#birthplace
My birthplace: a bed,
actually, I happen --
to know where on earth.
May 1, 2025
May 1, 2025 at 3:06 AM UTC
I let the musty air fill my lungs
as it begs to remind me of
where I'm from
I grew up reciting lines
like I was just acting fine
when really I was just a child
with nothing better to do
with their time
and what was a hobby
became a passion
and what was a passion
became forgotten
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 10:25 PM UTC
Oh, my birthplace
You're filled with goodness
Oh my motherland
You're filled with happiness
Oh, my birthplace!
The cold air in the early sunshine
these all pleasure are mine
There really is no place
without your loving things
Your melody plays in green forests
give me joy and gladness
and the hair of your paddy field
makes me surprised!
These things make me happy.
The tunes and songs of birds
and the pretty smelling flowers
make my soul smile and cold
I'd catch your moon shines!
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
I first cried
where freshness itself struggled
to breathe. Outside
the Ganges,
asthmatic,
began to cower
back in fear, in
disgust, in
disease, browning
like the discarded banana peels
on the roadside below.
I first cried
in a dirt town
where kings and queens
drank to grass avenues
and swaying music in the realms
of history books.
I first cried
where those books
aged quietly
in forgotten rooms.
I first cried
where the streets bled
out crumpling homes and
cardboard stores with misspelt names,
spilling children in dust dresses
and hair matted
into rust pieces.
I first cried
where those children hung
babies on their arms
like my mother swung
her handbag, a flag
of Valentino, while stumbling on
crushed cans and dog ****
and foetid mud-water
on the way to the dentist.
And the children cried
out snot, their arms
perpetually reaching
for a rupee
from the traffic.
I first cried
where white-lit department stores
sprouted in defiant sanitation
between eczema-covered apartment blocks
in which washing lines drooped
and parking was always a problem.
I first cried
where many gods and goddesses
resided on the footpaths
decked in glitter
and cloths of rouge
as old men with
skin weathered into mottled
leather shook
beneath sheets of jute
on the roadside below
and offered tiny flames
to their gods
as morning bellowed and their coughs
grew worse.
I first cried
where stareless men burnt
their fingers
on the Chinese noodles with too much
chilli powder
they cooked and fried and cooked
for those who never saw them
but to haggle over a ten
rupee note,
on the roadside,
on every corner.
I first cried
as thread-blanketed teenage girls
with wrinkled faces
squatted amongst cows
in the middles of roads,
chanting prices, in voices
full of tar,
of the mound of peas
they were selling for that week.
I come every year.
And I'm ashamed to say
I'll never live here
but in my verses
because I can't stand the smell
of the place where I was born.
I first cried
here.
I first cried here.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC