Trip to the Mountains

From the train, the only dis­tin­guish­able life is mani­fested through the unending clotheslines, and the cars left lying care­lessly and haphaz­ardly around the deep scars humanity calls roads. Through their clean washing, I pry into their...

Self-definition

I am weird des­pite a lack of defin­i­tion for nor­mality. My mother says I am organ­ising a revolu­tion. My friends say: enough of the exist­en­tialist crap. I take pleasure in the fact that the integral of d(cabin) over cabin is...

Framed in Grey

I am sure they missed my word of thanks, Or mis­in­ter­preted it, which comes, at the end, To the same thing. Both their faces were Pic­tures framed in grey, and every memory Had etched itself a line on the leather-smooth Canvas. One looked out the...

The Excavation (an ode to writer’s block)

Out of the dark­ness, a tunnel has been chis­elled. Painstaking and heart-rending, over the years, from the inside out. Slowly gently, the water begins to trickle from the dam Aiding in its turn the excav­a­tion; car­rying twigs and mud and gen­eral debris...

Links

for Seamus Heaney As in war, we are com­rades and enemies all at once. We inter­cept another’s plea for help, and under­stand instinct­ively the pain and the struggle to escape. Some­times, seeing between the coded lines we com­pre­hend a deeper meaning...