top of page

Poetry Month: POETRY

Updated: Apr 13, 2020

i went to the market

to pick up a kilo of poetry,

because inspiration

has been in short supply recently.

moby doesn't torment me as much,

and i'm all out of bluebirds and


i've fallen out of love with lolita

and bovary is too busy reading, to notice.

i spend most of my days

in the kitchen,

begging my garlic to peel easy,

and my onions not to burn,

my tea to stay strong

and my curd, not to sour.

so i'm going to the market,

because even if i don't find poetry,

i'll maybe find some peas and cauliflower

for dinner.


when only the basics i made

could no longer satisfy my tastes

i had to up my kitchen game

using the same ingredients i had

in a relatively innovative way

i looked up a couple of recipes

and even though the outcome

was vastly differently for each

they were often similar essentially

onions go in first, then tomatoes

if you’re trying to make a gravy

but based on my idea (and mood)

i’d have to treat them differently

and like my mom said i would

i got the hang of the process

if not all techniques, eventually

now any time i try something new

i take inspiration but go a bit askew

the way i can recognise the chefs

behind two plates of the same dish

somedays i really like what i consume

other days i do it to make it through

and i don’t know if you can tell already

but cooking’s starting to feel a lot like poetry



These quarantined days

Have been marked by visiting poems

Words from other poets

Lucille Clifton, Gwendolyn Brooks, Jack Gilbert, Tishani Doshi

Fill my days

As I tear through their poetry

Underlining the pages, making notes, leaving my thoughts in a margin

An ongoing conversation

I read their work hungrily,

trying to consume their craft whole

As a reward

Most evenings from beyond the clouds

I hear whispers,

soft sounds of words clanging together,

conjuring images, stitching thoughts, creating metaphors

As if I have tuned into a radio channel

Or I am eavesdropping on a conversation in a café

Or it is the djinns of poetry calling out to me

telling me to get ready

I clamber, get to my journal

Hang on to my pen

and pray


The sky should rain poetry.

In the shower

Our hearts can grow like the convoluted forests they are,

and if the skies can not bear that much weight

they should be laden with flowers.

Mostly Hibiscus

Full of pollen of tercets that sway

stuck to the tufts of cloud.

Hanging upside down

for those who feel out of breath in the middle of the day.

With such abundance

when we will have nothing to say

I'll send you flowers that have dried in the folds of my face

Think of them as postcards

carrying poems I could never say.




Blog: Blog2


Blog: GetSubscribers_Widget
bottom of page