Hello, May

Hello, May

30 days,

30 poems.

April was

For new beginnings

For remembering 

That my blood

Will never

Not leak ink. 

May, Birthday month.

May, sticky summer.

May, heavy & sweet, 

On my tongue.

May, always lighting

My Gemini blood

Aflame. 

May, heat along

My veins. 

May for lust,

love,life. 

May, for becoming

Me, Too bright

Too hot

Always, 

An impetuous summer child.  

Night Owl

Night Owl

I've spent my life

Measuring sleep

And falling short. 

I don't think

I'll ever sleep enough

But I've lived

So many hours

Beyond sleep, life,

The universe and everything.

Some day,

That bargain 

Will feel enough. 

Or I'll finally learn

To sleep. 

Big Show

Big Show

You laugh

As I confess, 

That in 5th grade

The boys 

Had nicknamed 

Me, Big Show. 

Because I was 

A chubby brat

Who beat the shit 

Out of them. 

My anger was untamed,

Wicked & wild

Back then. 

I was angry

At everything

At nothing.

Now, I'm always 

Smiling. 

But my words

Are sharp-

Gouging paper.

They are untamed,

Wicked & Wild.

Niches

Niches

Big cities

Need niches

To feel like home. 

And my niche

In Londonium

Is a pub 

On the High Street

Where everything 

Is easy. 

And they do

Curry Thursdays.

Where we spill drinks

On pretty coats

And I talk

To strangers 

Who tipsily

Give me business cards

That somehow make 

London, home. 

Webs

Webs

I like my friends 

Meeting my friends

I like seeing

My worlds 

Collide

Co exist

And laugh at me. 

I like going to 

Restaurants I've loved 

From age 8

With friends I've adored

From age 12

Meeting friends 

Delightfully discovered 

At age 23. 

I like spinning webs

Of words, white lies,

Friendship, Love.

Linearity 

Was always dull. 

Walking Away

Walking Away

When you walk away;

I know you will, 

Remember me like this,

Always. 

Remember me bright and sarcastic

And very loud. 

Remember that I listened 

To folk indie

And sad British bands

When I was happy. 

Remember my voice

Could take your

Breath, away. 

Remember all my bests. 

Remember my eyes, 

When I looked at you. 

Remember the best of me,

Was you. 

Family

Family

I don't know how families 

Are made

Mine were always 

A little Transient. 

I have learned 

To hold no one 

Or nothing close. 

This is not a 

Sad thing, 

I want you to know. 

I think families 

Are made

From light gossip,

Uno cards

And angry affection. 

I am learning

How families are made. 

Today, though

All I know

Is, My Bua

Is the best cook

In the world 

And I'm loved,

loved,loved. 

Is this how 

Families are made? 

Bloodline - Day 20

Bloodline

My father warns

Me, my bloodline

Carries terrors. 

Not the sweet,

Forgetful terrors 

Of my mother's blood. 

Something sharper ,

Hotter, Obstinate,

Undeniable. 

It's what makes 

My anger flame

Up; Unrecognisable

Until I look back 

On 7 generations

Of men with

The same stubborn 

Pride,

Lurking in their eyes. 

I see

No women. 

Their stories weren't 

Passed down to me. 

We hadn't taken

Language yet. 

I want to know 

I'll pass these terrors

To my daughter. 

Like my father

Passed to me.

You see,

We have language now.  

Indifference - NaPoWriMo2017 #19

Indifference

I spent 

The last few days 

With streaming eyes 

And a blocked up nose,

As if Delhi

Was punishing me

For daring 

To love anyone

Else. 

But, Delhi

Is not 

A jealous lover 

She couldn't care less

If you left her

And never looked back. 

It hurts more. 

I never did well

With indifference. 

Divided - NaPoWriMo2017 #18

Divided 

I wanted to write

Something cheerful 

About my expat, 

Immigrant,

Student life. 

I wanted to celebrate

Open borders, 

The world on a plate, 

Belonging,

Everywhere.

There are already 

Many pulled-in-half

Immigrant stories. 

So I wanted, 

Something different. 

Instead my ink writes

About being 

A wanderer

In a world (s)

That has grown

To resent them.

More - NaPoWriMo2017 #17

More

My Gemini heart

Has always 

Chased the end

Of rainbows.

Firmly sure

There is something

More, 

To life

Than this. 

I'm the patron saint

Of More, Better, Newer. 

Of fresh starts

And greener grass. 

You would think

This poem would be

About loving contentment

In the end. 

Instead, I'm promising

A pot of gold

At the end 

Of the rainbow

There, where

The grass is greener. 

Constant - NaPoWriMo2017 #16

Constant

After, 

12 years,

11 schools

3 universities 

2 countries

You are still the constant 

In my flavoured vodka toasts. 

The only real constant

For a dozen straight years

I have ever known. 

Not even family can bear

That epithet. 

I can't imagine life, 

Without you

And I once said 

I'd prefer to 'survive' nuclear war

All alone then not at all.

It makes sense, finally-

You being older

By 10 days. 

Compulsion - NaPoWriMo2017 #15

Compulsion

Delhi, my first, 

My best love.

Delhi, angry

And burning

And dangerous. 

Delhi, breaking

My heart

If nothing else. 

Pulling me back

Always and forever.

I have given my heart

On four continents

Yet, Delhi, 

The first, the last. 

Delhi; Sheesha, Vodka

And more

Beneath my skin. 

Delhi, compelling

And complete.

When you finally

Crack me open,

Delhi,

I'd want you

To find yourself.

New Year - NaPoWriMo2017 #14

New Year 

One of my favourite memories,

Is being on the Phone

To you,

Making Maggi

Petulantly,

On New Year's Eve. 

