Sunday, August 31, 2014


Behold, you say
the mountains
higher ground than most
a certain fog, a mist of unarmored sift moves
like ripples over a lake
near the foot of the mountain
behold. you ask me gain
they are high, we, sink onto earth lower, why? you ask
I cannot tell you
You wouldn't understand-
You, owner of the plains
why do you envy
the altitude of the mountains?

In case I forgot your flowers


I said I loved flowers
roses, their red was unlike anything I've seen
nature's kiss for the eye
you said they belonged outdoors
just like I belonged best between words
I answered that I like flowers regardless
and you said you like my adoration of little things, regardless


The flowers you gave me for my birthday grew
not where we said they would
because you mentioned dirt and rain
I thought you meant the garden, always wishing well for everyone-
but I left the petals for my skin
they grew on me -the flowers and I
I kissed the hands that gave them
that provided their water.


Must we now speak about
insignificant clouds? Must we?
their shades would never hurt
nor question the colors in my hair
variations of brown to ash,
nor would they harm the green sap in your eyes
just give me your palm and keep silent
no more talk about imminent rain in our spring.


You ran your hand in my hair
begged me to chose a climate
a land best fitting all the
red poppies and lilacs you promised
me earth but I said I needed to wait for the season
to change, for my roses to bloom again
and I chose words, maybe to fill the gap
dead roses left on my windowsill.


All that's left of thunder was a split
of the sky, a drizzle of stars
too cold for anything to grow
too cold for color. My world turned monochrome
while yours colored slowly.
I lent against a tree, in my fingertips tangled
the few roses, flowers you printed
like rings onto me.


Remember you gave me flowers
for my birthday
roses red and irises blue
told me they grow on me
I have buried them under the fig
where we hugged last, the last roses
have waited, too long for their waters
so when you are here again
maybe we'll dig the silver roses out
and I will wear them again
before their next blossom
or final funeral.

Friday, August 29, 2014

the darker side of us

Someone can always wither on one's own hands
like an old paper, used for recycling to waste
we are wasters,
chose death on our own,
call it friendly fire, or treason, or even a heartless form
of love.
there's always a hand that wants to detach from the body
and run over its own shoulder,
rushing to fury
like a poisoned apple,
then there's what come from outside of us
like a silver bullet to a fair princess's head
gushing out of a cold gun at night
when the windows are closed
when the light is out
when darkness covers all of earth
there's always a way to sweet revenge of the black widows
moments before dawn,
someone building a tangled web for the fall cannot care less
forgetting to shut part of the curtain
that lets in, all of what belongs to the outside.

A little out of line

Dear readers,

It's been a while without any direct contact from me. I have been involved into the whole process of  working with the amazing team of Tinderbox, the University of Warwick Masters of Writing Anthology. The great news is there's a massive London launch at Waterstones Piccadilly with readings and signatures. Please feel free to drop by from 6:30-8:30 and check the great work here:

to a cheerful launch, cheers.

Practice art

What blooms inside
the little walls of a heart
should be watered regularly
weed out the areas around
the trees with your teeth
rummage the dirt for oxygen
starve yourself so the blossoms
may live inwards
what blooms inside the walls of a heart
should always remain green
so should art.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014


it is easier to forget
when you are a stranger
untied, free to your own flight
it is much easier to release
what is not yours
because you've never had it
it is the easiest for a person
to face what's dark, hide from fear
because darkness can be battered by light
Always the smoothest, thoughts
but not actual life.

on not rushing the wind

the wind comes on its own
no one narrates the story of its origins
it is almost impossible to count the particles it carries
rosebuds, umbrellas, pollen
the breezes of sighs is  its own world
you cannot rush the wind
not for nearness, or for a truth
the wind comes at its own speed,
leaves at its own pleasure-
trust it well, do not rush the wind.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

little family

Three dogs, one cat
last dinner near the sand
doting mother, overworked dad
three young women, two immature lads
all in the family, all alive, all well.

