Standard

If the cracks

Left in the trap doors

Of the dungeon of your being

Are punitive enticements –

Fanning your crave

To be out there in the open –

Then you sure make a tryst

Of a heart, letting the rays

Of a love feel their way in.

The larger scheme to contain

Thus, is all vain.

Standard

We had nothing much

Between us,

Except for a seed,

Soiled deep in our chests

It never grew into a shade.

In the universal drought

Of light, the weather took lives

To change.

 

We have nothing much

Between us

Except for a fruit

We are never meant to taste.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Standard

Far to the edge, bending over, see no sign living. Crush heights anyway. Crush limits to anything. Crush the soul to pieces of rose liquid.

Cast.

Standard

Fill. Condensed of a sound. Reacting to a cosmos. Like crashing bound. Rotate. Circle. Crash. Lift. Back. Slow, softly, cross over, walk over the high bridge, where falling in to cold drops a part of the gossamer or substance. Leading trail. Leaving no trace. Dips in, tender. Arise, floating. Above seeks a sign.

Quick.

Standard

.is never a hush. Never can be. Arms out open to something unseen, is quick. Relate, recover, recall, quick. Collect. Quicker. Hands down Charlie. Hands down.

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۔