The Blank Diary

To similize the protagonist’s life to that of an un-attended diary might not be an apt analogy, but the thought came when I looked at the blank pages of the diary I keep rather unwritten. I’ve been treating my diary badly for not sharing with it things that it deserves but the blame should go to my inability than desire; I’ve been hit by a bad bad expression block for quite some time and the things I pour every now and then on this blog are desperate efforts to come out of it. This poem’s no exception. I’ll definitely like your comments for improvement.

A diary book famished
for a feeling to reflect,
I turn page after a blank
page of existence,
each the passing day,
yearning to absorb
your woes,
to preserve
your bliss.

In the pitch dark
your stare draws
a silver streak of hope
over this heart
but the words
I need, lie frozen
in your arctic self

I wait for
a climate change
to melt your thoughts
in a flow of words
towards me

and I’ll ever adorn
my being with the
gems you’ll express,
till I’m placed
in the archives
of the past.

The IDP’s Of Swat And Buner

Ignominy pulled the chaddars
of the heads of their womenfolk
and indignity handed begging bowls
to the men once very esteemed.
Their children flash on our tv screens
like stars but they are meteors of irony.

The protection of their homes
sulked into illusion for no fault of theirs
as they stumble upon mirage after mirage
getting hurt in the process.

The piercing holes of bullets in their souls
are beyond the therapeutic agents
but their bodies could surely be saved
from the sharpened jaws of the apocalypse.

Let they not be consumed by strife,
chasing the humans like a beast on pursuit
for we may well be the next
if it fancied the human blood.


Addiction is a dangerous thing ,
you said. Part yourself for it may
feed on your life ,

as you sprayed the wild fields
of my self germinating thoughts
with the pesticide of reason.

But a forest of lush poetic plants
grew to mock your plans; they
rose to fetch me oxygen
when I needed it most.

You can’t leash your breaths ,
I say. The addiction of life
isn’t that bad a thing, after all.

Advice — A Translation

The poem below is breath-taking in its original content in Pushto. My love for the verses made me try and ruin it through a translation but that could be forgiven, for everything is fair in love and .. err .. I don’t wanna talk of war as it reminds me our war ravaged Pushtun belt — a sad sad story being played in our backyards.

Lets look at the rich Pushto literary tradition and we’ll find people like Rehman Baba, Khushal Khan, Ghani Khan, Amir Hamza Shinwari and many many more who stirred the hearts and souls through the magic of their words. This guy Rahim Khan Majrooh is exceptionally talented in writing Pushto free verse and Hykos. His verse flows like the Kabul river and the incorporation of modern images makes his poems all the more interesting.

Ya me azad kda pa zangal ke da bulbul pa shante

Ya me khundi kda pa orbal ke da yao gul pa shante

Still, my love, things are like they were!
Still, you can give a second thought
To your decisions.
The train of time hasn’t left, yet.
The waters haven’t risen
Above their levels–
The dikes are un-inundated.
The ways to escape are still open.
People don’t yet know, as
The story is still
A secret between you and me.
The night is still ripe
And the dawn hasn’t burst, yet.
My laughter hasn’t yet been snatched
By the turbulent flashes of your beauty.
My sleep is still peaceful
From the distraction of your hypnotic eyes.
The fresh, tiny wound [of love]
Hasn’t yet turned cancerous.
The embryonic seed hasn’t yet rooted
from the flower-pot to soil.
Our nameless relation
Is yet to find an identity.
The matters of our lives
Are treading steady in their direction.
I, Majrooh, am still blissful
In my current state of life.
The buttons on my shirt
Are still nicely fastened;
[un-plucked by over-indulgence]
Things, whatever you wish — remorse,
Or loving me to death, are still a possibility
Because we do not, still, have
A means of connection,
But the currents of air.
The ill-match of a rug-mat
With that of a velvet cloth
Hasn’t yet patched with deep stitches.
I’ve yet to savor the luscious
Taste of our union.
My gaze is still fixed, in wait,
On the paths of assurance,
As I stand on the rooftop of uncertainty.
Your silhouette hasn’t yet shaped
Into a complete picture.
Still we are poles apart
In our status in life.
Like someone with a perfect vision
You can spot me around.
I can sense, you’re here
Somewhere with me —
Blind, I can look at you,
But I cannot see you.
I can’t figure you out
In a flock of swans.
I look at your mercy
Like a prisoner does.

Either set me free in a jungle
Like a nightingale
Or, fix me like
A flower, in your locks.