I wanted to share my new painting with you guys. I'm still working to finish it but am thrill with the result.Any suggestion for the title? It looks like as if a beautiful landscape has emerged out of the rubble? Please write your suggestions...

A poem from my novel, "Svera Jang."

Words he spoke went around in my head again and again For a long time as I ruminated on them, I looked for something, a shape, a worldly thing, anything Thoughts were sheathed in the armour of words to teach me to step out of the shadow of illusion I am talking to you mother, and to myself and to you, the universal person that embodies us all So you dress yourself in words, just the way you want to, in your style, in colours of your choice You step outside of the boundaries of your domain Parade around on the catwalk of this worldly stage, like an actor constantly surrounded by an audience There are thunderbolts, flashlights, rules, directions and cross roads The hidden eyes of sophisticated electronic devices, Scrutinising each word, each step, each move you make, skin colour, finger prints, colour of your eyes, ID cars Trying to mess up your life, with pictures, sounds words and other commodities You are being watched, being judged, labeled for your actions, Baddies’ from a gangster film, ‘stalkers’ aiming to hunt you pointing fingers at you, by those who rule or govern you, Your parents, your children, your teachers, your bosses, your friends, your neighbours, your partners They are all victims of the same game actors in the same play They are your strengths and your weaknesses. The hang man's rope by which we haul ourselves from the storm. You forget to see through things as you try hard to join in the game imitating others, like monkeys becoming more and more fake, unreal, take orders from higher bosses, unable to decide for yourself, even when you have more knowledge, ability, you become robots Forgetting the basic values of humanity, you try to fit in, tell lies, striving for your own selfish goals, become self indulgent, self centred, self important, self defeating Then when any small crisis suddenly strikes your life You do not know how to react You either start to pray in temples, mosques, cathedrals to be forgiven for your sins or take the ‘wrong’ side, join forces with the wrong powers to destroy others You are the self defeated, brainwashed by the system you live in You have no urge to rebel against any norm, any static reality You have learnt the skill of selling yourself so well You’ve become just like any other commodity in the supermarket wrapped in glossy jargon to be hired on your face value And if you are paid what you’re worth, then life is cheap, but you’ll be charged a lot for what you want We’re Consumers, buying, selling, trading, bargaining with our feelings, even love, passion, and sacrifice have become just another commodity, factory fodder, cheap thrills and disposable emotions You phrase words to climb the ladder, using and abusing each other You’ve forgotten the good old concept of love like the one between Romeo and Juliet, Heer and Ranjha For you nothing comes for free The whole place is a big fucking market Competition, power, control of the raw soul Disasters, war, torture, killing of the innocent Political makeover for the cat-walk, a fashion show Camera roll...Action...Take one More lights, please, everything is blinding Can you see? Can I? Maybe you can, Can you compete? I can’t. Did you feel let down? I did Do you see? I tried Not everyone can... (Svera Jang can be ordered from Indigo Dreams Publishing or Amazon. Svera Jang was nominated fro the East Midland Book of the Year Award) Seem Gill

I am enjoying to let you in my colourful world of poetry, stories, novels and what I had been up to when I was there in Chandigarh, Bombay, Delhi, Calcutta, Dar es salaam, Uganda, Zambia, Harare, Botswana, Asmara, Copenhagen, Paris, Austin, Fort Worth, San Antonio, Huston, Temple, Winnipeg, God.... there are many more....then Bradford ( was member of 3 poetry groups, organized an arts and social club, provided photography workshops, drove mini buses, taught interpreting, worked in a hostel for homeless young people etc, etc) then my liberal soul didn't fit in the narrow boundaries of that city, so I 'moved' on this time London, then Derby now back in London again! Phew.....Yes sometimes I begin to lose control of my sensory oars in the river of time while the tide rises high to wash away debris from the troubled, polluted landscape. I am on my way to somewhere. At the main junction, finding myself in trouble, I get confused, now I'm stuck in the middle of a sea of faces, immobile behind the wheels of my journey, immobile behind the smoke spitting vehicles they are waiting irresistibly, wriggling their way to win the game. Time is a monster that chases them to run around its clock day and night, months after months, years, centuries, millennium, eternity. Time is an omnipotent emperor who subjugated his subjects to humility, destruction and defeat. The travelers are enwrapped in a purple haze of anxiety when things don't 'move' according to their wishes........

Fisherwoman From Kerala

She is not walking She’s churning the sea Sculpting hope Each step cast on the tight rope As sharp as the edge of a tidal wave! She is not watching Her eyes shower stars and dreams hung upon the barbed wire of survival! She is not breathing She’s melting the ring of fire Each flame drips the sweat of her labour into the fat belly of a shark! She is not living She is clothed in the layers of misconception chasing the light and shadow as they squeeze her body in a python grip! She is not sleeping She’s getting ready to swim on the life’s unglazed clay pot risking her self desperate for salvation! She is not rising She’s fuming with discontent fighting to get free from the claws of slavery Wrapped in her arms is a bundle of hungry children! And yet the roof over her head is a tattered norm as fragile as the ray of Sun hitting her conscience with an iron glow!

