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!

VALENTINE WALTZ

VALENTINE WALTZ
London February

Graces of February flickers
Role under my feet
And waltz of peace keep me alive
Foolish breeze touches my skin
Leaves me blushing by your side

Bare legged lilies, roses, violets
Slithering on the pavement
Empowering life’s height
Ruthless your voice steals my breath
Squawking seagulls towering flight

Turn this seasonal anxiety
Into your yearning for love
Surge through pain and sorrow
Show me the scars, your dreams
Will turn into a blissful tomorrow

How can you not be the
One I so long have aspired
Give me the reason to fly
Bless me with your blue riches
Take me higher before I die

That's Why

Seema Gill

The world is glowing
not in it’s own warmth
but in the fire of resistance
Sorrow is raining down
not because it wants to
but because man have caused it
Truth is wavering
not because its blurred
but because no one wants to own it

Love is a shimmering star like moon to earth
not because it can’t come down
but because it’s misunderstood
Joy is wrapped in a glossy jargon
not because it doesn’t want to re-distribute itself
but because it’s everywhere
And yet I know why I’m sad 'cause
The world is glowing
with war, conflict, abuse
and dis-harmony!

Years like embers!

With slow and silent burning
slithering on the calypso ghost of memories
Like a cigarette, I shower sparks of illusion
leaving behind the trails
and symbols of ephemereal truth
in abundance

Incsence wafting like cuckoo's calling
smoke arising and wrapping itself
around the moment now and the path trod Years behind me
Years ahead of me
in victories, in defeats
I'm still burning the flame of my firefly words
Keeping alive the tradition of a gypsy wandering
Gathering beads and golden leaves to garland my solitude
The wooden tray of this moment burns like cigarette

The years
like embers
glow translucent
in a crystal ball
of yearning!

NO METAPHOR FOR A POEM

NO METAPHOR FOR A POEM
Seema Gill

A trip on the Hammersmith line is no metaphor for a poem
A city pigeon accidentally climbs from the platform at Paddington Street
to find himself bewildered by the artist in blue streak
The pigeon with his bird mind has no language for a train station

A girl with elephant ear rings cuddles up on the seat opposite
Her heavy whiskey lips sings memories and Jamaica in her eyes twink
Like the cherry blossom tree loaded with psychedelic pink
The girl with ear rings is no headline for the hollywood movie shrink

As I pick up my green bag with images, metaphors fall lightly
on the ground beneath me and I walk in the crowd brightly
The dark tunnel opens up in mind with unstructured poem sup
I walk as if I’m in heaven, watching a psychedelic storm in a cup

JOURNEY WOMAN 1
Seema Gill
I nailed the blanket rain of the Monsoon
to the mast of a sailing ship
only to see there was no land in sight
...
I plucked the tree from wild Danish forest
and stitched myself a cloak
only to discover, I was in a time lapse frame

I tore an arrow from conflicting Yorkshire Dales
to build a compass for guidance
only to realise the direction to peace was lost

I pulled the thorn from a war torn child
to wash the bleeding scar into the Red Sea
only to witness that abuse was universal

I unfurled the flag draped coffin of Democracy
to wrap a shawl around a crying mother
only to behold there were others who’d lost their beloved

I stole a sparkle from Niagara falls
to lay a diamond on a soldier’s shoulder
only to find the Niagara Fallen were in the graveyard

I took the pearls from Oyster Bay
and thread it into a loop around a neck
only to find it was a hangman's noose

I borrowed the sun from mother sky
to cover up the mind’s blind spot
only to discover the un-enlightened

I gathered the incense from a English rose petal
to caress a broken heart
only to feel the pain was all mine!

