole I found an image of a town called Santorini, I didn’t even know it existed. It became my muse for a while and I wrote a poem about it and tagged it as “prophecy” (see below).

Meanwhile my whole life changed between the time that I dreamt of this place and when I actually visited it, and I don’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that all those changes have somehow led me to this moment of celebrating my 30th in Santorini.

Dreams are not the ladders on which you climb but stars to point your life towards, some you cross, some stay with you and some disappear. What is important – is to dream.


habit, hope

On Ease

You dream of a place where your body
isn’t the way you protect yourself
where it doesn’t become
the barrier it’s made of itself.

Once in a dream you were infinite like that
everywhere you went- silhouette invisible,
you expanded into oceans, moons & mouths
there was no other.

You reached out and could not see
the edge of your hand, your hair, your breast
everything had turned to forests
claiming you, teaching you how to be.

hope, illuminations

Set to sea

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Cold winds, blurry eyes, and that gunmetal sky
I have learnt to capture you in a bottle and set you to sea.

Whirling you in the vast ocean of blue,
I hope you find comfort in the deep,
That being taken over by waves, by swings of tides,
the storms inside you, will ebb.

And when on a lone windy island, a little girl finds you
she may uncork- a spring.


Dear, Rain

Today, as I sit staring out at the window,
At the water sprinkling down like confetti,
I hear laughter from a friendly gathering downstairs,
I hear my whistling kettle, that I don’t remember turning on,
I hear things I haven’t heard in a while. —
Like peace,
I listen to my heart, that has tried to tell me this recipe of contentment.
For years, I have trained myself to ignore.

You told me once, as you opened the door to the balcony,
and the sun fell on your eyes,
A little boy was you, and calm your companion.

Would you believe me if I told you, I feel, once more in the holds of childhood?

Would you step out and play?


An ode to the city

A story starts again, Manhattan
who would’ve thought, would drink up the dark
with its incessant hope and night-lights,
the drunk, the gypsies, the fireflies.

Running down mid-town on a rainy Sunday afternoon
I wanted to hold your hand and tell you
that all is white again- this city, the city
where greatness has walked for many years;

that seems all grit and grime and blackness, outside
has finally bleached us in its blinking lights.

I wanted to lean over and tell you
that the island between us is green again.