Unrequited giving

Unrequited giving

Why do I feel lost

in the snowy fog

of unrequited gifts?

Each name contains

a part of me

wrapped up, sealed up

for whomever

wishes to receive.

Oh! How I wish

it were like gold,

old Christmas days

when we exchanged

our impassioned hearts!

But that Christmas has long since gone.

Your box is generously full

while mine feels glaring empty. 

Parting words to Passing youth

I will be on leave all next week so this will be my last post until Christmas. The poem I leave you with is one I read at my school’s cultural evening (talent show for American readers) and one I promised myself to share on this blog as soon as I finished high school

Parting words to Passing youth

Farewell I say

to the end of days

to blissful innocence

and rebellious adolescence.

For we are butterflies

and our soft cocoon

has opened us to the world.

Where the wind will pull us,

birds will try and consume us

and until we mature,

a resting place will forever elude us.

I still recall with some sad irony

how the school and the home

reigned like monarchs,

and reminisce with passive longing

how parties seemed to never cease,

love brought shots of joy and pain

and long weekends were like paradise.

How like fools we tested and experimented

with that loosening domestic lead

like amateur scientists with Uranium

and how we who knew so little

thought we knew so much.

Those were the days when the future

was but a line on the horizon

and family, career and degree

was on a bucket list for a later time.

For we lived for today.

We were bold.

We were alive.

We were – young.

And only the law,

parental lectures

and careful doses of reality

kept us mortal,

kept us sane.

From across that threshold to adulthood

were I came of age,

I stare back, perhaps wondering,

if that concluded stage

will let me be in its six act play once more.

But it has ended.

The ovation, the applause, the last hurrah

has happened

and the curtains have closed.

All I can do is turn around,

spread my wings,

and fly.

With sweet memories of yesterday,

hanging by my side.


Poetry as anthropology

Poetry as Anthropology

What role does poetry hold for those left behind?

The minorities, the marginalized, the lost peoples

see their cultures and identities annually crushed

 in the maw of the West and their spirits

detained in the cells of modern ills.

Do the lines demand a return to ancestral roots,

celebrating traditions and legends

as much as they mourn mental dispossession?

 Is poetry the rearguard of vanishing communes?

Or is it too tender for the wider world to consume?