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around the hut gathered a crowd
the Englishman had made them proud
by taking an Indian wife.

what kinda man he could be
a white skin yet unhesitatingly
embraced a native's life.

they viewed him with awe
to his kin a flaw
living and loving in a thatched house.

he was a bishop's son
that made an alien land his own
and Kosibai, a Gond woman, his spouse.
Verrier Elwin (1902-1964), one of the rare European anthropologists to assimilate into non-European society in order to have a thorough understanding of the other peoples. An Oxford-educated theologian turned anthropologist, born into the family of a clergyman, Elwin joined the Christian Service Society mission to India in 1927. In the course of his proselytising, he converted himself to an ‘Indian’.
Gond, tribal hill people of central India.
I come to life
when the rain stops
and the sun
fires a light in me

my pearly heart
beats happily
swaying with the wind's song

your life would be forever long

I glisten in the belief

a raindrop on a leaf
inspiration: my cover photo
I want to be immune
To the song that lures
Me to you.
The sensuous pull
That has me wanting,
Needing,
To be in your grasp,
Your hands tangled
In my hair,
Your teeth to my skin.
I want to be immune
To the hunger I feel
For your kiss,
The ache I feel
For your touch.
Because I need you,
So much it hurts.
I am only a quiet whisper,
    A hushed sigh,
        Barely audible
To those who don’t care.

I am only a silent scream,
    A cry for help
        Gone unheard
In the darkness of the night.

I am only broken loneliness,
    Faint sadness,
        Unseen tears,
*I’m only waiting to be noticed.
Imagine wanting to say something,
Having so much to say,
But nothing will come out.
You're trapped in your own mind.
It's as if you have stage fright,
And the whole world is a stage,
And you can't speak the lines
That you've rehearsed
Over and over, countless times.

Imagine people telling you
To stop being shy, to talk,
But they don't understand
How real this fear is.

What if you say the wrong things?
What if no one likes you?
Feeling as if they think you're weird,
That they don't want to talk to you.
And it's those fears that trap the words,
Trap all the things you have to say.
It's not easy, it's terrifying.
And no one seems to get it,
This is not just shyness,
This is not antisocial,
It's anxiety, it's a phobia.
And it hurts.
I'm so tired of being told to get over it.
in the pleasure of discovering
words rhymes rhythms
i'm a gluttonous poet.

day and night
bite of my growing appetite
makes me sink low

i don't notice
broken pieces
shattered peaces
around me

i breathe in writing
eat and drink
poetry

crazed obsessed stressed
my poetry
like any other debauchery
is an escape ride
someplace to hide

i'm a poet
subservient
to the pleasures of words rhymes rhythms.
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