To see her blog, adorned with pastel tones
Widens the gap that pervades my bones
For now we eat her passing meal of plain white rice
Leaving us all alone, without much needed fashion advice
The red light district has lost an inductee
For I would have love to be involved in her naked party
Yet for now we must all be content
With the debauched path she hath went.
Sadness invades a binary world
Where tweeters and bloggers hearts have curled
Bringing back memories of Madonna’s ‘Like A Virgin’
Her fashion advice precise like a mastoplexic surgeon
I remember the fervour when you were followed by Kath Kidston
A similar experience when I had my first Jar of Branston
Yet when you found out the intensity with which I was following you
You wanted to change species and become a Gnu
You learnt to accept my frequent outpourings of love
When you finally spoke to me, I felt as free as a pure white dove
But upon your departure I feel pathetic and hollowed
The best I can hope for is the number of one of the hot bloggers you followed
She was always my muse, my intimate inspiration
No-one can cause such an outpouring of personal perspiration
My heart now yearns to see her type a special tweet
One that would make Mr Sexton act like a dog on heat
Now the world mourns the passing of Lily Fulvio-Mason
I can still see her face reflected in my wash basin
With every heart beat, every full blooded pulse
My sadness streaked blood makes my body convulse
But now it’s time to go, my heart says goodbye
The pain eats my nipples like the Syrphid Fly
I can finally see your body laid in an eternal rest
And now I can now finally uncover your breast.
the rain becomes autumn
and autumn becomes rain
there is a Gold Surviving System
(GSS) around the brain
with unexpected creatures
who lift the modern burden
of being so involved
in glass rotating hours
curriculum vitae sleep
and we call this LOVE
and we fall in a drop
among yellow leaves.
Men are gone
Babies dis flowered
We are gone astray
We are wounded
We are not all well
We bleed, we scream
Yet no one hears us
Roses turned to brown
I wont go there
I wont go- i wont go
We are lost in the dust
Yesterday was better
Today it becomes worst
And we complain not
It seems like we are
left in the midst of confusion
We are gone- we are gone.
You told me,
Just to write a poem.
You did not tell me whether
It would be nimble lined,
What meter, what rhyme?
Nor did you tell of the matter --
Of love, fantasy or despair;
Or of friendship, business, or repair.
Here I write for you
Like some beads on a grass
Just like the dew
I wrote for you!
I MOURN WITH YOU PROFESSOR
Shadow and mirage are thesame;
The former is never a substance
And the latter never an oasis.
But the death of a child is both:
Hope is dashed and respite betrayed
Leaving only behind the pain of rising utility
That often comes from the nostalgia of reality...
I mourn with you Professor.
do not rejoice o’er her tho’ she lieth down
she still lives on: she still speaks to our clan
as long as moon or star or sun does in an
untiring journey like an old minstrel drums
along the many hazy river alleys thornfill’d
oh, death, thou shouldst speak unproudly
here beside our lively mother’s grave-stones -
thou art too timid & fearful to take the truth:
thou, death, were dead years back on a pole
where bled her saviour, our saviour – nay!
death, thou shouldst be shame-fill’d or art
thou too hasty to strike her down with a bow
that her saviour had broken on the cross?
do not rejoice o’er her tho’ she lieth down
she still lives on: she still speaks to our clan.
I stood by the periphery…
gracelessly doling derivative remarks
(all that is rhetorical in rhetoric and blatant in denial)
upon my comrades, the dust shot Sandinistas of midsummer masochism,
the caliphs of ‘Baltic Bay’.
“The armistice laid flowers upon
the salt seasoned lip of the hatch-backed hawk…”
Blood fell passively between his heartbroken legs,
siphoned from each and every available pore;
the oxygenated irony of pneumatic Gnosticism:
“The desert was a beach.”
They say that war is a catalytic catharsis, a palatial reprieve,
without languid logic or porous rationality,
the emancipation of masculinity,
castrated by the wire…
I thought it was hell… I was taught to think otherwise…
The torrential shards of verbal promiscuity
stole light unto the fore,
the parochial labyrinth of incandescent egotism,
Rare, poached howitzers… laden with anxiety
bore slight from the barbed-wire battalion
of ill-fitting idiots,
shuffling their feet, settling their nerves,
sealing their fate with
slack pot meandering midst snip sniped surprise.
“The technicality of principalities, dukedoms and deceit,
tune the tuneless melody and save your soul from hate. “
Their calibre unknown, their reasons unfounded…
the calypso calling cantaloupes of entrepreneurial acumen
shot black with dusk… slid unto the night.