Mad, at being home

With nothing exciting to do.

But ringing in

New Years' 

To your teasing voice

Made up for it. 

You won't be 

Celebrating any more

New Years. 

Some part of me 

Still lives in denial

Of that. 

This isn't the first

Poem I wrote 

For you. 

But it is the first

 You won't read. 

Some part of me

Still lives in denial

Of that. 

On Having Potential - NaPoWriMo17 #13

On Having Potential

Having unrealised

Potential 

Is perhaps

The foremost talisman 

Of my life. 

Potential is

The energy in a body

With respect to its position

Not motion. 

Potential is

A coiled spring

A charged battery

(According to Physics). 

Potential is

Something inside

Me, Waiting

To go Kinetic. 

Baby, I'm just starting

To catch fire

And burn, burn, burn. 

Young Love - NaPoWriMo2017 #12

Young Love

Do you remember, 

The violent passions 

Of love at 16?

Even then

I was a cerebral lover, enamoured 

By pretty words

Not pretty faces.

You see, I was

'Authentic'

(Sheer vanity)

It was as shallow 

As falling for a pretty face.

But you know, hollow 

Pretty words

Cut to the quick

Much quicker

When you are 16

And have given 

Yourself with all the words

In your adolescent rushing heart. 

Today, I rather

Fall sedately 

Into pretty eyes -

They hurt much less. 

Quiet - NaPoWriMo2017 #11

Quiet

 There is no quiet 

In me. 

There is no Zen 

In me. 

Instead

There is a deep 

Yearning

Churning

My thoughts 

In foamy waves 

That need Listeners,

Readers, Friends. 

Does a poem exist

With no one to read it?

My poems 

Are made by you

As if my waves 

Found a beach

To crash on. 

There is no quiet 

In me. 

Flying - NaPoWriMo2017 #10

Flying

Flying was the

First thing

That ever

Exhilarated 

And terrified me

In equal measure. 

I remember being 3

Barely held in

By the seat belt

Straining, 

As if I wanted

To fly, myself. 

At 23,

I'm white knuckling it.

Remembering to breathe,

Yet. 

Somehow

Beyond the fear,

The world is beneath me

And somewhere inside

I am still

Straining 

To fly. 

The Coming of Spring - NaPoWriMo2017 #9

The Coming of Spring

Spring springs

My restless heart

And I want to

Outpace the place

Where cherry blossoms go. 

I want a new life

A new me

A new everything

Reborn. 

I am always

Running away

In the Spring

Even if the adventure

Is to

Go Home.  

Smiles - NaPoWriMo2017 #8

Smiles

I think

Smiles sometimes

Are like

Performance art. 

You hone them

To perfection

And practise 

In front of

An audience 

Suspended in disbelief. 

My smiles are masking

An age old weariness. 

And I am very good

At performing. 

But often

My smiles

Don't reach

My eyes. 

(Must practise harder)

Guinness - NaPoWriMo2017 #7

Guinness 

Anxiety is 

Like being without

A cold, calming

Pint of Guinness 

In your hand. 

To soothe you

To make you

That gregarious 

Being that you are. 

Anxiety clouds you,

Unlike the cold, crisp

Freshness

Of the Pint

That makes you

Befriend the world. 

Anxiety is

The absence of 

Guinness

Choking

All that you are. 

Illegible - NaPoWriMo2017 Day #6

Illegible

My blood leaked

Ink into words

As far 

I go back

And though 

Sometimes I believe 

I wrote this life 

Into being,

The ink 

Spills in scrawls

I cannot decipher. 

Are these

The secret sorrows

We muffle

Into pillows

When the greatest

Fear

Is to look at

Our own humanity? 

Losing - NaPoWriMo2017 #5

Losing

I don't like losing

Although I hide it well

(I'm lying).

I'm selfish

Self centred

Accept no divinity

Other than my humanity

Yet. 

I fall to my knees

In worship

In adoration 

In wonder

In supplication 

When. You. Smile. 

I don't mind losing

When I am losing

All that I am

To you. 

Polyamory - NaPoWriMo2017 #4

Polyamory

My single child heart

Would never have 

Been amenable

To sharing love 

If I hadn't learned to lose 

It over and over 

To capricious, greedy cities.

They never demanded 

My whole, my complete 

Heart. 

So I exist in love 

With London. Delhi. 

Edinburgh. Cape Town. 

Multiple loves

Who are not quite

Entirely 

Mine. 

Yet, somehow the parts I get 

The parts I give

Are sharper, sweeter, deeper

For it. 

Poetic Returns - NaPoWriMo2017 #3

Poetic Returns

The last entry 

On my blog

Is dated June 2015

If unposted, then unwritten

I was always 

An exhibitionist. 

So, Is this

A triumphant return

Wiser, Better, Brighter? 

Hardly. 

Scared-er, Quieter, Softer

Befitting, for poetic returns. 

Green Vol. 2 - NaPoWriMo2017 #2

Green Vol. 2

After 10 kilometres 

Of the English countryside

We ambled together 

And the verdant, emeraldesque

Escape, It offered

I am still 

Inescapably bound

Solely 

By the green

Of your eyes. 

Damn everything else.  

Wine Sodden - NaPoWriMo2017 #1

Day 1 : National Poetry Writing Month 2017

'Wine Sodden'

At 23, 

Hangovers

Taste like regret. 

And less like 

Trophies at 18

I'm too young 

To feel this old 

But this is

Who we are, 

Millennials. 

Too young 

To feel the hopelessness

Of a broken world

Too old

To not know better. 

Is that why

We are drowning 

In wine drenched

Realities?