Writing

This section contains some of my recent and published work. All material is copyrighted and may not be used without explicit written permission from me.

Cat

Written in 2004

My fingers curled tightly around the piece of brick, I wait for her to look away long enough for me to throw it. Her eyes flick to one side for an instant, but then return to their calm assessment of me before I can draw my hand up or raise my arm high enough for the throw to count. She looks calms as she takes in my unlaced shoes, my too-big knees that the school feels compelled to display, my tie lying askew over my rumpled shirt, my hair that I have to keep shaking from my eyes. She looks bored.

A crow caws somewhere above us, deepening the silence. The afternoon passes, vast and empty. There is a slight breeze and the smell of dust and cows floats towards us. Mother puts out pails of water for the animals that wander by. My parents say we're to take care of animals because they can't speak. I don't understand, but it is best to remain silent.

I focus on the green eyes that are closing to tiny slits now. I lift my hand slowly and then begin to raise my arm. The eyes open. Calm, alert, superior. It is enough. My arm comes back down of its own accord and I continue to stand there, thwarted.

She sits up and begins to clean behind her ears. She seems preoccupied, but I can see her watching me, daring me to move. I stand and watch her watching me. I can feel the brick in my hand, and when I squeeze my fist over it, I can see its ochre edges and the small white striations that run from edge to core. It's grainy on the outside and some of its powder has settled between my fingers. I know there will be tiny cuts there when I wash my hands. I know the cuts will sting when the soap touches them. I know the skin will split again tomorrow morning when I stretch my hands as I wake up. But then tomorrow's playground dust will settle into the mean little cuts and quiet them for a while.

Tomorrow. I can try again tomorrow. She'll be here. She's always here. But then she will have won again. I will have let her win, and I can't do that. Not again and again and again. I have to do it today.

I feel the brick bite deeper into my skin as I decide. She focuses on me again. There, I can hit her between the eyes. She's holding perfectly still. This time, I raise my hand slowly, lift my arm slowly, tilt my body backwards slowly. She keeps still. She watches with her patient, bored expression in place. This is her domain, not mine: her home, her wall, her piece of sunlight and shade. And I have to drive her from it, make her run away, frighten her into movement.

I tense my body for a final backward swing and her ears stand ever so slightly straighter. Nothing more. I reach and throw. The missile leaps from my hand in a shower of red-white dust and, sailing a foot over the cat on the wall, lands with a dull thump against the tree behind her. She remains still, patient, calm. The cloud sounds like a waterfall settling around me, in my hair, in my eyes, in the creases of my skin. Some of the dust, at least, has reached her and she gives herself a shake before starting to clean it off herself, now ignoring me completely. I want to run at the wall and scream until I get her attention back, but I can't. I can't make myself bear her eyes, her boredom, her patience all over again, though I stand as still as I was before for a stubborn moment. But I must move before she becomes still and strong again. I want to be still and strong and kill in one efficient sweep, but I can't.

My lot is movement.

My lot is defeat.

Stargazing

Written July 2001; published in the Alhamra Literary Review 2005, and at Chowk.com in 2004

Towering and insensate 
the golden form of the Archer 
drawn from point to point 
eternal equidistance 
maintained 
but at what cost. 
Such straining, pulling 
at once outward and inward 
spinning yet feigning 
effortless poise--stillness. 
And this is your nature 
to draw and to repel 
to inspire and to deny 
your light--to withhold. 
But somewhere 
in your patches 
of inky indigo 
lies the explanation 
of your points of light. 
There in your darkness, 
your light is made whole 
and the unfeeling is made 
to feel.

Dream the Goddess

Published in 2000

The poems here appear in chronological order, as they do in the book. 

close

in a forest
dead leaves and bark
underfoot
walking
from tree
to tree
damp air
smells of life
with death
clinging close 

the cliffs

generations standing 
century after century 
watching waves 
swell 
rear 
crash 
headlong into cliffs 
the sea 
watching 
ages pass 
people change 
grow 
age 
leave 
slowly 
the cliffs change 
smoothed 
worn away 
time 
bending people 
drawing up 
wrinkling 
tearing down
washing away

dancing

wrapped together
enfolded
in time
space
doesn't exist
eternity
awaits
dancing shadows
souls
in firelight
shifting forms
masses
of movement
dancing life
circular
spiralling
spinning
toward oblivion