Corporal rationale: “Half an hour of ambiguity…”
Lieutenant liquidation: “Twenty minutes of woe…”
Collective privacy: “Ten minutes of philistine philanthropy…”
Collective piracy: “Five minutes of... … ….”
Towel clenched soviets, eager and resentful,
scape-goaded the photographic horde into meagre submission…
subverting the course of justice.
Rented Kalashnikovs rattled ravenous replies…
once, twice, three times a corpse…
“Androgyny and xenophiles, the pasteurised provocateur…
draped in Prada propped dynamics, mechanically aware…”
Desiccant faeces flew five feet into the air;
the aluminium gilded lavatories received the short end of the stick,
literally liquidated within (without) the… humdrum humidity.
Gabriel dictated the proceedings.
The abortive restraint of sycophantic silencers
and Hassidic hallucinations,
graced by a political patriarchy…
urinating upon the synthetic soil.
Sing a song of Taj Mahal
A landmark of lovers
And a lover's edifice
With medieval bowers
Tis a mecca for tourists
Tis sensational, tis exceptional,
tis truly a touristy place
Watch the shine and shimmer
of its magnificent marbled
By the glimmer of moonlight
or sunlight, it's imperial chrome
So it's ironical then
that though Indian I am
I haven't yet been to this
It is truly as they must say, a
A place where hearts tend to
They find it steamy
I find it dreamy
Oh I've to see for myself this
Each of the marbled minarets
conceal some romantic secrets
For lovers to silently explore
To admire and to adore
A place few lovers could ignore
Ah, you've got to visit this
Two famed lovers lie in the
legendary vault below
and the stream too has a
A lover's haven, a paradise on
Even dead passions there
undergo a new rebirth
Ah rekindle my love in this
Extol I may this awesome
A greed for pure love is
perhaps better than avarice
So sing a song of Taj Mahal
A nice nazm or a great ghazal
So forever we have this
Ah take me my love to this
Where birds are two
We ask:where is the eagle?
Where trees are two
We ask: where is iroko?
Where men become two
We ask: where is Okonkwo?
Gut in the forest of Titans
He roared in the jungle and
Frightened those in the streets;
He stood the wrath of a tiger:
Made morsel of his gut
And status-jacket of its skin
Since then he wore not goat's skin
His was tiger's batik.
Because of fight,he rested his head on pestles
Because of fear,he knitted his heart with cables;
In battle, he killed in dozens;at home,
He marched on dozen fowls
If we did not see him in battle field
Did we not see him at home?
When fear was wild
With its tongue of flame and fangs of blood
Only Okonkwo stood,stood akimbo and spat:
Which chick eats beads like beans?
Which puppy eats elephant's scapula?
Which demon stands Chinua Achebe?
When woodpecker pecks trees
Does it also peck plantain tree?
When thunder strikes,
Its honour is certain:
Songo king of pebbles
Masqurade in war front
He that we could not confront
And lobbied the bully to wrestle
But made the bully's skull his cup
Man of brawn, man of brain.
Where is Okonkwo?
Big Iroko that blunted axes
Where is Okonkwo?
Bellows that spat fire and melted metal;
I say where is Okonkwo?
Sheath that swallowed sword
And locked out its handle
For Chinua Achebe ,the author of : Things Fall Apart.
I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes
Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood.
I groom myself with exquisite things,
Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself
And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze
I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse
Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn.
Mosques are being slammed
There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber
Even God judges on evidence
There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow
A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence
Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding
And I write.
Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies
They are alive now. Soon they will be dead
From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown
Ghosts of curfew
Haunt the houses for young souls.
From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness
Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves
A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave.
I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep
While my Kashmir is ablaze
“It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”.
I see him so alive in my dreams.
He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails.
I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques
He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene
“Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state.
Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.”
I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood.
His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots
The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more.
On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail.
Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones.
For bullets there will be stones
Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones.
In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out
Death is recruiting in dozens at a time.
Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass.
How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity
People burn up all you identity cards.
The Jaguar has
Another son is dead, until five he lived.
For his long life at Shah-Hamdan he had threads tied
“Shehij ninder yee nai. Gahas Kormakh Khudayas Hawale”, his mother cries.
No news can penetrate across the mountains. Satellites work here no more
My Kashmir burns. And no one knows.
An old woman with torn scarf sits besides fire. While feeding her neighbor’s child
She sighs. Is my son dead or alive? She silently cries.
