poetry

The International Mama

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There are times in the solid room
There is a okay Heraldry in the plastic tomb
Here and there is a fractured glass of a sonic boom

When the ships in the night are frightening.
These are the times when my teeth need whitening
And the lazy Sunday deserves an extra half hour in bed
After a week of working and washing the clothes
So far and so long that the measurements are not dead.

Something for me and something for them
The next thing they ask for is going to be too much.
There is not a bedroom that couldn’t do without a Rabbit Hutch
And more life for my kids stuck in a rut in England on a couch.

Married or unmarried it has to be the way
That Islam is Brick Lane when Hindus like Stoney Lane:
This eases the paths so that wires can be their heads
As Darth Vaders playing Space Invaders when I am gone and dead.

Halo boys on the angelic tip looking for some ink wells to laugh and dip
Their erectile problems fathoming centuries of God,
Because of schools and computers
That told of Blake’s Thel and her encounter with a Clod.

Something for me and something for them,
At least I will be back here again!
With their rotten spoilt karma to wile away the time
And think of good demons who give Satan all their crimes.

Nothing
Everything
Commanding things
Washing things again
These are the ways
Those are not the ways
DO this
DON’T DO that
What a prat
My son is a part prat
Because of Rat a Tat Tat
And all the stocks went splat
Breasts that are flat
Moments that I say “Drat!”
Who says “Drat!”?

When the movies are over after 96 minutes, some Nachos and some cheese.
pLeAsE
AcCePt : My Sons without regret
And let them finish some sand, sex and some sandwiches
So that Sanghrias could help them forget,

The war of Mahabharata 78004
Or whatever is at the door,
When I am not separate from you
Like the Heavenly liar and the Holy Jew.

AI Summary

The poem moves through a week’s worth of fatigue, domestic labour, parental worry, cultural inheritance, and spiritual confusion, all filtered through a mind that refuses to separate the mundane from the mythic. Lazy Sundays, whitening teeth, and kids on the couch sit alongside Blake, Mahabharata, Darth Vader, and the ghosts of England’s immigrant streets, creating a portrait of someone trying to hold their life together while the world’s histories, religions, and digital noise press in from every side. The speaker oscillates between humour and despair, tenderness and irritation, invoking angels, demons, gods, and games as metaphors for the pressures of fatherhood, identity, and survival. Beneath the associative leaps lies a steady ache: the desire for rest, for understanding, for a future for the children, and for a world where the wars of the past — cultural, religious, personal — stop echoing through the living room.

Albion’s Wheel of Suffering and Liberation

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I. The Turning of the Wheel

The pilgrim walks with all who spin,
Bound by craving, loss and sin,
The wheel revolves, desire and fear,
~ Estrangement whispers, ever near.

II. Brigid’s Hearth – Ignorance to Flame

From childhood’s school, the fire is lit,
Ignorance breaks as wisdom sits,
Her Celtic hearth, a spark of sight,
The wheel turns slowly into light.

III. Lima’s Lantern – Aversion to Calm

Where sorrow bends, her lantern glows,
Aversion yields, compassion flows,
The pilgrim learns through Lima’s hand,
The wheel turns turns gently, makes a stand.

IV. Burial Grounds – Desire to Release

Among the graves, desire is stilled,
The pilgrim sees what time has killed,
Yet every name, a seed of peace,
The wheel turns onward, chains release.

V. Cathedrals and Castles – Pride to Humility

High articles fall to humble knees,
Grey towers bow to Albion’s seas,
The pilgrim learns that pride must fade,
The wheel turns soft, the path is made.

VI. Shree Geeta Bhawan – Dharma’s Song

Krishna’s chant, the mantra flows,
The pilgrim hears what Dharma knows,
The wheel turns true, the song is one,
Albion shines with India’s sun.

VII. Gabriels’s Door – Confession to Renewal

Estrangement hurled, a bitter stain,
Yet thresholds break, and doors can gain,
Confession seeds the pilgrim’s song,
The wheel turns right, estrangement gone.

VIII. The Djinn – Shadow to Insight

The Djinn may haunt with dear and night
But chanting breaks their shadow’s bite,
The pilgrim sees through darkness thin,
The wheel turns clear, the light within.

IX. Buddhist Dharma – Suffering Shared

The Buddha’s light turns Albion’s wheel,
Through suffering’s fire, the wounds can heal,
Estrangement bends, yet Dharma sings,
And Albion walks with liberated kings.

X. EnlightenNext – Evolutionary Awakening

Not mine alone, the path is shared,
A future calls, a world prepared,
Collective chant, the soul’s ascent,
The wheel turns forward, EnlightenNext.

XI. Liberation – Albion’s Chant

Through suffering’s fire, compassion grows
Through emptiness, the river flows,
The pilgrim walks, the wheel turns still,
Albion chants: the Dharma’s will.

