I’m also open to collaborate with other forms of art. If you have some visual art – a photograph / illustration / sketch / painting or anything else you like – and would like to have me write a poem inspired by it, feel free to leave me a message.
You pass under those familiar arches and boughs
like you do once every year
and sometimes more often.
This time you notice
how the green
has a different shade,
how the road is dustier
And there are men repainting
over the white lines
in the middle of the road,
their backs bent
and in your head,
you replace them
with the flamingos
you saw one January morning
As the road narrows down ahead,
the vehicle slows down
and you have enough time to recollect
the memories you have left behind,
the ones you may come back to,
the small street behind the Church
that turns uphill without warning,
the vada pav joint where hands jostle with others
to exchange money for food,
the turn in the street ahead
which leads to a cooperative bank,
or so you think from your last visit ten years ago.
And you think of the memories
you can’t go back to.
Not because the places don’t exist.
They still do,
The bus stop is still there, revamped perhaps,
and so is the school playground,
its grass more diligently maintained now than in your day.
But memories are functions
of not just space and time,
but of people too.
As you ponder over this,
the car ahead stops.
A few passengers get in
and fill in those empty seats.
A few others get off.
You scroll through the photos on your phone
going back ten years and then twelve
to check which of the people then
are still around in your radius of communication,
and who have got off the bus.
You have no footmarks from 2005 or before.
You imagine your bookshelf in your home,
and the photo albums – there must be three of them,
with some of the pictures
stuck to the cellophane covers.
You tell yourself you’ll digitise them this time.
And you remember
you told yourself the very same thing last year.