nostalgic wanderlust

I am homesick

for lengthy conversations with French Buddhists

on the sandy cliffs of Margao, where I got my nose pierced

January 2nd, 2011. I am lonely without

the tens of millions of silvery sand grains

which shimmered with the sea in the too-early moonlight

as we kicked amber beer bottles into the waves,

where they would float in, back, out…there I was


finally understanding what the hippies were raving about

the wind carried my hair into the sky

and I walked into the ocean fearlessly,

looking great in my Sunday best.

Now I think I may have drowned there, three years past

I do not recognise me


another nightmare without meds

in that cave, I dreamed a dream

of learning,

that I went farther underground

searching for the truest music,

to carry my voice and lift me out

too late, it seemed

I was silently alone,

surrounded by pages of words

which babbled and said nothing.

fair son (fort portal, summer 2013)

upon leaving, the last a terrible tirade

I wandered home, a great explorer from Europe

skin glowing without light, hair dark from too many shadows.

We slept on tinder, a great tree-built tradition

high in the elephant-grass hills.

the walk down to the lake beneath us was long,

and I burned my soles, arriving dusty to the enveloping tree shade

where I fell, over the rocks and into the murky greeny-brown

ka-splash silence

everything suspended for a moment

and break the surface to air again

still aching from a year of misunderstanding, my form

my frame, my body

just really wanted to win something, do it right for once

so I began kicking, arms pulling,

working every muscle till it burned

I slowly swam, the far shore my focus

rocky, looming, dramatic grey cliffs

it seemed hours, but I used the last bit of my strength

to heave myself out of the unknowable darkness

tearing skin from my arms and legs, I collapsed

heaving air into my diaphragm as I lay beneath swaying palm trees

bleeding onto the rocks, water and sweat diluting each drop

running from me in rivulets, soaking the fallen reeds

(I conquered fear of the unknown)

and I couldn’t see the far shore.


I was so excited for April this year – this time, I was sure, with working internet and everything, I would be able to finally participate in the blogging world’s National Poem Writing Month. 30 poems in 30 days.

Then I got sick on April 1 and have been sick since then. Since my very limited energy has been largely devoted to schoolwork, I have had little to no interest in trying to construct any sort of worthwhile writing whatsoever. (Hopefully I will get it together before the paper I have to write this weekend)

So, it is with much sadness and as much grace as I can muster, I must withhold my participation from NaPoWriMo this year.