October 8, 2013 § Leave a comment
In an inspired moment
the sun whispered to the winter wind —
Let me hold you.
September 28, 2013 § 8 Comments
I could speak more
and the moments of promise
that peer at me
before scurrying by
but they slip
and shy away,
afraid to compete with
the song and sorrow
of the words
August 13, 2013 § 2 Comments
The war began over a week ago. The screams from down the street target open windows through the rain, flooding in and echoing wildly. I know this isn’t my battle, but it remains crippling nonetheless.
Last day of June
Clouds spiral into smoke as the evening sun sets them ablaze. On my left, in the glow of the evening, Pariah Kites crowd the tops of a cluster of coconut trees as the monsoon thermals momentarily catch their breath. Almost instinctively, I glance above to the branched home of nearly a hundred Fruit Bats. I continue walking.
Six months into 2013, and I’ve already left two homes. With new landscapes, we give time to observe, understand and accommodate. I’ve often taken this city for granted. On the surface, it was rarely pleasing and almost always unfamiliar, yet this street and my memories for today are my home. From here, I have watched the sea gradually become a distant neighbour. From days of fishing and open skies, to making playgrounds of newly constructed sites that soon drove traffic through my street, to longer walks and waiting for trees to grow taller, and shelter nesting birds and us from a view of a trapped sea; my first friend, first poem, first puppy, first bloody knee, first fight, first cycle, first mystery to solve and the beginning of all my journeys.
There is a little street in this world that has always been my familiar, always been my home. And tomorrow, I get back on the road.
A month later
I returned to struggle with questions of identity and belonging. My old familiar had been rattled in my fleeting absence. The steady Kite population had soared, and captured the local prey base. Little hope remained, and most others fled to look for less competitive grounds. But not the House Crows. Warriors of Today, the only ones that fought back were the Kites, nesting Drongos and the Bandicoots. However, the Crows’ cleverness overcame them as they drove away all other competition, leaving room for the Kites to rise. Threatened, they formed camps and sent out troops, 10 to 1, no matter the target.
The Crows were slipping in their ranks. Worry began to creep through the grey skies, with storms dampening spirits. It was time for a new reign, and they had tried all they believed possible – overturned every nest, every breeding and feeding site, and every home; except for that of the Fruit Bats.
The Fruit Bats, who never had reason to flee, continued to return each evening and chatter into the night. The patch of Copperpods and Gulmohars had always been their home, always been their familiar. This haven soon became a distant memory as the attacks began to plummet their everyday.
I had missed the initial scream, the haunting cry of a Bat in distress. Now they bleed through the skies as every evening, the Bats struggle to claim what has always been theirs, but remain beat by the Crows’ strategies and numbers, and are forced to flee. The screams ring through the night, creating nightmares for those of us that lie outside the battleground. The Kites keep watch until the sun rises, but they do not push out the Crows. They only wait for them to tire, wait for the coming of what they believe to be the Final Battle.
April 25, 2013 § Leave a comment
Paper, paper, scissors –
rocks greet my mornings
as the cold-blooded scramble
to hide another day.
fruit in plenty;
January 1, 2013 § 12 Comments
The Annual Report from WordPress made me feel terrible for my laziness with regards this blog, and so a minor update: I’ve moved a few times since descending the Blue Mountains, and will be on the go again in a month. A brief on the wonders of 2012 (easily one of my happiest years, might even scoop first place as The Happiest) have been jotted down below:
In drunken revelry, a year of time and fierce presence is remembered.
Another full year, and I did not see the sea very often, but the sun did set and rise in it. And as light pulled back and forth, so did my stories. It is no longer easy for me to say where I’ve come from, nor where I’m headed. This knowledge is now like vacant truth, denied by meaning.
My story is not my own. It has travelled over surplus borders and languages and foods and faiths. And the people that scrawled words across its canvas are some of the greatest poets I’ve met. Their lives – their everyday – tell limitless tales of what it is to hunt down meaning, to fight and struggle with passion, to feel full of blood and humanness. There is no longer room for merely getting by, no longer space for a single day to pass forgotten.
And somewhere in between all the skies, I moved from countless house to house, always calling them home as they buried themselves in nooks of living memory – new neighbours to dine with and listen to and share with; new teachers to walk tight ropes of freedom with; new friends to love and challenge; new families of my own.
I had never been pushed so far unto freedom, and could no longer claim to know myself. I started to dispose of unnecessary articles that halted, even so slightly, every opportunity to live and engage with life. And in began to flow older thoughts from younger days: the knowledge that routine is a myth, but exhilarating comfort still appears when a local recognises you as part of their landscape; that no matter how full days become, there’s always time to be more; that another drought and flimsy banks and lawyers can drive someone you know to suicide, even as you watch a storm light up a desert with soft rain; that no amount of seeking refuge in pre-defined sentiment will teach joy, but sunrises come rather close; that to disconnect ourselves from our lands is madness of a dangerous breed; that winter winds carry flocks of migrants who choose to trust despite unknowing change; that trust isn’t, and will never be, as significant as love; that we are all vulnerable to theft of many kinds; that we can never find peace if we only wish it unto ourselves; that all that I am certain of rests within this moment, ready to perch upon a distant echo and dance out of reach. I know so much less than I did a year ago, but the intensity and joy of each day are all I wish to pursue.
And 2013? I can only anticipate.
November 27, 2012 § Leave a comment
I was brought to believe it was the rats – disease carrying beings that run through our well-defined systems and cause havoc and misery. Repulsion is a steady survivor. Even when removed from a stained memory of refuse, it remains. And yet, in the cove of a Neem tree carved in the luxury of time, all repugnance dissipated. Unknowing, we searched for new meaning and adapted afresh. The decay remained strongly rooted in the system, and yet, not all its propagators are as aware or wise as the rat when removed from a complying, filth-ridden race.