You

There are certain spaces,
Certain empty vacuous corners,
That reek of ‘something-missing’.

Drowning dark of night,
Dreary dearth of light,
Scarcity of laughter,
Paucity of beauty,
Chewy blandness of old bread –
All,
Worm into me,
And I am left – a rotting guava.

In absence of rhyme,
In brokenness of speech,
In wide-eyed uncertainty,
In silence,
Knowing, unknowing…

I long,
For the 'something-missing'
That I hope
Is you.

May 24, 2010.

Discontent

[A strange morning, with strange beginnings and folded-put-away remembrances.]

Spirits, out of Pandora’s Box,
Have slowly, softly,
Fluttered back –
Perch on my arm,
Rest on my nose,
Nestle in my hay-laden heart.

Spirit of disappointment,
Spirit of disillusionment,
Spirit of being-wronged,
Spirit of feeling of being wronged…
Spirit of sorrow,
Spirit of forced meaning,
Spirit of utter loneliness…

The calm and composed,
The serene and content,
The peaceful and poised,
The happy…
Where are they?
People of the Promised Land…
What color are their eyes?
Question-colored? No.
Beaded, glazed, stoned? Of course not…

How amazing is childhood,
[How amazing ignorance]
Full of so-much-to-be,
Impossible possibility –
Laughter,
Joy,
Love infinitely…

May 11, 2010.

Follow Poet, Follow Right

Poetry, verses, song…
Haunt my vision like longing,
Intense, painful, obsessive.
The image of a verse,
[persistent]
Pirouettes, teases, pries…

I must write of this silhouette,
Wrapped in worn out wool,
White and frayed.
[An old woman?] hiding her face,
Her face and the heavy weight
Weight of history - strapped to her frail heart,
Pain pinned to her chest.
She breathes easier now,
Now that I have her sorrow
Transmuted and transmitted,
In undulating rhyme.

Poetry, verses, song…
Haunt my vision thus, like longing,
Until I have it down,
Painted on paper;
Carved on canvas;
Worded on wood…
In the settling flash of sunset,
Noir silence of night,
Even the hullabaloo of noon,
I must have –
The poem penned.

May 10, 2010.

Doomsday Reprieve

[‘Let the elements hold their peace,
The sun, its hellfire;
The moon, its borrowed hue…
Stall the rampage of chaos,
Until that hour.’]

What hour?
When is the hour?
The hour when we are allowed grace,
Grace to recuperate,
From having to keep lying.
The hour when we are allowed the dignity,
To break down and not feel ashamed,
From the hurt of knowing our ignorance.

And then the grand sorting,
Right on the right, right?
Left…left.

Tell me I will for once, in that fated hour,
When I look through – know what you think,
And you what I.
In the long-sought attainment of certainty
This life may finally make sense…
All else is but gravy,
For even the anticipated drama of hell
Will be heaven after...
The meticulously veiled chaos
Of this living world.

May 5, 2010.

A Red Tree

Nothing does a better job of impressing into human mind – the ephemeral nature of everything beautiful – than a leisurely bike ride through well-kept suburbs in the spring, especially when you do it one week apart. The shallow ease with which trees strip off their apparel is astounding. Week 1 = nude. Week 2 = white/ pink/ magenta. Week 3 = green. And then others take their place. It is almost as if there was a beauty pageant, with participants allowed to bask in the adulation of crowds by being able to flaunt their beauty at clock strikes separated by merciful, memory-diluting time. It reminds me I must take time to stroll by the lake soon, if only to once again experience the inebriating aroma of wild-flowers.


Something I have come to love here is perhaps an outcome of people in general having the leisure time and money, because I find it hard to accept that it’s due to base statistics, or (an even baser) inherent difference in dispositions. That thing is the possibility of finding some deliberate human effort at romance and magic ever so often. I mean what could be more tender than a wooden bench circling a cherry blossomed tree, or compete with the classiness of a wheel and axle bucket laden well or even something as small as a wind chime on a classy tree. Yes, I am a sucker for the illusion of magic.


Yet, yet… here steps in memory – the spoil-sport. Despite the almost painful intensity of pure beauty around me, I long to see a red tree.. Having come from the land of Sambal* soliloquies in february and Flame of the forest* frenzy in May… I know the magic of red trees. Tulips jus’ can’t compete.

So, friend, find me a red tree… and I shall trade the moment for a heartfelt smile.

May 1st, 2010.


*Sambal = Silk cotton giants aka Kapok
Flame of the forest = Poinciana (local urdu name Gulmohar)


And other memory-racking local trees are Palash (butea frondosa), Floss silk (local name Buddha), Jacaranda (local name gul-e-neelum)and many more...