October 2019

I’ve got skin, miles and miles of skin. covered and adorned with colours, be it of cotton, silk or others. It’s perfect in concealing my cells and the scars I possess But your eyes would lurk somewhere that has deeper

Mortality isn’t something you think about when you’re seven. Even when your Dadaji dies the year you turn seven. For the rest of your life, you will remember this kind short-sighted man with nausea and outrage. Nausea because he was the first

I’m not a displaced person living in uncertainty marginalised and not heard. I have the right to vote freedom of speech hard-earned by my migrant ancestors. My children have married into other cultures chosen other religions blessing our family with

In a corner of my mother’s kitchen cupboard, there was a brown glass and a plate, slightly cracked, “Reserve them for the Help”, she’d snap “Don’t drink from them, keep them at the back.” There was separate access from the back

Clocks and mirrors Carries on working Even though when No one is staring Today dissolves Into tomorrow Like two different Droplets of dew Travelled from yesterday On the wings of Joy and sorrow.

I do no more comprehend the language of this nation For our mother’s tongue tastes soured Fretful rapacity of our fathers has sullied her glory with avarice The tongue of love has been besmirched by despise The tongue of war

It’s a terracotta house. On the terracotta wall there is the painting of my love It’s the painting that changes its hue as the season changes its own. There is a flash at the end of the tunnel A flash

She said: You are far away from home. You can’t meet your friends and family. Who do you miss the most? With a breaking voice, I whispered: I only miss the fact that nobody will miss me.

An Interview With Megan Dhakshini Megan Dhakshini is a multi-faceted creative: a writer, singer and voice actor, and it is her voice and the flowing conveyance of self that is evident in her first book of poems, ‘Poison Apple’. Megan’s

There’s one in every family the black sheep the bull there are names for me you won’t find on Wikipedia whispered, rumoured too ugly to share I wanted to tell my story but there are no words only mythologies yes the

It’s Sunday afternoon and she’s in the wash house standing in stocking feet on the roof of theold doll’s house, the one Uncle John Murphy made, and she’s rocking backwards andforwards …bored, bored, bored…rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod rebod

In a city full of programmers I’m troubleshooting my life In a city full of coders I’m trying to hold my poise In a city full of hikers I’m walking my own way In a city full of rain I’m

I am no Syrian woman. I am no brave, resistant, resilient, heroic Syrian woman. And no matter how many Syrian friends I have, how much Arabic I strive to learn nor how many Nizar Qabbani’s poems I read. I am