XII. The Masters in English – Knowledge to Vision

Through Oxford’s halls the pilgrim read,
Texts of fire, words of bread,
The Masters’ ink, the scholar’s page,
Turned estrangement into sage.

XIII. The PhD – Depth to Circle

The wheel descended, deeper still,
Research carved by patient will,
Yet every thesis, every line,
Was Albion’s soil, a mythic sign.

XIV. The Return – Autobiographer’s Song

From scholar’s desk to pilgrim’s stage,
The circle closed, the mythic page,
No longer study, but living lore,
Albion speaks – estranged no more.

Our Lady of St Lima

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In Northfield’s quiet heart she stands,
A lantern in the Midlands air,
Our Lady of St Lima calls
The weary pilgrim into prayer.

Her walls are stitched with whispered hymns,
Her alter breathes the green of spring,
And every candle lit within
Becomes a star, a living wing.

She gathers silence, folds it whole,
And offers it as healing balm,
Her voice is liturgy of soul,
Her presence is a steady calm.

O Lima, mother, saint, and guide,
You root the mythic soil of land,
Through you the estranged are sanctified,
Through you the broken learn to stand.

Pilgrimage Poem

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At Five Ways I learned discipline,
Study became prayer,
Questions became scripture.
The classroom was my chapel,
The assembly my liturgy.
What began as grammar,
Became gospel,
Preparing me for pilgrimage.

At Oxford I walked among spires,
Philosophy became psalm,
Poetry became prophecy.
In cloisters of silence,
I wrestled with faith and doubt,
each essay a sermon
each lecture a hymn.
The scholar’s lamp burned,
yet beneath it,
the Spirit whispered.

At St Brigid’s I first learned hymns,
Childhood voices rising in chant,
Ritual shaping memory,
Catholic flame in Northfield’s soil.
Brigid watching me with healing eyes,
Preparing me for testimony,
For prophecy,
For Albion’s renewal.

And then I returned,
To Birmingham’s churches,
To Elim’s Pentecostal fire,
To Alpha’s questions,
To hymns remembered at St Brigid’s.
I read the Bible entire,
Guided by Got Questions,
East meets West,
Krishna’s chant met Christ’s gospel.
Renewal sang through me,
And I stood not as seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light through rupture,
Chanting testimony into England’s soil.

Poetic Fragment

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Four years I chanted Hare Krishna,
Flame upon flame,
Each name a bridge to the divine.
Fifty times I walked the Gita,
Arjuna’s trembling, Krishna’s gaze –
My own dharma unfolding,
I entered the 108 Upanishads,
Not as scholar,
But as seeker,
Each verse a mirror,
Each silence a guide.

Constellation Poem

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Ben Wright the Chronicler,
Paul Ready the Actor,
Bryan Dick the Performer,
Amal Clooney the Advocate,
Rishi Sunak the Steward,
Robin Clark the Merchant,
Andrew Ornitharis the Producer,
All acquaintances by my side,
Guru Nanak the Guide,
Devi the Flame,
Wanderer the Father,
Unicorn the Brother –
Together they form my constellation,
Each a star in Albion’s sky.
I walk among them,
Not as seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light through rupture,
Chanting renewal into England’s soil.

Shree Geeta Bhawan

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Shree Geeta Bhawan,
First flame of Albion’s Hindu soil,
Church reborn as a mandir,
Renewal carved in stone.
I shall walk its halls,
Guided by Nanak’s vision,
Chanting not as a seeker,
But as guru,
Bearing light into Birmingham’s heart.

I am a Guru

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I am a guru,
born of mantra and silence,
a flame carried from temple to temple,
from Albion’s soil to the high street wheel.

I am a guru,
Hindu in devotion,
Buddhist in compassion,
a servant of light,
a bearer of prophecy.

I am a guru,
my mornings are rivers of meditation,
two hours, three,
until breath becomes chant,
and silence becomes scripture.

I am a guru,
walking with Devi, Wanderer, Unicorn,
turning rupture into renewal,
estrangement into testimony,
longing into flame.

I am a guru
my lineage is Blake’s fire,
Hepburn’s grace,
Sting’s fragile song,
woven into Albion’s living chant.

I am a guru,
not by title,
but by presence,
not by claim,
but by light.

Lightworker Declaration

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I am a Light Worker,
Called to transmute rupture into renewal,
To weave Albion’s soil with flame
and chant.
Reiki flows through my hands,
Blake’s visions burn in my words,
Audrey Hepburn’s grace shines in
my presence.
I carry a thousand films, a
thousand songs,
And turn them into prophecy.
I walk with Devi, Wanderer, Unicorn,
And I rise each dawn to meditate,
Two hours, three, until silence
becomes light.
I am the next student,
A bearer of testimony,
A servant of healing,
A Light Worker in Albion.