language of the state

the poet vs the President 

The state has language too, that it uses with precision to decide who should stay and who should go. An erring thieving king is forgiven and granted sanctity while the slave that dares to speak is flicked away like a fly. 

That must be why the president who fattened his own by gorging on the nation's heart and lungs,  whom the UN feels should be tried for war crimes,  may extend his holiday visa here, treated like a brother, while the poet who speaks of the pain of his brothers is sent away for a Facebook post that tells the Head to not call him brother. 

one deals in lies and rolls in money the other deals only with sweat and dirt and poetic truths. there is no place in Singapore for the latter. 

Jelly

Do you remember? I bought them both jellies, 2 each to be fair, red and green.  I'm sure they tasted the same, but they always loved the red - a ruby that let light through and tumbled down the slide to land with a soundless squeal of delight in the ball pit that was their tiny bellies. 

Did you see how they stood poised over the dustbin, ready to throw the wrapper and slide the jelly in one fluid movement? She went for the red first, peeling off the thin transparent top, and sliding it back with practised glee. He fumbled a bit with the green, keeping the best for last. 

You know what happened. When he managed to pry open the second, his ruby slid straight to the dustbin. 

They were always like that, weren't they? She rushing for the best first, he toddling behind, so careful. She now pours her love on us first too, uncaring if there will be any left for later while he waits, guarding jealously his hoard of loving words, sometimes letting them go to waste. 

the arranged marriage

Never say never 

is what I learn everyday 

we are 5,

Mum, Dad, Brother, Grandfather

in my squad 

to meet his 5

Uncle,  Aunt, Niece, Nephew 

on his pitch 

We smile 

and sit in a circle 

on sofas and hardbacks chairs

a giant ring 

of discomfort. 

At one point

we hear only 

the sound of tea cups clinking on saucers

as we all take a sip in unison

willing anyone to break the silence 

Cambodia 9

Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Penh with 3 uni mates I hardly know.

Just 21, with the world unfurling before us, 

we head straight to the tourist attractions. 

Shelf after shelf of skulls line the book case.

and i cannot turn away from the 10,000 eyes,

eye sockets,

trained on me.

The space so quiet 

terror walks up from behind me 

to gaze at the displays together with me, 

and then at me.

The years telescope back to 78, 79, 

a black and white TV, 

playing a film - 

where side by side

a child toddles in a HDB flat, a gummy smile across her face, before falling into her parents' arms

while a young girl, in the middle of a silent scream,

falls back into a pit, here,

her skull extracted and displayed now on this shelf. 

As I walk on through other 'attractions' 

my mind is seared 

with the grinning skulls,

in turn accusing me and forgiving me, holding me 

still.

‐----

the process 

1. can I write about this? 

my actual shock was the dismay that the country has suffered so much, that its tourist attractions were remnants of its bloody history, proudly advertised alongside other attractions like parks and gardens. 

2. the shock at learning this country, in my backyard, had such a bloody history that I knew nothing about till that day. I knew of wwii and its horrors, far away in Europe but not here. I was ashamed, humbled 

3. the shock that this happened a mere 20 years ago when I was so happy toddling and babbling in a walker. that these people right next door were dying. I felt guilty. at the different life i had been blessed to have thru no specific moves on my part. just luck of the draw that I lived here and they lived there. and more guilty I had not known about its bloody history. that I had not the courtesy to even know. 

so how do I write about all this. the poem hardly captures enough .

21 is a great age to travel. you think you know so much and then find out you know so little. 

Cambodia 8

Cambodia 7

Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Pen with 3 Americans I hardly know.

Just 21, with the world unfurling before us, 

we head straight to the tourist attractions. 

Shelf after shelf of skulls line the book case

and I cannot turn away from the 10,000 eyes,

eye sockets,

trained on me.

 

My reflection stares back at me

in a space so quiet 

terror walks up behind me 

to gaze at the displays together with me, 

and then at me.

The years telescope back to 1978, 1979.

I see myself babbling, gurgling, 

falling into parents' arms

while women and children fall back into pits here.  

Was there a sound? 