sing

sing to me 
while I sleep 
as the rain 
sings 
to my soul 
of ages 
beyond 
memory's shore 
their images 
shivering 
as dewdrops 
in the morning mist. 
I have been 
this dance 
this touch 
this kiss 
this breath 
this pain 
this love 
this song 
...a world ago 

nightshine

drops
of moonglow 
drowning 
in the radiance 
from street lamps 
their light battling 
fireflies
drinking 
the stars 

healing  

healing?
healing's about 
comfort 
putting 
your hands 
together 
twining
your fingers 
smoothing 
a worried 
forehead 
hot milk 
in the middle 
of the night 
a smile 
for no 
reason 
a look 
a laugh 
because 
you want to 
put your
pills 
and drugs 
back 
the ride's 
going to end 
one way or 
another
it's how 
you cleared
the bumps
that counts. 

blizzard morning music 

my backyard 
turned white 
overnight 
snow so high 
the door 
wouldn't open 
and a cold,
cold 
kiss 
in the frosted
air 
garden chairs 
and table top 
outlined 
in the snow 
silence 
so absolute 
breathing
became crass... 
but then two 
ravens 
with Time 
in their wings 
landed there... 
a blue-black 
intensity 
shattering 
the stillness

sculpture

form 
in space 
movement 
precision 
rhythm 
frozen 
for all time 
imagination 
made concrete 
flashing life 
speed 
restrained 
controlled 
determined hands 
guiding 
leading 
turning stone 
to spirit 
souls 
living still 
wiser now 
in their age 
watching 
on display 
their knowledge 
reverberating 
within shells 
of silence 

beauty

it is not 
your eyes 
and lips 
that draw me 
to you 
nor your 
books 
nor your form 
nor yet 
your understanding 
or mind 
or manner 
but how each 
expresses
extends
and heightens 
the experience 
that is 
you

nocturne

I carry
silence
with me
and bring home
solitude
sheltering it
letting it 
grow
loving
shadows
of a god
human
in splendor
moonrise
to moonset
I wake
writing
from habit
a name
surfacing
in my musings'
wake

and in the dust
asleep
lie memories

 

what a star sang...

lay your dreams 
down 
on the altar 
of their 
imperfections 

your soul's 
wanderings 
these murmurings 
of a vagrant 
spirit 

abandon them 

let them float 
from you 
freed 
of their moorings 
within 
your being 
safe now 
from the tampering tides 
within you, 
the ebb 
and flow 
of your self 

and though you hear them wail,
sinking 
in the brutality 
of the outside ocean, 
claimed 
by an alien touch, 
quell your inward rebellion 
your urge 
to reach 
for their fastenings 
and draw them again 
within you. 

let them go 

for what is yours 
will return 
more perfect 
in your awareness 
of its absence...

and while you wait 
turn

turn away
from the ocean 

let your eyes mirror 
instead 
sky 
and cloud 
and wisp 
and wind 
and all 
that is 
absence

and so reflecting 
drown.

The Trip

Written in October 1996; published in the European Council of International Schools' New International Voices journal in 1997

Suddenly, she stood up and wiped her eyes. She couldn't take it anymore. He had gone too far this time, and she wasn't going to put up with it. She looked at the tiny scars on her wrists, thinking of how she had tried to escape. Enough. It was his turn now. 

Passing by the living room, she looked in and saw him in his usual chair, with his usual newspaper folded on his lap, his usual can of beer in his hand, his usual self-satisfied smirk on his repulsive face. She walked on into the kitchen and shook open the drawer by the sink. 

"What are you up to?" he called in his usual grating voice.

"Nothing."

"Get me another beer then."

"Sure."

She walked into the living room through the kitchen entrance, the one he had his back to. Stopping behind his chair, she put the can down on the table next to him. He looked at it.

"Open it."

She did, and put it back down. 

"No, you moron!" he shouted, turning to glare at her. "Give it to me! I'm the one who's going to drink it, not the goddam table!"

She handed it to him without a word. He shot her another disgusted glance as he took it and turned back to his reading. It had just occurred to him to ask her why she was standing there like an idiot when he felt a sharp pain, like the burning cold of ice, at the base of his neck. He felt the blood pounding in his ears, and understood... 

She had finally gotten all her suitcases into the cab downstairs, and was going through the apartment one last time with a plastic bag, making sure she hadn't forgotten anything. Passing by his chair, she saw the black handle. She pulled the blade out of his neck, wiped it clean, and dropped it in her bag. No sense wasting a perfectly good knife, she thought.