THE SIZE OF A CHILD’S COFFIN
 
Syria:
A country with not enough land to hide
The blame, the shame, and the pain of
18”, 24”, and 36” coffins,
So, the dead lie like a stairway to heaven,
150 plump, dimpled, cold steps to a better world
A country too small to bury
The infant bodies in its bowels,
So, the dead children rise and swell
From the valley of ashes and rubble
Like a sea of waves, (en)shrouded in white
 
 
SAUDADE
 
I walked down a boggy path this afternoon, fortified
In borrowed wellingtons, 
With an umbrella too feeble to fight the wind, 
And a mind too far gone from home.
The road got more difficult and I shall not lie,
In moments of fleeting sanity I did wonder why
Where
When
What
How
- I digress -
I did wonder where I was going,
What I was looking for,
Why.
In answer, the dense forest and the Seamus Heaney landscape 
Led to a sudden clearing and
I saw a postcard before my eyes.
Mountains,
Black, brown, charcoal, ochre, flaming green, carmine,
Cloud grey, sunshine mountains across the loch
Stretched against the painted sky.
As it started raining,
Colours, washed from the canvas of this sky,
Drenched me 
And I realised 
That the postcard was real.
So I cried.
Beauty that brilliant can sometimes hurt the eyes.
I bent down in the rain to 
Collect leaves, pick up fallen flowers, gather mushrooms:
I'm a hoarder, I amass memories 
To fossilise them in me.
Yet, I know, some day when I'm gone 
They'll scatter away my scattered treasures:
My Arden Macbeth, Baba's stories, maple leaves from Beijing, 
Shingles from the shore of Loch Lomond,
Red telephone booth magnets from London, 
Bookmarks from San Fran, 
Ma’s haiku written to me from Dhaka, 
A pressed hydrangea from Bhutan.
Still, I collect 
Autumn leaves.
Does a tree cry when tossing its leaves aside?
Or when its leaves die?
I thought, let me try
To be a tree.
I too was born free
And then chained
By hopes, dreams, fashions, fears, loves, tears.
So, I began to strip:
Boots
Socks
Belt
Keychain
Denims
Muffler
Sweater
Shirt
Spectacles
Silver anklet
Gold ring
Underclothes
Inhibitions
And took a dook in the ice cold brook.
As the water burnt my skin
I let my heart meander
(Tired of chasing fame and failure)
From the banks of the Clyde
To old Calcutta,
With a speed that even light has never known.
But then the discordant sound of a car
Broke the symphony of the wild winds
And the architecture of my dreams.
How long had I been in the water?
Where had I traveled to?
In that dot of a moment I had been infinite.
Memories can distort topography and time.
Memories can wear you down + it’s tiresome to dream.
So, I put on my clothes,
I put on my smile,
I put on my mask,
And readied my accent,
Preparing to meet the world again:
Is the word pronouncedlulla-bees, or is itlulla-byes?