My own mind is a black and white TV, 

playing a silent horror film - 

where side by side

a child toddles in a HDB flat, a one toothed grin in place, and a young girl, mouth open and distorted, falls into a pit here, 

her skull extracted and displayed now on this shelf. 

I walk away, gutted

mind seared still 

with the grinning skulls. 

space

space 

the outer kind

in which we revolve 

like a speck of blue among the debris of time

where we lord it over others

unaware

that a hurtling rock 

could throw us off course

any minute 

space 

the personal kind

where we erect these barriers

to keep us in

and others out 

and cringe everytime the line is crossed

space

part of the continuum of time 

and other physics I don't quite get

space 

need a house with some of this

space

outer space

the space between planets

universe includes the planets

spatium- spaceium- espace- space 

latin- medieval latin- French- English 

the word space has travelled thru time

the arranged marriage

never say never

I should have known

we turned up, my party of five

mum, dad, brother, grandfather and me

to meet his five, 

aunt, uncle, niece, nephew and him

we sat in a ring and smiled

formal, polite

we might have talked about the weather 

we heard our tea cups clink against the saucer

willing the time to run

cambodia 5

Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Pen with 3 Americans I hardly know

(coz the fourth pulled out at the last minute),

Just 21, with the world unfurling before us, 

we head straight to the tourist attractions. 

Shelf after shelf of skulls line the book case

and I cannot turn away from the 10,000 eyes,

eye sockets,

trained on me

 

I see myself, staring at myself, 

in a space so quiet 

I feel terror walking beside me 

gazing at the displays together with me, and then at me

The years telescope back to 1978, 1981.

I see myself babbling, gurgling, 

dashing ahead in a walker

when people were piling into mass graves

here. 

Was there a sound? 

My own mind is a black and white TV, 

playing a silent horror film-

side by side - 

a child toddling and a young girl falling back into the pit,

her skull extracted and displayed now on this shelf. 

How do I walk out of here now

to become a teacher? 

I knew of Hitler, but not the Pol Pot 

himself a school teacher. 

I take a deep breath and walk into a classroom of torture 

a secondary school once - 

how pale my own classrooms,

how bright and plastic

against the liquid terror that must have once flooded this place - 

S21. 

I turn and walk now into 

the Killing Fields 

I have walked in

and I cannot walk out 

even now, at 44. 

 

cambodia 4

 Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Pen with 3 Americans I hardly know

(coz the fourth pulled out at the last minute),

Just 21, with the world unfurling before us, 

we head straight to the tourist attractions. 

Shelf after shelf of skulls line the book case

and I cannot turn away from the 10,000 eyes,

eye sockets,

trained on me

 

I see myself, staring at myself, 

in a space so quiet 

I feel terror walking beside me 

gazing at the displays together with me, and then at me

The years telescope back to 1978, 1981.

I see myself babbling, gurgling, 

dashing ahead in a walker

when people were piling into mass graves here. 

Was there a sound? 

My own mind is a black and white TV, 

playing a silent horror film - 

wherw side by side

a child toddles in a HDB flat, and a young girl falls back into a pit here, 

her skull extracted and displayed now on this shelf. 

I walk away, gutted

mind seared still 

with the grinning skulls. 

Cambodia 3

Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Pen with 3 Americans I hardly know

(coz the fourth pulled out at the last minute),

Just 21, with the world unfurling before us, 

we head straight to the tourist attractions. 

Shelf after shelf of skulls line the book case

and I cannot turn away from the 10,000 eyes,

eye sockets,

trained on me

 

I see myself, staring at myself, 

in a space so quiet 

I feel terror walking beside me 

gazing at the displays together with me, and then at me

The years telescope back to 1978, 1981.

I see myself babbling, gurgling, 

dashing ahead in a walker

when people were piling into mass graves

here. 

Was there a sound? 

My own mind is a black and white TV, 

playing a silent horror film

side by side - 

a child toddling and a young girl falling back into the pit,

her skull extracted and displayed now on this shelf. 

I am about to teach, 

I know of WWII Literature,

an age ago, well before I was born

horros of the past. 

What kind of a teacher am I 

that I do not know of this atrocity 

in my backyard,

when I was a baby. 

