Always wide eyed with wonder, prone to reveries and restless with an inexplicable yearning to create ever since he was a little boy, Jay wrote his first poem when he was six. He discovered the ore of his creative endeavors in the writings of his sister from which everything else originated, in attics filled with vanilla smelling old books, in savoring the classics and in intricate poems of Wordsworth and William Blake inlaid with rhyme…. His poems have snuck under editorial radars and appeared in global anthologies, magazines, newspapers and online journals. He also runs an idea shop called the Centre of Gravity, draws cartoons, directs animated short films and conceptualizes communication campaigns. All of which originate from the same artery of poetic longing that destiny charmed into his soul.
She was not a virgin But with beauty, she did reign She was already married But she arose to be adored She was a widow Her beauty and pride did glow Borne already two children But with second love, she
My adorable academic sanctuary, My big citadel of intellectual prowess, where ignorance is consigned to an ossuary for the once inherent and nagging backwardness. Any who treads your academic trajectory is numbered with the doyen of enlightened ones. Your young
The toppled gravestones, I still count the heads. I will go with your swan song, the bond erupts. You were always sitting under the bougainvillea, waiting for the swallow. The next door summer arrives; Why did you say, it was
Old numbers, lighthouses, baked bread. I open my eyes. nervous and irritable. Another day with vertigo. Five shillings grew lighter and lighter, the grinning letters, occupied me, tender and cool. Things change their colour, and die, The ever-increasing noise, the
Walking in mental fog, you become a swaying tree. In mistiness one becomes lonely like a blackbird. Hollyhocks would wait, till the sun comes out. December rain brings the gift― of sleet on lips. ————————————– Walking in mental fog, you