Old Age - by
I have, I think, most organs that
/ I started with. Some shaped by time
/ foreshortened, elongated, dulled.
/ I keep at bay…
culture
grave dust - by
The night I got grave dust on my hands after dusting off my mother’s grave / I was lent a…
The Theatre Royal’s Gorgeous Transformation to the Hall of a Thousand Lights - by
As fast as Glasgow burned its theatres to the ground
/ it built them back again – we couldn’t do
/ without our…
Connecting Cultures - by
Such words can sound like flagged-up slogans, true. / What we merely say says nothing — / All that matters…
The Floral Apron - by
The woman wore a floral apron around her neck,
/ that woman from my mother’s village
/ with a sharp cleaver in her hand.
/ She…
Homecoming - by
I forgot how Madras loves noise
/ Loves neighbours and pregnant women
/ And Gods and babies
/
/ And Brahmins who rise
/ Like fire hymns…
Lost - by
To quote my distant friend Imran MacLeod,
/ ‘A man with no culture has no identity.’
/
/ The last I heard of him was,…