The skies are a different name of you,a different hue of your laughter

The skies always tell me
something else

to look up and not see you – absence
to look up and see the moon – solitude
to look up and name every star – freckles

and since that day
I learnt
to look at you
and long for the skies


What is poetry
To dream that i was
choking on letters
from a game of Scrabble

to wake up
embraced in silence
of your breathing

words, thoughts

all games won


I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.

I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.
wrote Rilke

Ah, what would he say to I whose circles have been shrinking. Like a leash that is reaching for my skin.
My back bears witness.
The words are wounds. Sore, festering, trying to break free.
I wake up with a barb wire around my heart. To breath on these mornings is to watch my flesh lick these fences.
My heart is a prison. It’s walls have stories of us.
But it is too dark for anyone to read.
My memory too is foresaking me.

Am I just turning into the dot
that you end your name with.

Poem: Postcard from Kashmir – Agha Shahid Ali


Agha Shahid Ali

Agha Shahid Ali (1949-2001) was a poet, translator and academic from Kashmir. He is credited with single-handedly introducing the classical ghazal to America and the West, which spurred a whole bunch of native English writers trying their hand at the ghazal. Here is a poem from his collection “The Country Without a Post Office”, about how felt when he received a postcard from his violence-ridden Kashmir.

Postcard from Kashmir

Kashmir shrinks into my mailbox,
my home a near four by six inches.

I always loved neatness. Now I hold
the half-inch Himalayas in my hand.

This is home. And this is the closest
I’ll ever be to home. When I return,
the colors won’t be so brilliant.

The Jhelum’s waters so clean,
so ultramarine. My love
so overexposed.

And my memory will be a little
out of focus, in it
a giant negative, black
and white, still…

View original post 2 more words


Your bookmarked pages
meet my lines
in flourosecnt highlights
When we exchange our copies
of Letters to Milena.

reading these mileu
of our overlapping thoughts
I feel my fingers are
finding yours
to entwine
to rest
to dream in