I step back, gutted, 

only to find myself reflected yet again

in another shelf of skulls,

I take a deep breath and walk into a classroom of torture 

a secondary school once - 

how pale my own classrooms,

how bright and plastic

against the liquid terror that must have once flooded this place - 

S21. 

I turn and walk now into 

the Killing Fields 

I have walked in

and I cannot walk out 

even now, at 44. 

 __________

Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Pen with 3 Americans I hardly know

(coz the fourth pulled out at the last minute),

Just 21, with the world unfurling before us, 

we head straight to the tourist attractions. 

Shelf after shelf of skulls line the book case

and I cannot turn away from the 10,000 eyes,

eye sockets,

trained on me

 

I see myself, staring at myself, 

in a space so quiet 

I feel terror walking beside me 

gazing at the displays together with me, and then at me

The years telescope back to 1978, 1981.

I see myself babbling, gurgling, 

dashing ahead in a walker

when people were piling into mass graves

here. 

Was there a sound? 

My own mind is a black and white TV, 

playing a silent horror film

side by side - 

a child toddling and a young girl falling back into the pit,

her skull extracted and displayed now on this shelf. 

______________________________________________________________________

Cambodia V2

 

Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Pen with 3 Americans I hardly know

(Coz the fourth pulled out at the last minute)

Just 21, with the world unfurling before us, 

we head straight to the tourist attractions. 

Shelf after shelf of skulls line the book case

And I cannot turn away from the 10,000 eyes

Eye sockets

Trained on me

 

I check my itinerary. 

Next stop, killing fields

and

classrooms of torture. 

What is this place I have come to? 

What is its story? 

How did I end up here?

 

I see myself, staring at myself, 

in a space so quiet 

I feel the terror of the place walking beside me 

gazing at the displays together with me, and then at me

The years telescope back to 1978, 1981

I was dancing, babbling, gurgling,

when at that same second

people were piling into mass graves...

Was there a sound? 

My own mind is a black and white TV, 

playing a silent horror film

side by side 

a child toddling and a young girl falling back into the pit

her skull extracted and displayed now on this shelf. 

I am about to teach, 

I know of Holocaust Literature, 1945, an age ago, 

well before I was born

horros of the past 

what kind of a teacher am I 

that I do not know of this atrocity 

in my backyard

when I was a baby too

I step back, gutted, 

only to find myself reflected yet again

in another shelf of skulls 

I take a deep breath and walk into a classroom of torture 

a secondary school once 

how pale my own classrooms

how bright and plastic

against the liquid terror that must have once flooded this place 

S21. 

A Classroom, turned Torture Chamber 

I turn and walk now into 

the Killing Fields 

I have walked in

and I cannot wak out 

I am now 44.

After being tortured in a former secondary school classroom

I am going into teaching soon

Secondary schools

 

 

The Polpot.

I never heard of them till I went there

For a holiday

A country so ravaged

That their tourist spots are

Cambodia

Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Pen with 3 Americans I hardly know

(Coz the fourth pulled out at the last minute)

 

We head straight to tourist attractions

The Killing Fields

A classroom where people were tortured

A display of skulls

And I am gutted

At 21 I thought I knew things

About horrors of the world

The Holocaust, WWII

But here, I am faced with genocide in my backyard

And I reel from the shock

That when I was three, toddling and babbling,

People were being tortured and thrown into pits that turned into mass graves

Two parts of the world so different, with me oblivious in one till I was 21

And the other heaving, grieving, screaming in terror

1981 in 2001 -draft 1

 

Cambodia

Giddy with the thrill of an unplanned holiday,

I’m in Phnom Pen with 3 Americans I hardly know

(Coz the fourth pulled out at the last minute)

 

We head straight to tourist attractions

The Killing Fields

A classroom where people were tortured

A display of skulls

And I am gutted

 

At 21 I thought I knew things

About horrors of the world

The Holocaust, WWII

But here, I am faced with genocide in my backyard

And I reel from the shock

To think that when I was three, toddling and babbling,

People were being tortured and thrown into pits that turned into mass graves

Two parts of the world so different, with me oblivious in one till I was 21

And the other heaving, grieving, screaming in terror

 