In Madrasa I hear children reciting Quran. A girl’s come out dragging her feet.
I remember her from somewhere. I remember her seeing naked.
Oh! God she is the one who was raped.
Nights have turned pitch black. My eyes are losing the habit of sight
Midnight soldier’s set another house ablaze. At least there is some sort of light.
Many letters have been written to God. Postcards posted of those raped girl’s
But its curfew again. No post office deliver’s the message again.
Death comes from everywhere. Close your windows mother
For bullet respects no womb. It turned Gulistans into tombs.
From the plains the visitors come to visit their God’s
They are our only witnesses but hypocrites at heart.
They say paradise is kaasmir. While my Kashmir is ablaze
They testify against us. Is anybody witnessing this? No one at all
Be witness to at least this. Open up your eyes my Lord!
When paradise is painted with colors of hell, certainly divinity loses its grace
In the news the reporter is beaten. Bamboo sticks are hungry for human blood.
Let Kashmir go to hell. A new promise in their portfolio.
Threads have given up at Dastegeer’s place. Even they are horrified at our fate.
In Maisuma boys are dragged by police. They close their dreams, end their screams
In a police gypsy.
Men shape into monsters when they are given right to anarchy.
The gypsy drives them into the dark cantonments. They will remember this day
Interrogation officer comes. After celebrating his son’s birthday.
The winds from the cantonments bring their news
Burned tires around their necks. Burning stoves near their heads.
The knife tearing up their flesh.
And the boys cry, “We haven’t batted yet. Cricket. We know nothing”.
Death wants children to be headlines
Hunger has affected the heavens as well.
Graves are full. No more space left.
We need land of the plains. For our graves.
In the ac car the bureaucrat goes. The mother’s with search full eyes
Ask about their sons they lost. They drink their tears
And he sips champagne.
I wish they taught more about
Heartbreak in English class;
That I would see your face
In stormclouds, when
Bronze from the sunset scribbles
Our names in the sky.
It is happening every day.
I am no prize
In my Rossington-Collins band teeshirt
And deliberately torn jeans,
Sitting on the end of the street-
The place where horizon brush strokes
IS MARY REALLY DEAD, MOTHER?
Father! I can't see mary and her little china doll
Mother! Where is mary, my little pretty angel?
I saw her battled desperately last night with a
Worldly handsome manclothed in white gown
Where is she now? Where has she gone to
Mother, why are you clapping your hands
And tears dropping angrily from your eyes?
Why do you shake your Head and soliloquize
All Alone in the closet When you ought to get
Ready for the morning journey as usual?
Has anything happened To jelwery, tell me i
Can bear the pains not to shout and Cause?
She wasn't in our midst this morning to sing
The high praise to usas usual.
Her bed is in commotion, her room in disarray.
Her slippers haven't spoken to anyone on the staircase.
I could see her clothes weeping in her room
The curtain, window, wardrope, all quiet and sad
When is mary. Coming home father?
Is mary really gone, mother?
An african princess she was,
The flower of my heart whose leaves blosom
With sparklingeyes that radiate With illuminious
We played along, cracking theair With an ageless
Butterfly heart ready to change our cause among
My love was young, hers was much younger
We tatooed Our Smiles with a golden jelweries
Made for the prince until the air took her away
Mary come back home my heart seek You
Do not break the ageless treasure Of our Soul
Why is death the Only gift life could Offer?
The animal called man in battle to conquer
Yet no hope seen by as all perish gradually.
Come home my dear mary
Mother wait you in tears around your room
In your closet is father supplicating to your chi
When are you coming my dear Mary?
My heart beat fervently to see you again
Hope and faith to seek in resurrection day.
His pelvis thrusts
awkward gyrations of a sickly man
Bruised sternum erupts will cream filled pustules
Enema pleasing dissidents fond of enigmatic words
Cursed with knowledge, forsaken with guilt, humbled with life
If words could shed tears then this ink would run and sink to the very bottom pit of my heart
A life sentence drowning in the lifeless years
If loneliness was a person then I would be the only one
Waiting and waiting
Waiting until this vacuum has gone
If a vision could kill I would rather be blind
Seeing that scorn and pain on your face
Everyone seems to be moving, I am standing still
If you were here then I would awake this self administered coma
I could cut off those strings that society steers
Miss you Michael Jackson
Prof. Twittie died from an
experiment; like and unlike Socrates, he intentionally
took hemlock, to see how the afterlife looks like
He intended to return
to the physical world after his
observations, which he didn't
For a century now, no one following
Prof. Twittie’s school of thought
has yet dared to take poison,
in order to return with Prof. Twittie
back to the physical world,
and finally conclude their findings
in pen and print
It was a clear dark night
When your voice was the only in sight,
The many years of childhood,
The "Hip-Hop Hooker,"
was the choice of many tunes,
So know, that in our genre,
We may never forget
How the regulations of the game was maneuvered,
By just 16 bars,
or how we jammed and sang,
Along in our car,
To the many soulful grooves,
This one, Nate Dogg is for you;
Who threw water on the wick?
