humid breath 

between the rain and I 

a steamed window

one kettle
brews a future sip
of both tea and mint


leafbird dashes

once grey air 

now flourescent green 

damp wood
quiet lungs
final monsoon


Late Night Buffet 

Engrossed in the internal debate of what to pick, a software engineer

Besides a diamond dealer, besides

A socialite wearing a pearl necklace, queued 

Behind a child with a mushroom haircut 

Wondering where the desserts are 

The server aligns the buffet 

A match strikes – outside the hall a cigarette turns orange 

Soft rants about the cocktails by people drinking mocktails 

Opinions passed around like starters; the clock 

Turns to 12 

Service starts on a new day. Leftover carbs over carbs 

Tomyum soup and lemon corriander broth,

Dimsums and cheese over thin crust 

A lonely chocolate fountain 

On each table a sedate sadness settled like fallen leaves 

Eventually, as the lights dim and bottoms of vessels are scraped 

A shivering waiter plucks at the cookie counter 

Stealing a hunt for his morning shift 


This is the part where I disown my poetry as mine
What is mine became nothingness once I ceased to form it
Once it formed, it become another
Once I left, it turned into itself
And as I moved ahead, from this plane to another
What became earlier reappeared as a new person
Narrating to me verses I could never write myself

Butterfly 3

When the moon rises, a jackal that hid itself
Stands at the horizon gazing into the pines
A nightjar takes off recklessly, while
The mist paints your plumage into total opaqueness, only
Silhouettes outlined by indigo visible
At a distance where the winter reveals the night
using shades of dark chopped by moonrays

Shivering inside the growing fog
You hold onto the starlight like one holds onto bonfire
Warmed by the hope that time is passing by

A pond ripples. Feathers fall over the moon’s face.

Butterfly 2

By the time summer arrives
The strands on your wings will recolour
The mauve will turn vermilion
The yellow will become turquoise
And the borders that run into the sky
Will turn translucent, offering the breeze a window into your soul
Letting the season waver you around
Filling you with the ancient poetry of migration
Here and there, fallen flowers
Becoming your aerial landscape
Peppered further by shadows of clouds

Butterfly : Preface

But you are a butterfly.

You could fly from port to port, engrossing sailors and browsing through all the spices and fish on trade.
You could hide the setting sun under your flapping wings.
You could become and vanish in hinges. You could change colours.
And maybe later settle in the lagoon, in a mangrove, eavesdropping kingfisher gossip.


What makes me doesn’t break or destruct
Instead flows into another self, it
Rises from one moment and releases time
In each direction, each new voyage

As embers alight the shisha, what makes me
Livens a scene for then
slowly calming down
And reigniting at each pull, bringing smoke
Into a world thirsty for newness; when exhaled
Fresh sunrays cut it into paintings