Four poems   September 2011

In the court of the Naked Sarmad

in the court of the Naked Sarmad
in this land of accusations
i am your Abhi Chand
same Abhi Chand
in this fading evening of a city
in front of the library
of your nakedness
filling the cup of pain
gulping it down
and feeling worse
this admission to desirable nakedness
and the fate of love
dark alleys of torment
my luck lines got crushed
under a throne
and time that beats in
the chest of the night
and the season mourns over
its own sorrows
but I cry for those feet
and the morning that was extinguished
in the hem of your shirt
i cry for all the oppression
i am like a withered branch
you, a vast jungle whose silence is loud
shakes everything
i a small dying plant
you a storm
typhoon
an earthquake
that shakes every heart
in this immense world of yours
i bring a little offering
my little offering of my little name
gulping down from
whatever was left
of your pain
i am your same Abhi Chand
i am your same Abhi Chand.

Poem

in every man’s heart,
the leap of a mare

each man has a bit of an ocean
every lover has a bit of a beach
on every beach
there is longing
and in the heart of every longing
there is a rising tide

every man has a thought
years and centuries panting

behind all the news and all the views
always a burning word

in every man dances a peacock
in every man dances a thief
every age comes dancing

with swords floating down one’s throat

every age, its own puzzle.

A poet’s country

a poet’s country
his eyes
he sits on land
and yearns for sea
he scribbles words
and gets angry
doesn’t know what he really wants
always goes back to his village
believes that in those distant narrow streets
life is still good
moonlight still on the marble graves
thinks that the barrel of his brother’s gun
is still warm
a flock of birds still flutters on the lake
and his brother’s red mare still neighs
when his brother’s gun fires.

then he travels further
life is elsewhere
he meets Milan Kundera’s silence
in a Prague house he sees a Czech girl
making love to a foreigner
but Kundera, you live in Paris
life is elsewhere
maybe in that Solzhenitsyn country
where exile’s sun rises
or even further
where Umm Kulthum’s voice is the breeze
in the garden of the ancestors of Mahmoud Darwish
he goes where his imagination takes him
he resides in the places his eyes can see
a poet’s country

his eyes.

Roheena

(to a girl from Khyber Pass)

suppose in the imagination of the tribes
she was kept hidden all her life
behind four walls
still it was possible …

suppose in the imagination of the tribes
if only to claim her name
they had waged wars
still it was possible …

suppose in the imagination of the tribes
all the text praising their own imagination
if all that sacred text were burnt
still it was possible …

yes this imagination
that wraps a girl in layers of shame
has survived for centuries on the pillars
of shameless, false bravery.

but when she finally arrives in Peshawar
having broken the siege of the imagination of the elders
it seems an ancient beauty
has reached her destination of eternal dawn.