Category: Poems

  • Knowing you

    Despite these nihilistic rants, I write,  a small, hopelessly naïve,  irrationally optimistic part of me wishes we could leave this world alive, together, either by rapture or  second coming, not experiencing  those final throes and violent reminders  of a life wasted — one recklessly thrown  away, despite what we’ve achieved or who we’ve become. That…

  • Recovery

    I spent years disgruntled like a weary Ufologist pitching his tent in the desert and looking through a telescope for signs and symbols, like a first-grader attempting to play Liszt until time broke me like lightning tears a telephone pole, now, aged, with regret caressing my face with her fingers like the first five syllables…

  • Post-Valentine’s Day Sonnet

    I think I’m letting go of the unsettling past with every tick and tock of the old clock, with each  sweet, precious moment spent with you. I’m holding fast  to rhythms, patterns, and things I’d deemed out of reach;  songs, sequences, and echoes promising much more than dying haunts — the yellowing grass and spoilt…

  • Cringe

    I had a blog here in 2013  riddled with quasi-religious  poetry and redundant imagery.  I used the same words and  phrases to convey something  that wasn’t even clear to me.  Chaff, grain, tree, moss — words I’ve now almost eliminated from my lexicon, depicting some throes and triumph, some  vague battle that didn’t make  much…

  • Meh

    I’m listening to No Surprises  by Radiohead and I can   relate to the song, despite  Thom Yorke’s terrible diction  which verges on drawling.  It’s like listening to a   dirge-lullaby or a romantic   funeral song, and I have to  look up the lyrics.   Yes, no alarms and no  surprises, and I mean…

  • Dilemma

    I’m exhausted and   want to say more  and not settle for   beautiful with a   😍 emoji, because I  think she’ll think  it’s just another   useless comment  by some guy who  hasn’t read the poem,   who wants followers.  It’s not true, but I can’t  think of anything else.  I’m drained, and I…

  • A dream

    The saints ascend to Elysian realms step by step   while I only dream of chariots of stars,   carrying with me from age to age my pain and scars,   burning with false fire and quasi-pep.  The saints cross sea green silky fields,  having fought the righteous war and won with their breastplates of…

  • Burnt copper leaves

    1 As we passed   the paddy fields  on our way  to the Nilgiris,  their burnt copper leaves  interspersed with sickly green   evoked a sense of belonging   in me. A oneness  with creation and perhaps  even the Creator.   I was listening to John Mayer’s  Slow Dancing in a Burning Room   and…

  • Season 2

    They’ve renewed your   favourite show for a  second season and you’re  super excited, scouring   the internet for theories  on who the puppet master   is, or if Jack will turn heel.   Will the werewolves attack   or will the time-travelling   merchants buy them off   with promises of brilliant  futures in…

  • Weird

    Is the art of writing good art   to lose all inhibition   like Sharon Olds  with her detailed,   anatomical odes to her  mother, carving with  syllables the cave she exited and the nipple she drew   milk and blood from?   Visceral, strangely alluring,   profoundly deep. I could  do the same, write…