Poetry

Nib

Under the shade of a lamp the black gold pen looks at its nib 

aware that it has locked centuries of magic alphabets

whose DNA lingers inside dried ink.

Seen retrospectively, cities, towns, events, accidents, names, numbers, 

movements, gestures, stories, myths, are all words grafted

on relentless time.

The nib dreams, extending and linking to other infinite nibs.

Flirting with Euripides in Athens or Camus in absinthe scented Tipasa, 

remaining alone with Calvino in impossible landscapes and meditating 

with Tagore, it is conscious of the powers of gods and demons

in whose shadow cities bloom and men make history. 

Without saying a word it forms words, mysteriously outliving 

the mortal body.

Alphabets

Alphabets march to enter my heart 

but an ancient wind stops them.

They get lost 

they die

without forming a word.

However, in the evening they return 

with kites

with birds.

Coloured alphabets

sitting arrogantly on my desk 

deriding me.

Alphabets mist of my armpits. 

Alphabets the cotton stretched 

over my breasts.

Alphabets the invisible horizon. 

I’m swept.

In the sense-space of my thought 

alphabets grow again on their own 

as do the fern

much like the nail on your finger. 

Alphabets mother of words.

Alphabets word-forest.

And if we do loose ourselves 

in the forest, it is exactly then 

that we find our voice