Saturday, August 28, 2010

I Am a Failure

To you
My writing has no import,
My reading no class.

You make all my words
Seem like carcasses of thoughts,
My thoughts
Irrational whims.

Nothing I do or say
Is enough to win your respect,
You would have me love you,
You tell me 
you love me too.

Your apathy to my desires
Sometimes makes me wonder,
Do you love me,
Or the way 
I love you?

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Dreams and Realities

Your silhouette,
strong against the darkness
of my soul,
Fills my heart
with a yearning
so overwhelming that
I swoon.

Your breath
plays with rhythms
in a symphony of
whispers in my ear
my innermost secrets.

Oh, the ecstasy
of first love!
Oh, the fervour
of that first touch!

Those moments,
hushed in their decline,
are no more.

agonisingly persistent,

Thursday, August 19, 2010


Two of my poems at Alors, Et Toi?

Another one

really old one

All things girl

All things girl again


Scream: collected poems
Edited by Jewels Johnson 

The general consensus in the world of publishing is that people don't want to read poetry any more. Publishers have canonized dead poets and then laid them to rest. Gravestones adorn the shelves of every mainstream bookshop. Meanwhile, the new poets, the new voices have been stifled, reduced to a muffled cry from beyond the catacombs. They are screaming to be heard.

These poets scream in this anthology

Buy here: $14.95 + P&P
The Poets 

U.V. RAYTrace SheridanToni LopesTom GantSteven HandSophia ArgyrisShea GarrityShannon DunmyerScott HarrisSara Pascoe,Samantha McquillenRobert James EganRobert CappsRabab KhanPeter BudvietasPaul ComanOmotayo OlaoyeNicole Hester-FrancisNick LindeNiccole SeguraMike SnowdonMercedes DawsonMeleina Backhaus, Mea Lee ThomasLolly GLeo ChasseurLana BurkeLahana MysteriaJudy KaberJoni RamosJohn ArthurJewels JohnsonJenni MeredithJames GormleyJack ThomasIsobel EdmentHayden C. Clear,George WoodGabrielle FaustFreda VeluzEric SchwartzDee Toth-Jones,David DannovDan BeckCorey EvansColin WilliamsonColin Dardis,Cheryl MarrenBillie the KidAntonio BeadallAnnmarie O'Connor, Amanda Walczesky

Wednesday, August 18, 2010



Darling, you may drown me
If you wish
Watch the bubbles
Emerge to the rippling surface
From obscure sapphire depths
Silent evermore
I shall smile
As you vaguely stare.

Darling, you may bury me
If you wish.
Let the last glitters
Of earth in your fingers,
Flow down to rest.
Beneath the liberating mounds
I shall breathe in
The fragrance of your touch.

Saturday, August 7, 2010


I have something to tell you. 

You would think it's a rat, roaming around inside the walls. It makes a strange, scratching sound like someone trying to get out. I, of course, will never let it escape. Why should I? It never would come back if I did. I feel better with it trapped inside the substantial walls of my house, always moaning and screeching to be let free again.  

Some nights, I lie awake listening to it beseeching me and I snort at its desperation. Oh, what consolation I feel hearing it hammering away at my walls. My walls are too thick to be broken, too strong to be penetrated and too tight to let it breathe easily. The joy! I can sometimes feel it carousing through my whole being like cool silver, energising my very soul. I rub my hands in triumph for what I have achieved is something no mortal could ever do. It is the thought of this victory that keeps me going through life.

In the supermarket, I sympathise with all the people hounded by theirs, for mine is locked up. I see them hustle from corner to corner, from shelf to shelf with their kids and their problems all in one, big parcel. Outside, everyone is in a scurry to get somewhere. Me? I just saunter along nonchalantly, smiling at the drivers honking in the traffic jam. I am in no hurry.

Tonight, it wants to talk to me. It reminds me about everything I'm missing.
"You have to let me move on! This is not the way it was meant to be," it argues.
"I don't think so!" I reply with a smirk. "You must learn what it's like to wait. You must wait...for me!"
It persists. "You don't understand! Think about all the changes that have happened...."
I interrupt it, "What changes? I'm the same and nothing has changed." I blissfully tell it about my life and the serenity that I now feel.
It is frustrated soon and starts its banging and screeching again.
I am happy.