Friday, August 22, 2014

The casting of Belle by Scrooge

It is a Monday,
Simply think of a room, all chocking with schoolgirls,
ankle high socks, hair tied back and polished black shoes
no phones, no accessories, no make-up,
definitely no boyfriends behind walls nor improper laughter
part of the school rules, high commands.
Late morning, the girls' buzz rises steady as a rundown Xerox machine
all repeating line after line, the same photocopies of lines
like a bee stuck in a glass bottle,
each to her wavelength, an assertion of territory
enough space for female hormones and last minute angst driven nerves.
Out of the room, a line. She among the holders of papers
the hoarders of other lines, brisks ahead to the wooden plank
Belle is her goal, she steadies her soles
reckons she'll be the school's star
the ground tremors with faint whispers, dark magic and teen jealousy,
under her breath a pillow of stones, of things she collects from the world for luck
Recite, but some verbs chock her
recite and the lab keys clink, hit the floor loud with roaring laughter
of other females, relentless tigresses
the show must go on but some lines taste bitter onto her palette,
a rush of brain-freeze.
She rushes to finish,
Scrooge, the middle name of her torturer, marker with red pens
the woman behind the highest pitched laugh
pins the names onto the board, to her it must be
Belle, young, rich and central
she is going to be a star,
nearly an actress
but Scrooge turns over to her and says
spend less on make-up, your acne is perfect for the leper. 

the phoenix

I decided to ruin my creations
each and every bit I drew
every letter I wrote
pile all the pictures, the diaries, the addressed envelops
roast marshmallows over the smoke,
the smug ash that flies
out of my memories, the late blooming of possibilities
I decided to ruin every reminder of
far, far away kingdoms
erase all trace of fairy tales and princesses in my blood
all artists are desperate for muse, for issues larger than life
But I am glad that I didn't ruin my all,
After setting out the flame I reckoned
I nearly had patience
to rise out of my own ashes, again.

Thursday, August 21, 2014

dancer's shadows

A shadow of those who dance
is different, lighter, taller, aimed to other corners
but stiff legs, a pair like ours shadows her ghost
and in the mirror
we turn and swivel, 
in the mirror 
smudged lipstick
sleek sweat and the apparition of her loved, late man. 

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Three days is all it takes

It takes  three days
to fall in love with a place
three full sunrises and sundowns
before land muzzles and snots on one's shirt
smells of earth after rain
 trees that hang too low, the willows
bent double like old women
three times past beauty and a bond, like a love-child
 forms and burrows
a rabbit jumping,spring nestling in its fur
even in mid winter, lone stars above the fog
narrate the owl's hoot, morning prayer
it takes less time to love, more time to lose
like war, love walks and leaves shadows behind
Always easy on humans, places
 lucid with time to receive love
 trod into land, discreetly before it stampedes
fully over your waking moments and becomes
habit, a death told yet unrelieved
Empty spaces are easier to fill
death can always be overtaken with seeds,
with pollen, with weeds
but vacant pockets keep light,
these once full with sugar-cubes,
 ants and four feathers from the corners of earth
refuse to give in to the newness-
Valley of shadows,
I now clear shadows with a duster and a little bit of Dettol, for germs.
Sometimes I wish  I was a tree,
rooted in one place
Shedding jut three leafs, each for a day,
to forget
a place,
a person

Three rules to gentle heartbreak

who said heart-break actually breaks the heart?
easy, isn't it. A heart is like walnut, anyway
 it is a product of autumnal moods.
It requires a few months in roasting,
turning green from envy,peeling,
 peeling naturally,brown like earth
as it peels, the old skin sheds
 what is left behind
muse, memory and must-dos
a heart is a four-chambered, white
white-washed walnut, vastly entwined
and hard with wood around its own,
that's why heartbreak doesn't require much-
to break a heart, first do it gently
place all precious moments, items and people in a hand
then discreetly pull out a very ordinary, saw-toothed stone
one with cat piss and a few worms, take it out of  a mud-patch
then hammer the pump once or twice, but not too strong
and not too soft. A light cracking at the side will do
the heart should open, ideally it will split into two raw
white, white pieces. It will flake with some unimportant ruins
Shake out the cover and the unnecessary pieces
all illusions of warmth and of matter, it must all go
 After the hammering is done, the heavy things
electric currents, letters, names carved onto the walls
and faces, sticky, gooey nightmares, secrets and goldfish
like answers, like certainties await your touch
take down the four posters, whitewash everything
 Do not look around for survivors, the maker of a disaster doesn't marvel at his creation
Next take in all the reminders of a whole heart,
all the morning songs,
 all the midnight poetry
 the day dreams
all the bright sunrises and chocolate-cake melt, and ice-cream and late night talk
engulf them, intimidate the tunes
 make a ball out of the remainders and throw it for the next neighbor's playful pup
let the pup drool over sweetness in acid-
You are lighter without baggage.
The last necessity is the triumph dance
once you pull out the kernel, squeeze the owner's hand in support
dry out the last teardrops
slide the walnut under the balls of your feet,crunch it, like a leaf
dance over the shards bellow your feet,
dance to lifeless beating
sway with the owner, smile like it's all good.
The deflation of hearts is easier done than said,
like walling down Troy, enter gently, smartly and exit triumphant
the ghost-town.

