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Showing posts from September, 2015

After Aylan Kurdi

After Aylan Kurdi

You know what red is
What is to be faceless and
What mornings can bring you.
Sea shore is no more a theatre

Where you go watch
the flames of the setting sky.
But a menu card,
That exhibit soft flesh
Cold and frozen out of her womb
For the stillborn us,
building castles on the sandbank.
After Aylan Kurdi,

Don’t speak of mother’s love,
It will drown before dreams sprout wings.
And fathers too slip
In to a world of hollow pits.
Don’t speak of love,

Of you and me and other kinds
On Starry nights, Where
dreams come true.
Nights are for watch towers
like owls, looking for prey and
wind, like waves in your lungs.
After Aylan Kurdi,

Shutting Down

My dissected history won’t speak for you. Don’t write on me or on the graffiti that sing of Marley.
Your lyrics are your own, that build bricks of closures.

Words are polygamous Like rain is to swirls on a pond

But dear, My canvas carries yellow fields Like Van Gogh did To the hill top
Where birds flew in fright.



A Woman is but the Land beside the River

A woman is but the land beside the river Flowing into the original sins of the fluids. Her throat, the curve over the valley,
a steaming volcano from the fresh wraths of a love, lost.

The cultivable land
The axe
The seeds
The sprout.
The summers of her man
As a distant canvas.

No lizards cross the wall Nor do snakes, on the road Only frozen pole stars,
Waiting for the womb,
The red earth
beneath the grave of fireflies.



Can I call myself Absurd?

If convictions framed histories
How awkward would have the world looked like
Bulging here and there like ginger hunchbacks
How fast the pathway vanishes in to the dark wood
Leaving no trail of the distances covered.
Each call you make to your home

From hill tops of brown and white
Carry the stillness of the yet to be.

Who said life is not a bed of roses?
Roses are vineyards
And vineyards blackouts.