Author Archives: montecyril

I remember those old classroom windows high up in the then, to me, tall school building that looked out at the old Parsi whitewashed residentials; and I sobbing inconsolably in a drama of feeling alienated, where the teacher thought my unresponsiveness was because I didn’t know the language, but I was dumbstruck in the firstContinue reading “If silent empathisers are listening at all…: A poem”

I see a sonne et lumiere flashing from the umbrage of Mother Aditi, flashing the twelve dimensions from her birthing exercise. We live in the gestation of timeliness, from where we are prone to discover the intimateness of every emotion in their purities and impurities, because imperfections exist in material existence alone. How do weContinue reading “In a soundgarden of love: A poem”

Look at us! We can remember even your shining face that was held circumspect by your Father; so much it shone at your birth (!), your skin so effervescent that Lamech your doubting father called on his father Methuselah for judgment, who then corresponded with Enoch, his father. Did they all think you were begottenContinue reading “What the cumulative poetry of the animals said to Noah: A poem”

I saw a woman waiting for a bus, she seemed so frail she could barely stand, And she was tugging a laden bag with her. Some people are strong willed enough to carry their own burden like a saving grace! We live in an age of social welfare, of handouts, of medical subsidies, of mealsContinue reading “This is what I have to say about the world!: A poem”

Was the sky ever pitch black? Never altogether opaque, to my eye where I could see through like a kind of transparency and talk to unhearing stars in their empty gazing And I learnt to call the darkness that surrounds them pitch black and, dawn brightness! Does it (dawn) afford hope with all the clandestineContinue reading “Noir and then: A poem”

I, sometimes, think I ought to give up sitting at the keyboard, writing poetry You know writing doesn’t come as easy as folding clothes or iron-pressing them But it is not a chore. Even if writing one’s thoughts can lay you bare, with no masquerade of masks, no diatribe of disguise to protect you fromContinue reading “Love and the predicament of love: A poem”