A heart is like a magnet, it loses its abilities
by hammering, heating and heartlessly leaving
it in an old, flower patterned sewing box.
Easier done than said, then
Go ahead, break that heart, it's only a deer's own,

Photo courtesy of a Google search.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

ID of a lost woman

she has what others leave behind
wooden balls, good enough for eyes
she unlike others, collects what the sea washes
shark-shewed fish for bobby pins
fished out boots for her sand-bitten toes
She, the remains of others
wears wrappers from the park-benches,
and hears [strangely enough] things unsaid with
other ears, she uses to hear the insects as they move
lightly over the window's pane
A dog's ability in her nose,
she smells lying like she does flowers,
unprecedented, reeking with filth
her parts are made up of all things
tall and robust
in her are collections fit for museums
for public display and once-in-a-lifetime collector series:
In her all lies unquiet
the buzzing squares,
 burnt out city lights,
 unnamed streets
graffiti and wet paint
she is everything and anything she comes by
she is everything and anything she comes to enjoy
because she cannot be
a name she was once given
a person,
a self she keeps dip-dying
and how could she be
when all she finds, all she catches- her keepers
waste like an old mad woman's brain-cells to Alzheimer's?

Mobile phone

Sleek like a size zero model,
 the whole universe is now in your hand, custom-made,
you contain it tight, bulging with stretch marks,
 a new universe, endless possibilities 

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Dove release

Giant girls, shouting
dress-covered, cake smothered, chanting
loudly, wildly, dancing
one dove is released from their herd.

Friday, August 15, 2014

Crop Chop

Crop, chop,
Yellow wheat piling
the hay flies everywhere
three little children laugh
as their grandfather pushes the mules around
Chop crop
Crop ready
feet steady
more laughter
and sweat
and money wet out of sweat,
Grandfather rests in the shade
now the sky's gone orange
crops ready
cropped to his waist he sits
all weary
What we consume,
consumes us.

Thursday, August 14, 2014

Will to live

Ninety year old, dancing with a cane
 never lost her will to live
Twenty three year old, next to her 
separates tears from ice-melts in her whiskey cup
and then we say all of life's a party.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

It's life, she said

the daughter I never had yet talks to me,
in my dream she tells me
First I lost my homeland
then I lost all of my best friends
some to marriage, some to school, some to odd ends
then I lost my lover
then they , everyone started moving towards better places,
my sister left first
then my best friend left,
then another
and another
and another
then  I stopped smiling
then I lost myself
and when I turned to my mother
I said: its unfair
she smiled and said, its life. 

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Best friend convo

best friend says its okay to cry
I say its not woman enough
best friend says its okay to swear
I say its not girly to be a sailor
best friend says the fog will clear
I say she's been in the sun for too long
best friend holds my hand, squeezes it
I say I'm here

Monday, August 11, 2014


Contained, we are like plastic Tupperware,
we press and compress save things for
better days and longer nights
like care, like love we all keep things
for better days and worse nights
the dark times we call them
the times are here-
I no longer sleep these days
too much to sort, too little to think
many years to grow in matters of moments
 well it seems a task for decisions,

Sometimes, the art of choosing is harder
than the art of losing

Marriage n weddings

horse-drawn carriage,
a baby, still wrapped in white from head to toe
stepping into a newly found life, a golden cage, wasting youth
in the name of marriage

The ants are taking over

The ants are taking over the house
it is a celebration of national ant-hood day.
Over me, the whole army marches
their little feet tickling,
their loud mouths gossiping, guilty of storing food for colder days
in my make-up trays they bathe
even in my dreams, I am chased by big ants
that grow wings and spit fireballs
and I wake up with a gut-wrenching fear
of small sticky steps
the ants are taking over
they remind me of the marriage age I'm skipping
the dates I lose in the calendars
and the babies unborn, wasted down the trash
the ants are taking over, funny I just notice them
well, it's summertime

