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Gaye Mar 2020
He is probably one of the few people who still carry a handkerchief wherever he goes. While I wash and dry his clothes under the scorching South Asian sun, his handkerchief safely finds its home inside those formal pockets. Wet and divine.
I have forgotten to write. This is another failed attempt after a few years of not writing poetry.
Gaye Jun 2018
I can so relate to the threat that I pose,
the threat that I went in search of sentences long and old,
the round bold letters on postcards to the university and the ghostly presence from a tiny village on the map.

Yet I do not understand why I foolishly ran away at 20,
I do not understand why reading an acknowledgement online gives me a high.
The journalists in Bosnia declined to report the crime that included visiting places on Google earth, wondering about nights and cupcakes.
Gaye Jun 2018
In all my imaginings, a pastoral past always found a place for themselves. Quite annoying. But as leaves disappeared from my eyes with the distance my car travelled, I constantly found myself lost in the cities that I lived in. I would want my daughter to have a huge balcony full of green leaves, I want her to listen to crickets from the city.
Gaye May 2018
As I walk around the hood where my mother used to walk,
Climb the bus she used to travel and stink late evenings
Like brinjal in coconut oil inside uncovered pots for boiling
I feel like my mother reaching her daughter as phone calls
I feel so far away yet so close, I feel like my mother as I walk the road.
Gaye May 2018
Joseph Kern had never seen The Starry Night,
Had he been there, the parsonage across
Van Gogh’s memory, leading to Arles or somewhere else,
Had he been there, he could have thrown the pebbles he
Collected that flew through his window
In the afternoons he eavesdropped.

I like to think that Joseph Kern has seen The Starry Night
While somebody played the
Violin Concerto No. 2 in E Major, BWV 1042: II. Adagio
I like to imagine him  amongst the thickly applied whorls of paint,
I like him across the English Channel, waiting with one of
Rita’s puppies, echoing the sky-
Not as it looks but how as it feels.
The Starry Night, 1889
Three Colors: Red ( Trois couleurs: Rouge), 1994
Gaye Mar 2018
This is how it is, more or less like Ramanujan,
Or I don’t know if it’s okay to think like this,
Whatever makes you comfortable, stable.

I know how it feels to be outside my body
When appachi, valyammavan and all others
Exist in minor contradictions, but you must
Realise that the pictures that run your mind
Include things as silly as our car loans.

In the slanting late-night musings that you do-
Beneath the green and white curtains of my room,
I collapse into a cupboard of my little history
And you stand as a ghost in absence. Lost.
Like a child, like how I used to be. Crying.

Have had I told you that you smell like
A jewelry shop in brand new air freshener,
Just after a midnight Medimix shower
Perhaps you could have recognized me-
The tiny girl, daughter, lover, and mother, next you.

Where did I fail? Probably in the mornings I learned
To walk, the years that taught me math lessons,
Times father reached me as phone calls,  
In college as a pair of blue jeans and love poems,
While in Chandini Chowk, inside the tiny room-
Upstairs home and all the hours before I walked
Into the college library with my roommate.
I would like an opportunity with poetry (again), please let me know.
PFA relief of writing something after a very long time.

Gaye Jan 2018
I don't remember when I first read Sophie's World, today I sit and write about Sophie's world hoping someday someone is gonna read it too.

We live alongside her, well, I live in the third world and we hardly know anything about it. However its a reality, and I see myself like the Italian grandmother who appeared on my computer screen this morning trying to make a conversation with 'goo-goo'. I am just being another 'cucumber with anxiety'.

Hey goo-goo, okay goo-goo, play Mary did you know!
"..this child that you delivered, will soon deliver you"
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