One fall evening, when the ground was thick with leaves as yellow as a dead man, I had decided to get rid of it. Nothing could touch me after I had bolted that door. Since then, I have been bold, for I had thrown in all my fears of tomorrow with it. I no longer have them to keep me stirring at night. I now sleep tranquilly when I want to. I have no appointments to keep. I have no one to wait for.

It is talking again. With a festering tongue and a voice hollowed with my barrenness, it begs me. My ears take in the whining and my senses are fed.

Somewhere, inside me, a voice still calls occasionally. A voice from happier days, a voice from before that fall evening. It asks me to move on. It has become easier to drown it now.

You can't hurt me anymore with your almond eyes, your enthralling smile and all that you took away with you into the grave that fall evening. Unseen leaves float noiselessly to the ground and it is always autumn for me.

Self Deception

Why do you tell me
Not to love you so?
It seems
My love is a burden that weighs
Down on your shoulders,
But I believe
What seems,
Is not what is.

Father Part 4

' He is really well-dressed and graceful,' she thought as he knocked at
the door. She was so engrossed in watching him that she didn't realise
it had been five minutes since he had been standing there.

'Mother, Uncle Sikander still hasn't opened the door,' she shouted.

Maybe a bit too loud because the young man turned around and looked
straight at her. She whipped away from the window and blushed when she
realised that he most probably thought she had been ogling him. She
was startled by the ring of the doorbell. She peeped out of the window
and the young man had vanished. Incredulously, she opened the door and
saw the young man with a worried look on his face.

' Um, I was wondering if you could help me?' he hesitated.

'Who is it?' asked her mother from the kitchen.

Shamim looked at the young man and he said ' My name is Taimoor and I am
the grandson of Mr. Sikander. Can you tell me if he is at home?'

'Well, he was when Shamim went there a few minutes ago,' said her mother
appearing behind her. 'Wait, I have the spare keys to his house. We
should check if he is O.K.' she said walking to the key hook next to
the door.

Shamim looked at the ground and sensed Taimoor's eyes scrutinising her

'Here they are,' said her mother holding up the keys. 'Now lets see what
he's up to.'

All three walked to Sid's house and Shamim's mother unlocked the door.
There was a gasp from Taimoor and a scream from Shamim as they entered
the small room and saw the small old man lying huddled on the floor.
The always practical lady, Shamim's mother, hurried towards him and
pronounced ' He's dead!'

Shamim stifled her scream and stared wide-eyed at the kind old man who
always volunteered to help her with her homework.

' How is it possible? I just left him a few minutes ago and he was fine
moving about arranging things and all. He was so excited about his
grandson coming to meet him,' whispered Shamim.

Taimoor moved towards the old man he vaguely remembered as his
grandfather. He stroked the wrinkles on the old, loved face and closed
his eyes.

'He was too happy! Too happy! Just couldn't handle all the happiness!'
he whispered as he held up an old photograph that had been clutched in
Sid's hand. Shamim saw it was the photograph of a young boy sitting on
Sid's shoulders. Below the picture she saw a scrawled word: Aly!


Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Mortal Coil

Oh, to lie beneath the stars!
Permit the echoes,
Silence blows my way,
Soothe and calm
My inner world.
Unlike the hum,
From treasured dreams,
Of splinters embedded
In my soul.

Oh, to lie upon the clouds!
Let the softness,
Of non existence,
Heal and mend
My worn spirit.
Unlike the abrasive
Slash and cut
Of taboos chafing
Against my heart.

Oh, to lie today!
And be allowed to lie
For ever more.

The Innocents

She believed in angels,
in starry nights and
rainbow coloured dreams.

She believed in smiles,
in flying bears and
bright pink fairies.

She believed in love,
in joyful giving and
warm glowing togetherness.

This little dove,
In a dress stained crimson
and cheeks lacking skin,
What does she believe now,
as she lies strewn over the battle field?