Monday, 25 February 2013


[A life less worth than a terrorist's son?]

There must be a book,
a text or sheaf of notes,
a notepad or a flower
whereupon dreams were inked in
in code or number,
word and pause.
There must be a handkerchief
reserved for unwept tears
neatly embroidered with motif of choice
or chance;
a square piece of cloth,
pale pink or white,
speaking of roads walked and unwalked,
thoughts embraced and shoved aside
suddenly in embarrassment.
But there's nothing to be shy about, darling.
no reason to shout or whisper.
At least that's what the road sign demands.
They want it to be all gone, dearest,
erased by the burgeoning dictates of our tomorrows,
the paraphernalia of the diurnal,
the return to the segmenting of life
into intersections, traffic lights and fears;
brushed aside by the next great explosive sweep
that is the marker of these times.
The gatherer of dream,
the translator of unwritten texts
and impossible poetry:
they've refused contract.
No one dares access the transcripts, love.

It wasn't your time, little girl,
sadder still, it wasn't ours either.

But there must be remnant,
we will believe, sweetness.
In stifled sob,
among intangibles that visit memory,
amidst the clamour of a city,
the call for punishment,
and even the call for surrender to tyranny;
in a garden and a fountain
a birdbath and a reservoir,
a heartbeat and thunder
love and its refusal,
you will arrive
as a mountain and a silken thread
a bowtie and a curtain,
a peal of laughter and a silent tear.

We will, we will, we will recognize you,
most beautiful of all our children.

Sunday, 24 February 2013


There are flesh-blood dreams
warm and gettable
a ‘there’ not too far from ‘here’
an embrace
just a few heartbeats away,
a breath that will be shared
a covenant that will be kept;
but there are others less licit
where eye and mind
must walk and walk
and feet must wait and wait
and imagination expand
from wingtip to wingtip
glide on blueness
in unrippling tenderness
seek in in elemental residencies
in the ways that were lost
and in the losing ways
the worlds that are
but may not be,
by and by.

[Inspired by the photography of Dr. Harin Dias, to be exhibited at the Lionel Wendt on March 2 and 3, 2013]