Shelf after shelf of skulls line the book case

And I cannot turn away from so 10,000 eyes

Eye sockets

Trained on me

 

What horrors must have this place endured

That their tourist attractions

Are killing fields

Classrooms of torture

And glass displays of skulls

 

I see myself reflected in the glass

The years telescoping back in whirlpool of memory

Telescoping the years back to 78, 81,

Dancing, babbling, gurgling, toddling

When at that same second

People were dying

Piling into mass graves

After being tortured in a former secondary school classroom

I am going into teaching soon

Secondary schools

 

 

The Polpot.

I never heard of them till I went there

For a holiday

A country so ravaged

That their tourist spots are

political love poem

 

America

The Land of Cowboys, Still

 

Where gunslinging heroes

face off over potatoes

and the NRA tweets

“Good guys with guns

Stop bad guys with guns”

with no one asking

why guys are bringing guns to the supermarket,

 

where, right after freedom is halved in 2022,

Independence Day is celebrated

in the only fitting way possible,

with a gunman taking down 6 people

amid the soundscape of fireworks,

 

where a child crosses borders for an abortion

and an article weighs the pros and cons of giving birth at 10,

without a word expressing horror

that a kid got pregnant in the first place - 

miraculous births are not a thing today you know,

and so we draw only one conclusion

about America’s preferred form of birth control - 

 

Women, just keep giving birth

Our cowboys will help to keep the population down.

In America You can

Irony is dead 

America

the land of cowboys still 

where gunslinging heros

have a showdown over potatoes

"Good guys with guns

stop bad guys with guns"

the NRA tweets 

without blinking an eye

Where Independence day is celebrated

After freedom is halved 

and in the 

the only fitting way 

with a gunman taking down 6

just because he can 

where a 10 year old crosses states for an abortion

and the article goes on about health risks and benefits

where no one asks

why is a 10 year old pregnant and 

what is to be done with the absent man in the article

America's has declared its choice of Birth control 

we will not let women choose abortions

but we will gleefully allow gunmen to take the populace down

because 

in America we can

Americas choice of birth control - the rifle 

India holiday

today is day 4. 

we went to the Balaji temple. 

ver 2

I'd like to parent like a river

smoothing pebbles in my wake 

gurgling, babbling, bubbling

over the earth

home to fish and frogs,

plants overhanging my banks

creating enclaves for nesting ducks

inviting baby bears to splash in my shallows

a friendly force of life

drawing birds and beasts to me

like a magnet

nor a turbulent one

churning inside

wrenching trees by their roots and flinging them ashore

raging against embankments

eroding the very foundations that hold us steady, 

pulling down houses in my frustration,

washing over goats and cows 

and sending

wave upon crashing wave onto shore 

till I am spent

and the world is shaped anew,

gouged and disgorged. 

------

not a turbulent one, 

churning my emotions 

raging against the embankments

eroding the very foundations that hold us steady, 

pulling down houses, trees and roads

in my frustration,

washing over the goats and cows 

and sending

wave upon crashing wave onto shore 

till I am spent,

days

some days I feel like such  a fraud.

like I could throw in the towel and give up

but what would I do

anne with an e

why do I love the show so

the budding romance 

the colossal mistakes the main characters make

the growth of the characters including the older ones like Mathew and Marilla and Rachel Lynde

I have hopes for Bash marrying Ms Stacy and for some resolution to the kakwet story. if true To life that cannot be a good ending. I do wonder if the show got cancelled because it showed Canada in a negative light. 

injustice

there is so much injustice in this world because of status, colour, race and power

those who have Lord itnover those who don't.the way the guards talk you about the foreign construction workers

the way the nurses talk to domestic helpers 

the way blacks are talked to by whites in some films and books ( and real life) 

the way poor are talked to by the rich at times

just look around and see who walks how.the working lady starts across the street in tiny shorts confident as he'll

that she has a place in this world 

and the helper shuffles across carrying three to four grocery bags 

never looking up

not sure if she is entitled to occupy any space at all

and what am I going to do about this

open up students eyes for one thing

notes from readings

that we must read far more than we write; 

that poetry is never about what we say, it is about how we say it; 

that poetry is about making people feel things they’ve never felt before, because before our poems they never had the language to feel these feelings. And that is a huge kind of responsibility, to give people new access to their own selves.

or is to recognise feelings they have had but never said to themselves in that way? giving voice to feelings they didn't knownthey had? 

how would I characterise my writing ? 