Sexing up classics? No read my book...

"Sexing up the classics? Don't these idiots know that sensuality is all about subtlety"? This is the headline of Peter Mullen's article in The Telegraph today. Do you think the greatest work of fiction writers like Charlotte Bronte and Jane Austen should be sexed up? That's exactly what Jon Snow was discussing on Channel 4 news. Here' is the chapter 32 from my recently published novel, "Svera Jang". "ROOM TO LET. Spacious Victorian house, centrally heated £55 per week, would suit professional person.” I had placed this ad in the window of a local post office two months after Ahren had left. I interviewed two or three inappropriate people until one day there was a knock at my door. On opening it I was startled by the man who stood in front of me. "So you haven't had any trouble with the foxes Svera", he said with a smile. "Remember me? We met in the cemetery. I've come about the room. Is it still for rent?" I had a number of initial reactions, but the first was suspicion. I had only put my phone number on the advertisement. How did he know that the room was available without phoning first? And how did he know my name? "Before you ask", he said, "I've known you since you first arrived in this city, I've been watching you. In fact I've been watching over you, Svera Jang. I recognised the phone number in the advertisement. I had a friend who lived here. A spiritual friend. A young man who just left". My suspicion melted away. "You know Ahren? You are a friend of Ahren?" I said with a relief. "Yes. He told me that the room was available". I felt enormously attracted to this young man, as I had when I met him in the cemetery. My next reaction was delightful anxiety. Would I fall in love with my tenant? "Come in", I said hesitantly. "Would you like a cup of tea?" There followed a conversation that seemed to last for hours. The depth of the young man's knowledge and his psychic ability to delve deep into the recesses of my mind both amazed and frightened me. But ultimately I felt drawn to him. At the end of our conversation, money was given to me, the key to the house had been handed over and he departed leaving behind a beautiful leather case in which he told me were some of his rudimentary possessions. The next day he returned with two suitcases. He didn't have a car. His parents I deduced were no longer alive. He seemed old beyond his years. Although only 34, he spoke with great wisdom on many subjects. His measured tones soothed my mind. His obscure presence did not disturb me while I worked in my bedroom. He had no T.V. Never received telephone calls or mail. Never had visitors. He disappeared for days on end. When he returned, he would explain that he had been visiting friends in Scotland or Wales and although l longed for him to describe his journey in greater detail, he never seemed to volunteer the information and I felt strangely reluctant to press him further. One day during one of his prolonged absences, I noticed that his door was slightly ajar. It was against my nature to prowl in another person's room. However I couldn't resist further investigating the secret world of my mysterious tenant. The room was sparse and perfectly arranged. Nothing was out of place. The first thing that struck me was a book in German on "The historien om De Dr. Jekyll ond Heir Hyde". I picked it up. It was an old edition printed in Hamburg in 1896. Why did this book keep on returning to my life? Wait a minute, he did tell me he was German when I first met him in the cemetery. Perhaps it was there that he went on his prolonged absences. Germany or the cemetery? I wondered oddly. As I flicked through this curious book dissecting occasional words, I sensed cold air pervade the room, a presence behind me. A hand quietly touched my shoulder. I dropped the book. It was Josef. I spluttered my apology, "I was cleaning the hallway...I noticed your door was ajar...I saw the book on the table. I..." I stopped my self and looked guiltily down at my feet. "I'm sorry. I've no excuse. I shouldn't have been in your room.” At this moment he did a remarkable thing. With the expertise of an experienced gigolo, he gently cradled my chin, looked deeply and hypnotically into my eyes and kissed me gently on my lips. He uttered a reassuring word of forgiveness, leaving me standing helpless, a quivering emotional jelly, in front of this handsome mysterious man. He then proceeded to undress me in a skilled manner. I offered no resistance as he peeled off each article of clothing with the assurance of an aristocratic artist. I had become a mere canvas in his hands, as he gently moved his slender fingers like a delicate paint brush across my aroused and excited skin. "You have a soft walnut skin,” he cooed into my ear as I stood naked in front of him. He walked to the window and in a disciplined and efficient manner closed the curtains and he ran his fingers down my spine like a pianist preparing to open me up to perform his concerto. He took my shivering hand in his and led me like a lamb to the large bed. I lay down in full nakedness and watched him as he slowly undressed. Methodically, efficiently, he removed his clothing in an unhurried fashion. He showed no signs of nerves even though I was a woman experienced beyond his years, lying naked waiting for him. He was the master of all he surveyed as he removed the last piece of clothing. It was now an opportunity for me to observe his body. Tall, muscular, finally tuned. His stomach was flat. His upper thighs thick and smooth, flickering with a slight muscular strain. His eyes filled with lust, yet with a feminine vulnerability, watched me intensely. I was aroused. I wanted him urgently. I spread my arms, inviting him to enter the cathedral of my existence. He approached and whispered my name, "Svera", and laid beside me, close. My name was seduced by the invisible air between us. His lips were luminous butterflies, entering obscure places on my body, spreading a shroud to conceal me from the world. His skin was fresh, sweet and young and there followed a night of love making, the like of which I had never experienced before. His muscular body was hovering over me, tightening the grip he held me close. I shut my eyes and like a floundering fish in the net of his splendiferous desires, I felt breathlessly satisfied. The clock on the wall stood on its one legged pine crutch leaning to rest for a while from its fleeting urgency. I sensed the rays of light filtering through the window. We must have been lying there for hours. Time didn’t matter, but the presence of Josef did. In the arms of his light I was a shadow, filling myself with so much energy that I realised I had a slight pain in my chest. I opened my eyes and found myself alone in the room. I had known he would soon disappear on one of his many mysterious visits to unknown destinations, but I didn’t realise it would be that soon. I did not want to wait for him. I felt a chill around the bed and heard the echo of his words. "I have to travel away, Svera. I’m a merchant. I deal in things from the other worlds. You are so deep, caring and genuine. I enjoyed your company and you will always carry me with you, even though I may come and go. I am a free spirit. Please don’t stay in the darkness. All these years ghosts have been chasing you. First there was Jaz, then Peter, and oh, I almost forgot Jonny. I am neither Peter, Jaz or the man with a pink hat in your dreams. Love, have faith, hope. You will always be the giver, learn to take as well. Enjoy life..." The room scented with a peculiar air. l remembered the same strong smell of Jaz and Ahren. Words were floating in the air like particles of light, sometimes transparent as if they were meaningless, they still filled my inside and yet there was a strange emptiness around me. My clothes were scattered on the floor. The bed sheet was wet, untidy and there were a few hairs on the pillow beside me.......... "Svera Jang", can be bought from Indigo Dream Publishing and you can read reviews on Amazon!