JOURNEY WOMAN 2

JOURNEY WOMAN
Seema Gill

So she came to the wide, wide land of glories
To win her life
The chains had not been broken
The chains of the past that bind us all
Their roots, sucking deep into our souls
Posturing and prodding, nurturing
Even now, in this city of cultural extremes
Steep roads, on a hill overlooking the famous cemetery.
A wonderful place of rest, resplendent in reflected glory,
where obelisks point high to a hopeful God
and the bones of merchants lay in tombs fit for Caesar.
Where undergrowth spreads gothically in the unexplored parts.
Vast expanses of bramble bushes arched over like cathedrals
providing the perfect hiding places for insects,
spiders, small animals and dope dealers,
Like the underworld spreading through this city
of intolerance and separation,
of fear and suspicion,
of words that should not be spoken, of issues that cannot be raised
for fear of that midnight knock,
of segmented ghost towns which lie cheek by jowl
with the net curtain clipped accents,
of gypsies and thieves, of long gone Germans and Irish men
who rolled up their sleeves and dug those canals,
those flat, straight works of art,
Of Asian nightshift workers who toiled on dangerous machines,
Of penniless Ugandans who dragged themselves up by their bootstraps,
Of fading trolley lines and fumed up bottlenecks,
Of sixties white elephants and exotic back alleys.
This city has it all.
It’s where they burnt the book against the words of the Prophet
Where cappuccino drinkers admire Hockney,
Where Charlotte and Emily penned their rugged books
on moors that look down from their parallel world.
This city where she continues her search.
Why here? For what reason?
For one, she came here to clear the forest of grief
To let the eagles of violence fly away

NO SUPER MARKET JUNK
Seema Gill

I don’t want super market’s plastic junk
I wanna write poetry
My fingers are dipped in the blood
of memories and are twinkling stars

My language is an oar with which I sail into the
forbidden territories, absurd meanings and dig gold
of knowledge to share with others
When the light trickles down on my soul window
My inspiration turns into a fireball
Words role down the Grand Union Canal like ducklings
the fields of Punjab like showers
in a desert hope garden like flowers
This humble Sikh poetess lives in a lion’s den
Roaring gestures, razor blade intrigues and
survival of the fittest becomes her daily struggle

I don’t want to choke in the rat race for wealth
I wanna dance with my slithering desires
Hold hand with my soul mate
I wanna wear the bracelet of his shine on my arm
and together we’ll distribute wealth
to those who own nothing
Give light to those who are blind with selfishness
I wanna clothe myself with love and passion
and not diamonds and rubies
and make a bonfire of all the old values
I wanna rub the ointment of honesty
and not Elisabeth Arden on my face
I wanna gaze into the kaleidoscope of this universe
and watch the seasons as they roll into one another
I wanna sow enough food in my garden for all the hungry people
and reap the harvest of peace
I wanna collect seeds of change from the flowers
and grow verses and not despair
I wanna sharpen my mind with the tool of learning
I wanna empty my wardrobe
and dress up the down trodden
And when the time comes to revolt
I’ll join hands with the right cause

WHAT DO I CALL IT?

It is like a whimpering puppy. Seeking attending to, needing care. Hungry for more, so much so that it keeps me awake. It churns my stomach upside down at times. I have to stroke it with my hand, not with the affectionate palm of an expectant mother but the one who doesn’t want this rosemary's devil baby. In order for it to shut up, I do have to strangulate it with my thumbs. Not only does it keep me awake, it forces me to sit up to face it. Not only it forces me to sit up and face it, it demands me to walk up and down the corridor. But it never likes a walk in the park, or on the pavement when I can look at trees and the sky or birds flying overhead. No, damn it, it has made me a prisoner, to stay inside of this narrow basement apartment! It doesn’t want to be exposed to the outside world. It can be so embarrassed that it makes me bite my lip to hide its existence. But right it feels like as if I’m walking barefoot on the burning coals or walking on nails sticking out of a half damaged door in a Jeepers Creepers cellar. It is not only physical but it grips my mind like a leech to your skin, biting, sucking my blood. I try not to get it in my half asleep consciousness but when it comes,it doesn’t calm down unless...yes unless I snatch and tear one of the dull plastic packet from the cabinet to take one....
(Seema Gill: from my novel in progress)

OCTOBER NIGHT

OCTOBER NIGHT
Seema Gill
The moonlight
stretched out to touch
my feet, as a daughter's blessing
... The breeze synchronised music
in my ears
like a lover's kiss
While out there, like an errant vulture
the night was playing
a game of light and shadows
wrapping in it's wings
death and destruction

This journey from peace to conflict
is just another power struggle

Peace, a rare commodity
displays itself in disguise
in the name of war
Peace is....
Peace is my guardian angel
Is my mother's aching feet
I touch it
to bless my journey!

