Leave you the drama of
Colonialism, post-colonialism?
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There was a time
With my mother, father and auntAnd brothers and sisters,But now live they not,Just the house is thereBut there is none to keep inAnd look after it.Life and its changing timesNot often the same all the time,What today is withMay not be tomorrowAnd above all, this age of displacementPlacing you there where there is noneTo be…
None but I myself tore it, the jeans pants
Stitches and jointsTo make it look like the faded jeans.The colour faded it not,But we made it look soAs for becoming, tired of modernity, ultra-modernAnd hence looking for a way outAnd as a result of that,The face looks wrinkled even in spiral days,The young girl looks oldAnd the old looks young.Where have we come to,Where…
From mid-March to mid-April,
Chaitra and Baisakh,The monthsBlazing and burningIn the heat of the sun,The fireball over,Below the earth parching,Cracking,Roasting.
In the States
Fearing the fundamentalists,She will not returnFrom perhapsAs she has becomeThe loveOf an American Jewish boy.The Pakistani dulhanOf the American Jewish boy,An intercontinental marriageCutting the boundariesOf which but it dividesWhich but love knows it notAnd the protagonist too has to growWith the changing to times.
They drink and drive,
Driving in drunkennessRecklessly, staggeringly?
A Guyanese poet
SingingIn the cane fields,An indentured labourerOn a British shipSailing farWith no hope forThe return journeyTo be back home,A coolie in an alien land.