1. feel I have a unique voice 

2. enjoy writing, working with words

3. personal reflections thru poetry

4. those more serious commentary on policies I don't dare share. about feeling discriminated against. partly coz I don't want to be pigeons holder or identified as a poet who writes about that. if I could be characterised as a poet I'd like to be a poet who writes funny, wry poems about the everyday, nature, children, relationships, 

this world

everytime someone passes

I am reminded of how this earth keeps spinning

regardless and heedless

the unforgiving minute just marches on

what of those left behind

who gives them strength to live with the gaping hole in their lives

celebrating all that be was

instead of mourning all he could have been? 

America again

I've stopped feeling anything for sometime regarding America

seriously.why should I care

so crazy they even thought to celebrate 4th of july. America is slipping backwards in time

denied freedom for half the population then celebrate independence day. dripping with irony. and then guess what happens. a gunman kills 6 and injures 20. motiveless random shooting. because in America, you can! 

.they don't have the freedom to attend parades, go shopping or to school with peace of mind because anybody can buy a gun. but they can can ban women from having abortions. 

who are the shooters? almost invariably men. 

so women can keep giving birth and the population can control itself with random shooters. bravo America. you have advanced. 

I'd rather believe in a country going up than one going down. that would be India or Vietnam or Thailand. 

America

why do I care what happens to you

is I because I studied there for 5 months 

and you tug at my heart despite me 

I learned to be comfortable with myself in you

I learned racism too as I had never seen in Singapore before 

I learned loneliness and also friendship 

I learned independence and body confidence 

you have a place in my heart 

and maybe that's why

I rail at you so

if I could not.care i wouldn't 

so now let's talk about this

a 10 year old girl is pregnant and the news discusses her options of travelling to another state to have the baby aborted.

why is the article not asking why is a 10 year-old pregnant? 

who got her pregnant where is he now what punishment is he to bear so other young girls are not impregnated by him? 

that should have been the focus of the article. not whether or not she should give birth and the dangers of her giving birth. there is no question surely. 

America.  you are sliding sliding and I can't bring you up 

and you had a gunman take out a gunman in a supermarket.  news focus is on the heroism of 2nd gunman. why is no one asking , why are people out with guns in a supermarket? you buy your meat here not hunt it. 

America

I may Soon become speechless

fragments

 

Dried Leaf

Dried leaf curled up on the pavement,

what grace turned you snail-like ?

For a bird that swoops to find a delectable bite,

it finds you and turns away,

so the snail that actually crawls up next

is passed by without so much as a passing glance.

Even in death, you protect.

 

Cats

In my home since they were 2 weeks old,

this is all their world they know.

They strut with the arrogance of those who know their place in this world,

a world that serves them, revolves around them

with slaves to bathe and feed them, and even cuddle them,

never having met another in their lives

do my cats know they are cats?

 

 

Familiar Paths

Today I walked a path I used to take all the time 3 years ago.

It was soothing to see how quickly I fell into the rhythm of that route,

recalling specific people I would see along the way always,

who were not there now, of course.

 

The toothless lady selling tissue paper packets at Bishan MRT -

she had an extra special smile for me,

and a few words in Cantonese that I could not understand, yet understood.

I wonder where she is now, if she is well, alive even.

 

An older gentleman

pushing a trolley full of old papers and other knickknacks up the hill as I walked down

from Orchard MRT station along Paterson Road.

Where was he going with his wares, I used to wonder.

He was not there today

I wonder how he is, where he is.

I hope he is well.

 

There used to be a tree at the bus stop opposite the MRT station,

a towering leafy gift.

It was cut down one day,

with a square of rope around the stump

that became a square of rope around a mound of earth

clearly imprinted with roots of the tree,

like an unmarked grave, or a police chalk outline of a murder.

