From Poems in Vienna
Arrival
I don’t know why
or how the words come.
is it new air?
new faces
or places?
is it breathing the air
of klimt?
of schiele?
anonymous female thinkers
window watchers
is it the domes?
the gold?
the light?
or maybe it is ovulation
the egg that brings
buds
unopened
maybe I had to buy this sketchbook
this pen
to open them
maybe its the sound of white cups
on white saucers.
anonymous chatter
cakes of art in counters
white shirts and waistcoasts
lights and mirrors
maybe it is the unused silent piano
waiting
to be played
maybe it is me in London
laying dormant
quiet
until the fingers
of the pianist
touches their tips to the keys
and p l a y s
Possible realisation
or maybe it is
sally rooney
From Poems for South America
Courage
COUR = LATIN WORD MEANING ‘HEART’
ORIGINAL DEFINITION WAS TO TELL THE STORY OF WHO YOU ARE WITH YOUR WHOLE HEART
CONNECTED
FEEL THINGS
Colombian bracelet
Alamah said
this bracelet reminds me of three things
the blue is like the sky
infinity, possibility
the yellow is like the sun
positivity, brightness, vibrance
and the red is like fire
passion, growth, life
From Poems for Kerala
Catching words
Words flow out of me
on days like this
maybe it is the sun
or the humidity
or the feeling
that i am where i am supposed to be
my skin is pulsing
my heart is beating
my roots are growing
in the foliage of banana plantations
in the rustle of the coconut palms
in the shallow shores of arabian waves
i am held up by a fierce sunshine (it has me in its hands)
i am fed by the trees
i snack on the shadows
and i dance with the leaves
i smile with the bookseller in fort kochi
he tells us of indian poets
and beautiful jungles
in this fertile land of his
that can nourish us
and hydrate us
with a lot more
than the fruits of the earth
it serves us a breakfast of light (appams)
a lunch of colour (thali)
and a dinner of love (veg stew)
i feel full
with the nutrients
of the indian elements
Writing is like dancing
Writing is like dancing
the music of the rhyme
hits like a hand on a drum
the lines flow like beats
of the thumb
the hips circle
like a narrative
the voice flows through the body
the italic hips rotating
rolling and flicking
and circling round and round
and up
and down
the pen dances on the page
the back rolls like ink
on white paper
telling a story
of past
of present
through the beat of the drum
the words jangle
like a bangle
on wrist
feet spin like syllables
the heart beats like characters
in a universal language
the speech
of the river
of the earth
of the spine
of the story
the pulse and sweat of the author
lives within these curls and flicks
and flows like rainwater
out of these hands writing and typing
the thread
that leads from my heart to my tips
and now exists on this.
Cooking words
As i sit at this table
i am cooking
i have all the ingredients
of my recipe
thick heat
moon sky
full heart
empty belly
the pen is my ladel
i scoop up thoughts
and stir ideas
the pot on the stove
collects and holds
the flavours of inspiration
i am the receiver
of sunbeams and moonlight
i am just catching it
and pouring it into the pan
ready to boil
it may not appeal to the tastes of all
but it might feed, or hopefully nourish
it is what i serve today,
anyway