In Prayers

Standard

 

 

Namaz is maqbool poetry;

the traits of a considerate Allah

have somehow stalled to trickle

 

to a heart that wouldn’t listen

to the poems I observe

in the night long vigils.

 

Yet when I stand before the Lord

or when I prostrate,

an image gets vivid,

adding to the metaphor,

so much so

to be the theme of the poem.

Aside

میں اگر زیست کی

اس کہانی کو

تصنیف خود کررہا ہوں

تو کردار میرے بنائے ہوئے

کیوں نہیں ہیں،

 

یہ کہانی ورق در ورق

باب در باب

میرے تصور کے برعکس

تبدیل ہوتی رہی ہے،

 

میرا احساس خود مجھ کو

جبری مشقت کا قیدی

بنائے ہوئے ہے،

 

مگرآسمان محبت میں

ہلکی سی جنبش ہوئی ہے

اور مجھ کو یقیں ہے

میرے حصے کی روشن کرن

میرے زنداں کی جانب

روانہ ہوئی ہے۔

Ghazal

Aside

Below here is my first experiment with something of a ghazal form in English; I am not much aware of the nuances of ghazal writing in English but am excited about it being the first draft :)

What is wrong with your memory O’ Mardan
You’ve ceased to be my sanctuary O’ Mardan

I, the frost-bitten of a heart am often numb
Your warmth is my therapy O’ Mardan

Your ruins define you more than your buildings
Would you please change your story O’ Mardan

Your days are dour and blinding dusty
Yet your nights are twinkling starry O’ Mardan

Your bazaars hammer me with cacophony
For my heart you are a tranquil melody O’ Mardan

Writing Sans You

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Writing
without you being the muse
is the vanity
of breathing
away from gravity -
the lungs gasping out loud
for oxygen.

Poems
bereft of the red pigment
of love
choke
without touching the heart;
bound in the yoke
of your apathy
they cant have their say
as they remain
unwritten
unread.

Offline

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Float, Frenzy and Ferry are the words this time around. Thank you STJ  :)

 

Remember the days
our computer screens
were two banks
of the same river.

remember the days
we’d cover
several nautical miles
of our eyes’ moisture,
ferrying across IPs
in the blink of a cursor;

the days our hearts
would float
unperturbed
on the fiery waves,
thumping in frenzy,
against the shoreline.

Now when the waters
are almost dried
and cursors are abound,
I still venture across
only to be told
‘the person does not exist’