Beach, circa 2004

The beach, filled with chaos
Polluted by sounds of tourists

Meanwhile the ocean comes and goes in waves
The beach
Restlessly pleased like a distant lover

A lost ancestor docks. His hands filled with warnings of the coming future.

Drama, the Scent of Mangoes, Love 

yellow, the colour
of a summer morning’s arrival
windows disrobing one by one
letting in the season gradually
trees heavy with sweet fragrance

glowing warmly into a town
sounds born from each home, idols
uncovered and water strewn on streets
I wait for you seven years later with nervous glances
your dog, the calendar in your room, your mom’s ghost
watery tea with toast
saucers whose edges have the aftertaste of you
the yellow morning brings me to you and you
to the point of time where stories have been forgotten

in the patch of forest before the paddies
the path leads onward and finds the creek, the sun
travels in a boat and is pecked by gulls, your eyes
young and unsure, meet the sea and look into me
“which is your favourite fruit, you coward?
are you still fond of coconuts and jackfruit?”
I hear you like the ocean hears the wind
rippled, I continue to smile
another season passes


your hair rivers onto the bedsheet
tracing movements made by the rest of you
your eyes move nervously in a dream
viewing their own private cinema
your fingers gently tremble under a moist breeze
I plant my warmth at your feet

adrift in you earlier I discovered forested lakes
in me your voice echoed across endless mountains
eventually water-falling over my shoulder
and turning the room into its lake
then birds flew out of us one by one taking turns
as we gazed upward with closed eyes searching for a sky

collapsing onto rippled cloth you became a range of dunes

awakened by the stillness of night
I witness you take new shapes beside me
the scent of our time passing grows gradually
buttoning myself I let my palm speak to your forehead
a soft fluorescence robes you like an ocean

Fish Curry

Sprawling coconut groves and sounds
of seagulls from the Caspian
cawing tales of Ottomans and Romans
the occasional perverted story
of the man with a cross

hopscotch – draw in red soil

hint of cumin in the breeze enticing
the want for lunch, overcast
the fur of my cat moving ahead

with the boar hunt, the mud pot
soiled and flavoured sits idle
sparked by sizzling onion, revived
the wind blows south

my uncle’s boat reaches us with a heavy net 


Wednesday, the day after
you sailed into the sea

a coffee filled with black, immersed
in its face
a reflection of the façade
patterned by creepers
the biscuit dissolves, with time
brackish breeze
painting me
the watchtower turns gaze

a few leftover caws of seagulls,
an old lady with a cane basket, fish
from a recent catch, lifeless eyes
asking for a purchase
a siren resonates in the background

Saturday, you returned
The town quite as before, your face
Lost in the tales of the ocean, smile


Tonight I’m drowning, the sea
Stronger than usual, sways the moon’s reflection
From here to there, breaking into a million sparkles
The waves engulf me, like the sadness
Of not being a child anymore
I’m sinking as one sinks slowly with time, part by part
Letting go of that brief moment, between now and then
The sea covers me coldly
Tonight I’m drowning, turning
Into someone else, who will forget 
This moment as just a passing tide