Friday, August 8, 2014

What you leave behind

You trip and drip, like water I can never miss nor predict you
slippery, you like a drop I can no longer catch slide out, draining 
and you occasionally rumble, so loud I hear a sea storm at your gargle-cup
A storm beyond my calm. Funny I always find you by what you leave behind - 
A trail in the overflow of open taps, 
an unmerciful squeeze in toothpaste, its teeth-dented cap
Few hairs near the drain, grime in the sink, a used towel where you forget your features 
my morning sighs and everywhere else patches of blue.
There's always a gradation of blue when I lose you, 
another shade darker for when you lose yourself 
Azure pins itself in our secrets, on our walls, 
but navy and red badges cover my wrist, these grips, blow your overweight tenderness. 
My favorite royal blue I do not wear, too much darkness shows sleepless nights. 
the morning light is clear, It is a good thing I scrub the bath you (by pure assertion
chose to obsessively paint blue) to sparkle each morning
I clear off what remains of you from the white brinks
I scrub you off me, off my wrists and face bleak 
scrub off your ocean-blue eyes,
your blue voice mellow with last night's jazz and transparent Absolute 
It's a good thing you left the door open for air today
As I scrub light white I leave you hanging at the door, a voice and I
question how darker - in shades of blue - do I need to turn before I regain my white skin.

Another poem published on Visual Verse. You can check it out here:

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Name of sacrifice

'It rips you to pieces' she said, the pain of birthing a part of yourself into the world
I wouldn't I said,
like dumbbells the weight and the size of other worries upon your shoulders jabs at your arms
and the chores, the open sores
the broken skin you'd have to bear upon yourself! it was all faint under her arms I could tell.
Ha! Yourself?
No time for yourself,
You donate your heart while its still inside of you
You give up your own skin, and your time, and your bones
and you can not revoke it, you cannot ignore it or deny yourself the joys
of tottering feet and sloppy kisses like landslides
I am tired, she pressed onto my hand
I am drained, she complained
I only smiled back and said that the title
 is the name of all sacrifice, friend.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014


In the ghost's town, under the sun 
There's still a flower budding, somewhere
in the parks, make-shift places caught between 
spontaneity and adulthood
there rests a bit of what was forgotten, a bridge and some 
Monkey bars, candy jars
slides and sand grains
and somewhere a childhood that remains.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Few oxygen filled lungs

We can never master details,
the way poets do
the way old, mad story tellers do
collecting stones for stories
we are useless toward the fumble of a tear
we function on too little, little money, small pleasures
of showing teeth, sealing redemption with  an eyeless sun
We all move, unaffected by the small things
all unaware that our lungs are pierced, oozing out
last pieces of oxygen
last fruits from trees
where the details begun.

Monday, August 4, 2014

Rose in his arms

Here have my arms,
Here you will remain safe, away from love sewn cliches
Far, there's a space in our house, only for both of us.
Fitting perfectly our prayers, our silences
 we vowed we'd be joined for life
Joint till the core, till the very end.
You never asked me for anything, expect maybe wild roses for your bedside
you said the fragrance helps you start your day
and you always wonder if ever possible it is I stop snoring.
My snores will quiet but now tell me how can I scrape you
 a rose from under the rubble?

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Fir Trees Do Not Grow here

South of the avenue,
between the intersections of cars,
shoppers with misshapen wills and 'green' paper bags
we walk
Past shops and cafes bulging with affluent sets of stilettos, cigarette butts and laughter.
We buried it- laughter, in holes our nails dug
beneath a fir tree, where we last kissed
your face pressed into the spaces of me, then vanished
and like a pimple, left a red round mark.
and now you appear again like a pimple, sore, full of pus. We move now steadily, the sun casts its rays in the nooks and the sidewalk's cracks
since fir trees do not grow in this city, I do not look upwards. The ground is my world:
coins, half shewn bubble gum and bottle caps narrate another story.
I am the suburbs of this seemingly eloquent city,
 a place so much like you in heels and the high bun.

And on one street corner I lay at risk,
 of your perfume once more,
 of your wandering mind.
 I lay at risk of everything behind your eyes.
 I pause when you notice it; a game of chess laid out.
 We sit down beside it, tea for you and nothing for me.
I fear opening my mouth, I don't want to inhale you again.

The pieces are now, like your tea frozen, the horse lost his rider
The queen mourns her king and the soldiers can barely hang low for their own good.
This is another charade we create to reiterate what once was us;
two colors, too bright and too dark
for their own good.

In blossoming ideas Fir Trees Do Not Grow Here has been published by Visual Verse.

Saturday, August 2, 2014

Albums that look like us

One trails the light, with eyes to make out a shape
this is how we look into things, objects and little beings
trail the memory back with your fingernail, leave a little fingerprint
fingerprints upon gloss, smudges along looking mirrors,
they, we are all pictures slit into little plastic sheets
little albums that look like us,
A part long gone,
A part written in light- unforgotten.

Friday, August 1, 2014

Losing everything

Before you lose everything
appreciate the nothingness,
The starting point
of everything you can lose.