A tidy pavement smooths the way to the bus stop now,

where once I would run for the bus tripping over roots,

and this pavement now is filled with bushes and flowers,

so pretty, so neat, so contained.

with no trace left of the giant that once existed,

except for this poem.

 

Happy 11th Birthday Ashwin

 

My son is 11

That little fellow,

who rested happy in my womb, not wanting to come out on time, snuggling, asking for another 5 minutes, then with a little push, he popped right out, before the epidural could hit, and he was out, with nary a cry, happily drinking milk, skin to skin, filling my heart to the very brim and over

 

that same little fellow, who would jump on my tummy, bouncy bouncy bounce bounce, till I remembered we had another little one inside

and so particular he knew the tastes of different brands of milk and would flat out refuse when given a different one in India, so we had to feed him in his sleep to get some nourishment into him

who would exclaim Jiggu Jigga to say he was happy, and ask for lala and noo noo for rice and noodles, teaching us his language then as now

 

my sweet baby, whom, once a new one arrived needing my time all the time, would sit uncomplaining in the same room as me, playing with his cars and toys – as long as he could be near me, so I was never lonely

 

my prince who asks such deep questions of me, who cried at thinking he may not be my son again in a next birth, who asked where he was when I was four, who thought we’d have a baby coz our lips accidentally brushed each others’

 

this little boy little little happy boy who stands still for music, who draws funky cows, who cries for an ant he may have killed or for having given milk to a puppy without realising it may have hurt it

 

this sweet sweet little boy who would want his milk bottle fastened in specific ways to a logic known only to him, who would not wear pants that revealed the ankles or singlets for a time, who asked why does he do that, she doesn’t like it, when he saw a song where the man teases the unwilling girl

who told his father it can’t be easy to wash others’ bums and brought tears to his eyes

 

this precious little boy who questions why schools have to give homework  - why why?

Who writes, draws, sings, plays music and brings art and life to this world

I am so blessed to be your mother

I love you

happy birthday Ashwin

impossible conversations

When you left

I talked and talked

concocting story after story 

to explain your loss

to myself 

You left.

I left a window open,

and you left. 

You did speak

but I could not listen or comprehend,

then

speak to me now 

and give me peace  

I am a traveller 

you say 

I came for rest

not jail. 

I wince. 

You stop before I can say

I never meant...

you know. 

I am a traveller

you say

I rested here with you

but I have a calling too

You fulfilled your karma

feeding me

talking to me

I've  left  you messages 

you will see

you will grow up

and see

I may not remember you much

I do have a birdbrain, but

you sang to me and I to you

leaving imprints on each others lives 

I left because I had to

my friend 

and I did live before I died 

I am free

let me go

and be free too. 

-------

Now let me go. 

I lived before I died 

thats what my epitaph will say 

you hold me

I kid myself that I have any power 

over you

smaller than me now

younger than me always.

I gave you life

and I'll pull your strings

ha!

The truth is, my darling,

you hold me

Even when I yell at you, and you cower in a corner

shrinking from my twisting face

and barbed words,

grotesque,

you hold me. 

You will me to do better. be better. 

You are not one I gave life to

but one for whom I was a portal

for you to take your place in this world

You are not an 18-year old project

but a life inextricably linked to mine,

from past births to the next 

you hold me. 

Singapore

Singapore. 

(Nothing too original here)

I have no country but you

but sometimes I wonder

if

if

i can claim you as mine

if I am questioned by others,

viewed as a threat, an " other" ,

from time to time. 

Is that not always the lot of the minority though, 

and also a privilege- 

to therefore be able to identity 

with the minority everywhere? 

Not ever the same 

but maybe a window, a doorway, a sliver of space through which I could step in to feel

that pain.

Today's newspaper headlines sent a quiver of dread down my spine

New Variant. From 2 travellers from India. 

and I brace myself. 

for all the suspicion and assault that may come my way 

I am always on the stand here in you,

my country, 

where I was born and grew up and studied and work, 

on the stand to defend my right to belong,

to feel the question cast my way - 

Am I from India or here? 

How far back do I have to go to prove it and prove it 

It will never be enough .