Who, as restless and trapped
can survive in this necropolis?
Trumpeting down the walls
that are not of Jericho.
Trumpeting down the walls
that besiege a chthonic people.
Tonight I shall return as a black dove
to bring you an oak tree branch from Dodona
And a darkness full of lightning
all the way from the palace of Atropos.
So that you stay up all night
a bright sunshine for tomorrow.
"Good morning wind-vane",
to say when morning comes,
"where do the winds blow from today?"
And just like a white horse
to gallop against the wind.
Wake me from my livid dream, stir my soul
So spirit may bring flesh to sense again
Transport me to another time, this pain
Will cease in that climate where we are whole
There the lights are bright upon the stage
And death is banished from youth and from age
Truth alone endures asleep or awake, truth
Alone will never change, love is a fruit
Of enduring truth, and absence is pain
Telling us the giddy earth is so vain.
Why, giddy earth, did you take him away?
Is your coffer of dust famished for clay?
His immatured manhood pure art became
His unbound spirit was the candle'sflame
O giddy earth, you blew him out, no more
This child, to moonwalk your flesh gritting shore
He and Ben thought they would call you their own
A promised to be there when I'm alone.
Who shall write from the lonely tree for him
Who shall heal the world's pride for us like him
Who shall dance to the edge of oneness still
O truth endure ... we are a fabled will
Farewell Michael, great metaphor of time
In all your gift the race was more sublime
And we pray you will not fade from truth, we
Celebrate your art, love your memory.
We celebrate the joy in mystery lost
O art sublime tolls such a human cost
Farewell unfading genius and friend
Farewell guiding light none could comprehend.
under the cloud
when the rain and their smoke living
chance love surronderity behind
any life... any stories to take hiring
at the grand canyon
summer night with star light
our desperated beginning
only life will be appart
by sort time
or only long term window of world
in the night not a game
i suppose take care the other blood
thank's to be god
thank's to be our land
always warning by they are claws
give the winning without reasons
because a scare off to you
because the air is gone
we need the land to be life
together with emerald and you.....
the reason to maked a life
Who has heard the voice?
Who knows the verse,
on a quiet Sunday that waits
silently? No one has seen.
Who has learned
of the champion from Detroit,
the laureate of America,
the subtle poet of history
pacing the halls of the black mind?
What has been the pride
of a near blind man,
who took the bus, and doesn’t drive
to work everyday,
but who saw life’s light?
Who has heard the voice?
No one has seen.
Who does not ignore
the poetry of the 1st laureate
of a culture versatile?
Students might never see.
My love where art thou?
You seem to be alone
A dream that I'm away
Rainclouds and teardrops
Upon your facial sky
Dried with your earthly hands
Cold nights I walk tense
Thru open doors that close
Before my steps appear
Distant I dare you
To call my name and see
The stone you left me by
My love where art thou?
You seem to be alone
A theme of my decay!
I was asleeped lying on the floor,
And adorned with lovely flowers;
Peculiar things were there,
When with a core heart they bathed me in a blessing showers:
I don't know what the strange things were going at my house;
Like an infant, I was upraised on shoulders;
Each and everyone was there,
All those who loves me, were with lots of loving rose to bid me Goodbye, mere:
Indeed each and everyone who loves me was there; .
Still, I was called by their mouth
with shriek diluted with deep torment fear;
All of them flowed tears,
Causes profound calmness instead of fear.
Who never wants to pluck my face, on that day was there;
With an embellished loving heart;
How can I be loved and tributed by thy mouths and hearts?
How can I? This induces in my eyes materialistic fear.
I don't know, why they had stunned by my calm face;
Why they astonished by seeing me asleeped? ;
Oh! With a groaning and deep torment, Why were they awaking me from my dreams of peep? :
Each phase and soul,
Starts wobbling there, by seeing me;
Where I was made asleeped forever;
Those who had a strong love for me,
From those hands, I was made buried forever and ever!