COMPROMISE OF LOVE
Seema Gill

Jazz in the rhythms
Music of words
Tunes in syncopation
Images, concepts slashing
The Flamboyant air
Wandering around us

In between
Ripples in the wine
Of our subtle gestures
Clatter in the clouds
Whinnying laughter
Flash like pieces of sun
Flickering against
The large crowd
Dancing on the tunes
Of a devilish town
Lifting our words
On their shoulders
Truces and boundaries
Get formed on
The map of our hearts
Even without our consent

Like the transparent bubble
Of smoke from my Silk-cut
We slowly commute in and out
Of the tunnel of desire

All this I love
I also love your glance
Melting into mine
Turning into an abstract painting

Now I can't dare to part with it all
Do not ask me to
Au revoir my love
The grief of parting will stifle my breath

I wrote this poem sitting in a cafe, taking in the instant electric atmosphere dancing around me and a guy I had met in a provincial town of West Yorkshire. This poem was published in and anthology: TRIALOGUE,Verses on their tiptoes by Seema Gill, Mandy Oates and Anne Walker Fraser by Freyja Press.

IN DECEMBER 2008

IN DECEMBER 2008
Seema Gill

December rain trickles like
A dancer on the ice floor
As wild as the chase of a fox
As feminine as the sting of a bumble bee
which gives you the pleasure of pain
Everything is magnificently golden
Like the leaves of an ancient Oak tree
or an old memory pressed
in between the pages of your life

Barefoot laughter of children
Rainbow hopes of pensioners
Clothed desires of teenage lovers
‘Kamasutra’ gestures in the midnight spur
Credit Crunch speculations
Ribboned bargains in empty pockets
Diamond skulls on vampire stakes
Priceless glories of war heroes
Glisten like skeletons in the pool
of a imperial slush

We the penniless comedians of our trade
try to hold on to some slithering values
We write, sing songs, paint images
and communicate peace
Peace is a hiss of anger in the voice of a poet
A pinch of irony in the string of a guitar
Broken brush dripping red in the hand of an artist
While I stand here and recite verses
Baby P’s scared face flickers
on the tv screen like piranha

My fingers are beginning to rattle like Cobra
Getting ready to sting
Wealth and greed is a three legged monkey
sitting on my back, like a nagging lover
I wanna give up my warm and wealthy den to
are robbed of their childhood to trade for money



A metaphor rolls down from
my words like a fire bird
It wants to gather twigs of a revolt
to burn the norms of this sick society
It wants to lighten the dark souls
of those who rape children, women and the disabled
It wants to wage a war on ‘wants’
It wants to infuse energy on the cowardly
It wants to create shelter for the homeless
For the aged, for the victims, for the fallen
for the White poor, for the ignorant Asians,
For the dispossessed Blacks, the coloured,
And while the news prostitutes itself
like a attention seeking politician
I switch off my mind from channel noises

I see myself alone on the cross road
I take a walk to the edge of my mind cliff
I want to throw myself down in shame
A traveller appears in the horizon
Another, and another and yet another
We wrap ourselves in our funky eccentrics
We decide to do some real shake down
Against war, against cruelty against poverty of knowledge
My lover provides his Casanova affliction
We are fighting for peace, love and eternity of all this
I’m glistening like a firefly
Translucently, the peace becomes an eternal commodity!



This is one of my old poem published in an anthology!