the leaves on the path like a broken trail
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
- Emily Bronte
The colours of fall are like a painting, what do you see when you see those hues on the path which look like a broken trail leading to dreams?
Autumn is that time of the year when we are content with life however good or bad it is. And in the…
An American haiku about waiting
A poem about that white noise
A poem about hiding and searching answers
The New Suffocation
We met after a long time, we had stories to share. We parted with a promise to meet soon but we didn’t know that restrictions would be back in Singapore. For a month it’s going to be tighter rules. I had packed myself in my home since past few weeks. I am hoping situation will be better soon. For now it’s books, poems and other nonsensical things which will keep me sane.
My son was nervous because he got to know that one of the student in his school was tested positive, we had to convince him that he would…
That page which we need to read
An American haiku about writing life
A poem about the poet’s existence
The Sari poem
For my mother it’s not just a sari
it’s love from afar.
A letter which would be remembered
by me with time.
Every time I see them in my almirah
the many colours of spring,
the crimson, saffron and pink.
The stories remind me
of the time gone.
The fragrance of mogra
and temple incense.
Everything entwined
in the threads.
A book made up of
loose pages.
I know it’s not just a sari
it’s an embrace that I need.
It’s a quiet poem which
I need to read.
You can read more about Sari here:
It’s festival time in…
A writer’s draft will be never empty
I find it therapeutic to clear the draft, to read those incomplete poems again before I can edit them, to see them again in a new light waiting to be polished. It’s like meeting those unfinished poetic dreams. Maybe that’s why I don’t read my old poems.
Because it’s difficult to relate to them. They look like those unwanted parts of me which I can’t put back. So when I clear the draft, I know I would find there a piece of me. But that doesn’t mean that I can pick it up and put it in the pages. Sometimes…
