saffron sighs

On a saffron bus, in the Indian heat,

she looked back in to the road,

that dwindled into a golden camp.

Thirteen years ago dressed in a white kurti

and sucking a sweet tablet,

not in hunger but elated by the train journey.

The wheels sang on the tracks,

her maroon waist coat clung to her sticky skin,

from behind her peach frame she peeked out at the boys from Ghana,

late into the rainy night playing chess.

Those young lads and her girls had met on a trip.

She  woke drowsy from a  dream last night,

with the taste of  Punjabi food, milk coffee and vanilla ice cream.

There were Chinese letters on the side walk,

Before she leaves, she hopes you won’t desert her, 

not when the train stops or before it begins.

She will sleep by Hermann Hesse.        



Four hours to forget

I found her photograph among other humans in an unforgiving city.

With her hair parted on one side, her left hand scratching the right side of her face.

Not a face you would remember, not a face you could easily forget.

She says, “The more times I fall in love, the less sure I am about love.”

The more times I fall in love, I lose faith in the word.

Among humans on the streets, on slow tramps, long subways and pier fronts,

bodies dancing to elated lights in between beer bottles in castaway bins.

Memories  crowd my tired steps, I am lost again.

I promise my self  I will find my way through the ‘eastward’ trucks,

they lead me these corporate lights, dim in to corners.

Last time, in eight weeks, the travel had begun ‘westward bound’.

I counted the hours this time.

In four hours, the clinks of chains washed out every fickle moment.

In two, you took a ticket ‘eastward bound’.

I walked.

looming starcast

Tonight I can see the stars above the swings at Caine  road.

Complacent to my deterrent desires,

stifled but alive in my passing toes.

We swing by, to and fro.

There are enough cares to stop me,

passing boots and crying shots.

Rooms of sighs, frozen touches in seething sadness going a downhill road.

But if  I have found you even in my buried calmness,

these chains can not be faulty.


Across my 12th   floor window she walks across the room  in her ‘boyfriend shirt,’ back and forth.

Above the toy cars, he dries his clothes and irons, often without a shirt.

She  cooks for hours, without looking once at me.


And their  laundry box is set on the window, baby clothes  patched in hangers.

You call me through the  metro line, far away,  a wind in your voice.

‘I loved the poem,’ you say.

Flowers by  Wendy Coop.