Gone to bed.
It is three days
Since you have
Combed your hair.
It is a week
Since you had a bath.
And six weeks
Since your dog had hers.
It is three months
Since you popped
The baby pink multi-vitamins.
It is half a year
Since you met your only best friend.
Woe to your scraggyscornfullistless world
Where the moonlit sky exists only in the grand
Lullabies that one of your grandmothers sang.
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Lines addressed to a warrior
come.colonise me.creep into the hollowsof my landscape—my eyes click lock:no more the drawing of the gates.set up your home your officethe writing desk and the trading post.ignore the sand-brownof my skin—a willing blindi’ll never know black from white.take me and talk of your finer finishstunned i yield, so script your stories here.invade.this inner-space.adjust the pace…
Ours is a silence
And then, unable to bear itany further, it breaks into wails.But not all suppressed reactionsend in our bemoaning the tragedy.Sometimes,the outward signalsof inward struggles takes colossal formsAnd the revolution happens because our dreams explode.Most of the time:Aggression is the best kind of trouble-shooting.
And both of us become strangers onto each other
We will look beyond eyes and run into each otherAs usual, for the rest of life.I do not know what you wouldTreasure of me in your mind.But in billboards plantedAcross my fervent heart,I will celebrate you as the manWho made me woman.And there are the small things that I would always remember:Your affinity to catch…
The King had sent captains of the army…
No more. I have blotted out, like a thick cloud,Your transgressions, and like a cloud, your sins.My strength is made perfect in weakness,There is but a step between me and death.I’ll be exalted among the nations,I’ll be exalted in the earth.I’ll never leave you nor forsake you.Today, you’ll be with me in Paradise.I am the…
Six thirty in the a.m.
Gone to bed.It is three daysSince you haveCombed your hair.It is a weekSince you had a bath.And six weeksSince your dog had hers.It is three monthsSince you poppedThe baby pink multi-vitamins.It is half a yearSince you met your only best friend.Woe to your scraggyscornfullistless worldWhere the moonlit sky exists only in the grandLullabies that one…
Morning Song
And dusty greyThe sky begins to blush.Some sleepy careless charm welcomesDaybreak.Even SongAzureAnd pink gold huesThe smug sky at twilightA final flush of fulfilmentNight falls.
Gone to bed.
It is three days
Since you have
Combed your hair.
It is a week
Since you had a bath.
And six weeks
Since your dog had hers.
It is three months
Since you popped
The baby pink multi-vitamins.
It is half a year
Since you met your only best friend.
Woe to your scraggyscornfullistless world
Where the moonlit sky exists only in the grand
Lullabies that one of your grandmothers sang.
(First published in Sweet Magazine, South Africa)
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I fancy myself being a witch.
Thin, stark-naked and with fire for eyes.Killing men whom I despise.Bewailing the woeful life I led.Casting dark spells, makin’ them dead.Thronging ghettos, to unbend bent backs.Handing them knives, ’least an axe.Lot later I fly to temple streets.Our men firm, I show my feats.Haunting oppressors to shave their heads.Cutting all their holy threads.Experiencing joy as they…
anaconda. candy. cash. catamaran.
ginger. mango. mulligatawny.patchouli. poppadom. rice.tatty. teak. vetiver.i dream of an englishfull of the words of my language.an english in small lettersan english that shall tire a white man’s tonguean english where small children practice with smooth roundpebbles in their mouth to the spell the right zhaan english where a pregnant woman is simply stomach-child-ladyan english…
Unlike in fairy tales, young heroes die.
Robinhoods and Messiahs that never lieAre done to death, Evil winning the fight.Heroes are bled; not just deprived of lifeGod turns in his throne, the dead in cold gravesAnd perhaps death ends the lifetimes of strife.Is slaughter the prize for not being slaves?Brave men encounter blows, fight their case,Leave forsaking the world they came to…
here, the hurried truth:
of battling death andkeeping him at bayyou became the startaking struggle in her strideand we became the bodybreaking free, we becamethe scream cutting loosefrom the curse of silence,we became the protestthat poured like bloodfrom a wounded nightand learning from you,we became the fleshthat became the fight.
Everyone speaks of him.
they gush about the powerof his words his flourishesof rhetoric his direct approachhis raw reproach his felicity inferocious Tamil his three hours inthe sweltering heat rousingangry young man rally speechesthat make men out of mice andmarauding wildcats out of menfiery speeches that subvert andoverturn and unseat and revoltspontaneous speeches that unsettlestates and strongmen and sinistersystems…
the pot sees just another noisy child
the water sees a parched throat slaking thirstbut the teacher sees a girl breaking the rulethe doctor sees a case of medical emergencythe school sees a potential embarrassmentthe press sees a headline and a photofeaturedhanam sees a world torn in half.her left eye, lid open but light slapped away,the price for a taste of that…