Category: poetry

i am feverish, so i might rave…
kidding, these are just mild flu
symptoms. but my arm hurts
like it did in the school days
when the bully hit me hard.
but if you forgive my frivolity,
let me tell you something fundamental.
this little bit of inconvenience,
if i catch the thing, can save my life
and the lives of my loved ones,
at a small risk of complications.
frankly, i risk more every morning
by simply crossing the street.

the last piece of flatbread ruthlessly reminds me
of all the insatiabilities i scrupulously note down
every time i check the pantry cabinet, the fridge,
and my bower. and that is how the shopping list
turns into a love letter.

‘But ’twas a famous victory.’

Robert Southey, After Blenheim

politics is for grown-ups, not for a poor poetaster immersed
in the juvenile world of mr. magorium’s wonder emporium,
who is fairly disappointed that he cannot breath in and out
at the same time, not quite ready yet to run out of the words
used to tease the accidental now and occasional practicality,
and still trying to find a way to come to terms with the reality
of the “war on terror” he once applauded.

a woman in a wedding dress expects anything
but disappointment. and she should, because,
frankly speaking, otherwise, what is the point?
so she may be willing to accept a pinch of surprise,
but definitely not that the man in a black tailcoat
on the other end of the aisle one day changes
into this pot-bellied stranger sitting with a beer
in front of the telly and yelling at the footballers.

but could he lose his blissful smile at the altar
if he had foreseen that his chosen one would turn
into that netflix series fanatic, weaponizing sex
and expecting him to use the crystal ball to read
her wishes and reasons for her changing moods,
and that no matter how hard he tried, he only heard
criticism and dissatisfaction? and that their daughter
will learn from her mum how to treat her other half.

thank god she will be born a lesbian.

today i learned a new expression:
the bureaucracy of death. i heard it
from the custodian of peace of mind,
the insurance agent. it is actually kind
of ironic when the memento mori
leads us to a clerk.

as i slowly begin to forget the names of people
and places, and the titles of once-favourite songs
say less and less, the evening nap suddenly becomes
the highlight of the day, just after i look at a picture
of little me with my favourite chequered blanket,
where i gaze at a teddy bear with great concern.
i doubt i knew then, nor do i know now, why.
perhaps we are simply born to live a life
marked by fear.

when i was half my age, i saw a dead body
directly in front of my face, lying on the hood
of a van. it was a driver who was thrown out
of the seat in a head-on collision and smashed
through the windscreen, but a displaced steering
system blocked his body half way through.
and so he remained, slung over the crushed front
of the car, unrecognisable as his skull exploded
in a collision with the hardened glass.

why do i mention these gruesome details?
because when i was photographing the scene
as a young reporter, i felt absolutely nothing.
my job was to take a picture for the front page,
and that is what i was focusing on. the body
in front of me was just a task, one of many that day.
all i was concerned about was not stepping
on the brain pieces carefully picked up
by the funeral director.

and it was only when i got back
to the editorial office and started reviewing the photos
that waves of cold and heat ran through my body
and i could not stop my hands from shaking.
in that one moment, i understood how easy it is
to overlook a man.

if i were writing about the indigenous peoples of america,
canada, and australia being second-class citizens in their
ancestral lands; or if i were writing about palestinians
and kurds who crave their statehood; or if i were writing
about uighurs sterilized, raped, tortured, and murdered
in chinese “re-education” camps; or if i were writing
about [insert any tragedy or injustice you want here],
would it be a struggle to shake off pervasive indifference,
or just a pathetic attention-seeking attempt?

nights with the prince of cool, dim street lights
outside the window, a glass of water enough
to accidentally blur a crooked handwritten note
on the back of your old life bill. sometimes
you turn the turntable down a little to hear her
laugh in the street. but usually you just follow
the path of the trumpet. my funny valentine
sang for the last time.