Singapore 

I love you. 

you are mine

but am I yours? 

you keep me safe 

so safe

and also rajapaksha safe

not sure how I feel about that

so many things right

so many many

and so many wrong

like any relationship I suppose

we work together 

you shape me

and I you? 

maybe? 

dare I? 

can I? 

-‐-----

I worry my poem will make others uncomfortable 

but also that it is not very new

There can be no unproblematic ties to anything 

to the kingfisher at my window

I come to the window looking for you,

wondering if you will be there to see me too,

but you are not there for me, of course.

That is my hubris, to think everything centres around me.

You are there because your soul's journey led you there,

and I am just lucky to have been there too,

to have our paths cross for a moment.

Then we must part,

or rather I must accept we will part

for we may not be a "we" to you.

You chart your own adventure 

I wish you well, 

and hope perhaps

if it is meant to be

our paths may cross again 

someday. 

chocolate poetry slam poem 3

paperwork

Paperwork

I am buried in paperwork.

I would rather bury myself in earth,
sink into soft soil,
lose myself in a fertile bed that nurtures,

quite unlike this blood-sucking stack of papers,

and explore the subterranean mazes
through which naked mole rats roam,
where interlocked networks of roots talk,
sharing gossip of the towering Seraya
whose roots dig deep to support its airy dreams.

The grass roots engage in shallow chatter,
a bit like my papers, stuck in circular arguments
that don't scratch the surface of things that matter,

like us, building a nest with babies
rooting for hugs, games, stories, time,
that my paperwork erodes away.

chocolate poetry slam poem 2

what I want to be

chocolate poetry slam poems poem 1

chocolate 

Cakes, cookies, ice cream 

Macadamia, hazelnuts, peanuts

Raisins, pomegranates, berries

Is there anything in the world that does not taste better with

Chocolate?

Chocolate – a treat

Chocolate – the colour of my skin

Chocolat– a novel by Joanne Harris

So much that I love

Is chocolate

Bittersweet, salted, dark

With hints of orange and chilli

That’s how I like my 

Chocolate

BUT

Icy or hot

Sprinkled or slathered

Chipped or in blocks

you have to admit 

A single bite

Is paradise!

kalai nigalchi chronicles

Akshaya 

1.2009 tennis player 

2. 2012: ramayana story

3. 2013: muguntha muguntha with shruthi

3.2014 radha with ashwin as krishna 

5. 2015 jai ho with shruthi, aadhi and karthi 

6..2016 thitgimidhi dance with ashwin, shruthi and karthi

7. 2017mazhai songs with hasini and shruthi 

8. 2018: jimikki kamal song with hasini varshini shruthi abi and aishu

8. 2019: marriage celebration song, Thornham mangalayam, with hasini, and shruthi and varshini

9. 2021:Radhai manathil dance with shruthi and hasini

2020: psle break

2022: break 

Ashwin 

1. 2012 Hanuman

2. 2013 krishna with akshaya

3. 2014.murugan 

3. 2015 MGR song

4. 2017 thidthimidhi dance with akshaya, shruthi and karthi

5. 2018

6 2019 Magic Show

7. piano 2020

8. piano 2021

9. 2022: break 

Aishu

1. 2015 forest ranger

2. 2016 bumble bees

3.  2017 dance with abi

4. 2018 dance with akshaya shruthi abi, varshini and hasini

5. 2019 gymnastics 

6. 2020 piano

7. 2021 puppet show

8.2022 dance with the other Aishwarya ( morrakka) 

chocolate poem

 

Cakes, ice-cream, cookies

Macadamia, cashews, hazelnuts

Raisins, pomegranates, berries

Is there anything in the world that does not taste better with

Chocolate?

Chocolate – a treat

Chocolate – the colour of my skin

Chocolate – a novel by Joanne Harris

So much that I love

Is chocolate

Bittersweet, salted, dark

With hints of orange and chilli

That’s how I like my 

Chocolate

BUT

Icy or hot

Sprinkled or slathered

Chipped or in blocks

you have to admit 

A single bite

Is paradise

won't you join me now

for some 

Chocolate?