After the mornings and after the rains,/After you and I go separately to prismatic domains,/It is the solitude which creeps inwards/As if by stealthy steps, talking of our deeds.
It was hard with all the long sleepless nights/flowing over the rocks, the boulders, hard, unmoving/The friction hurting when they wouldn’t…
But it’s time to welcome the New Year/Let us be happy and grin from ear to ear./Have we come up with resolutions to look before and after/Anyway do let’s pray that the New Year
She had climbed a small hillock and was observing a bunch of wild flowers. She ran down and faced the old man. And then…
The next morning was bright and sunny. The housekeeper came early and brought his morning cup of hot tea and two Marie biscuits.
Perhaps his old violin was his only refuge from grief on which he can lean his head and express the wretchedness and torment of his soul.
The city seeps into my poems unnoticeably. I have written poems on Park Street, Gariahat, Southern Avenue and even Baguiati. So many poets I know now have grown up simultaneously in this same city like in different parts of the same house without knowing each other.
Natasha lives with her parents in a sprawling house, a family edifice which is in a sorry state of disrepair owing to the lack of proper care and involvement from its present residents.
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