This poem was published in a peace poetry anthology we compiled after the 9/11 event and is still fresh! To buy the peace poetry anthology, SUN DOVES, BUMBLEBEES & BLUE STREAK BANANAS, please write to:seema@seemagill.org

A FIREFLY RIDE

Seema Gill

The sky is spiced
with rose petal clouds
touching raggedly on
my blue black hair
Like a thirsty rider
on the zigzagged alley of her dreams
I’m chasing illusion in the calm of a whirlpool

As the winding road slides ahead
like a slithering rattlesnake
like the monsoon drizzle on a pee pal tree
like an image from Kroyer’s painting
like my heart beats with solitude
like the shining bush of stars bending down
to touch my mother’s feet
like I shiver in anticipation

The sun skitters down through a
tiny black hole in my window fantasy
And the metaphorical
rain from my words pour down
I touch the scattered vapours with my eyes
A storm gathering
cryptically intended
My finger tips are twittering like birds
My feet grow taller with a burning itch
I’m traveling through the blizzard of a time machine
I hold my vulnerability in my hands like a crystal ball
I smoke the fireflies from its intangibility
I paddle vigorously on my journey
I shut out all the other noises
The earth is spinning with me
like a woman’s raw fantasy

Showers of illusion drown themselves
in a ambiguous horizon
I’m lost in this jungle of truth bewilderment
A moon walker trapped in the light like a dead wasp
shakes me up, ruthlessly reminding
“Look, you got to keep on moving.’

(This poem was published in 'Reach'.

I DON'T WANT TO SELL MY HEART

Seema Gill
I don’t want to sell my heart
Selling is for suckers
They suck the blood of the dispossessed
The pot-bellied monsters will never confess
They sell pieces of their soul to claim fame
They sell their dignity with no shame
They will send the boy to fight a war
If he ever comes home, he’ll carry their scar
Many more are dying, many more will tell tale
All their glory will be put to sale

I was sitting on a bench in a famous park
A bit scared and lonely, it was getting pitch dark
I had a three legged monkey in my back pocket
And a beggar asked whether I've seen his ‘rocket’
Are you a terrorist? trembling I asked
He looked me up and down and laughed
No madam, but I got a story with a twist
If I ever tell it to you, you’ll admit
That I just wanna lighten up my freedom
No, no, no, I don’t wanna end up in martyrdom
If freedom will be rounded up for interrogation
I’m afraid I’ll loose my fifty pounds salvation

Where do you think the freedom will end?
When she’s let loose she got no one to offend.
An I ‘m sitting on a lonely park bench
with the pinch of freedom in my heart’s content
My freedom and I are never apart
An I’m not selling you my golden autumn ache-heart

I MET YOU ON THE FAST TRACK OF TIME

I MET YOU ON THE FAST TRACK OF TIME
Seema Gill

I met you on the fast track of time
I, in my whithering elegance
And you in your divine prime
Like a shuddering sunray
Your image tickled my minds doubt
The glint in your eyes made me sway

Beneath the words we spoke
Between the lines we wrote
From the lines we didn’t cross
Freedom was caught
in desires golden cage

Without my wish
The concepts were drawn
On the battlefield of life
The distance is spread like dragon’s wing
Before the opening of my heart
Thursting to enter when we’re apart

Behind the walls of norms
Ritual was never performed
In between the canvas of trust
Images were yet drawn
Choices were never made
So the freedom didn’t bleed
And yet I ask this question
Why didn’t we feel the need?

I cage my golden wish
Hold it suspended in the air
My wish a razor blade
Ready but doesn’t dare
I met you on a fast track
That lights the fire in my heart
Pulls me back and yet we’re apart

FISHER WOMAN OF KERALA

FISHER WOMAN OF KERALA
By Seema Gill

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 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!