A streak of moonlight cuddled by the chair placed in the balcony, outside
The ricocheting time and I, and the solar moonlight, a moonlit foamy, a subtle tide
My daughter beside me, and a diamond stud, her nose knows her black heads, in a way, fortitude
A face and a lit, a solar and a misfit
a questioner, closest, midfielder, lifelong
my quenching oasis, amidst my torn life, vagabond
I saw my brazen Fenugreek, my curry, my grave failure, a Maugham outspoken in mom
My dish said a delicacy long ago, with your perfect soft, melted ambiance
my soul, my Mosul,my Samara , my mina and my minaret
They kept your calendar tales and fruit punch , they never quite gripped
The midnight hymn and the enclosing, merging with the foamy sea, rhythm
I saw a morn, a corn, of the needle in a haystack, where even the arch angel ask.
My daughter, sleeping beside me, my soul within, in the depth of the moonlight!
‘I’m a failed Muslim.
I drink raki now,’ he says.
A bottle twinkles
on the upturned orange box.
On the unmade bed,
a punch-drunk pillow
lurches in a sea of ruptured quilts.
‘I never pray,’ he adds,
as hawk-eyed Ataturk
retreats to an ascetic frame
and glowers at the room.
And we who are too precious
to confess our faults
feel awkward in the silence.
Turkey, 1990
First published in Blue Minaret
All decisions are made
at a desk in another country.
They pass through
‘in’ and ‘out’ trays,
collecting signatures along the way.
Then, one day,
they become a concrete wall,
where once a few
tired weeds grew.
Afghanistan, 2017
First published in Blue Minaret
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running,
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off only ourselves.
Depression is a shape poem
A difficult one in times of contemplation
A shape that gets you, almost in nothingness
Whispers darkness in the valley of your chest.
Where the minaret stood in the bed of the eternity
Till the very last minute, that along the way, divinity sent
Modernization knew demolishing much too well
and much too vivid in the end, to stress what it meant.
Oozing secretion dampens in cold and clutters on and on...
And we call it the pseudo-pen
That mentors to shift the shape
Straight path should be the straightest one, to be frank,
My utterance calms me there
As it does mostly, unconditionally enough
And I knew along the way, that
God is enough for any befitting pay stubs
To carve with a knife on any life, whatsoever.
Man is mortal.
For the umpteenth time,
the sun flares its solaris routines.
Painting the stroke of a wolf's tail,
as a sign of dawn.
Its color rises straight up,
as if tickling the sky.
Mouthpieces of minaret sound faintly,
racing with the air swirling.
Sometimes major, sometimes minor,
beautiful as if the waves are rocking.
Turning a quarter radial,
He swept across the narrow space,
open his pupils to get an aperture,
dimly seeing her twinkling eyes.
How demons turned into his devils.
Undesignated seventh heaven.
I'm next to you,
He said.
I am your face and your eyes,
she answered.
Even though your nose was hit with a sword?
The footfall of civilians
the screeching of the cars
The wailing of the siren
Perched on the ambulance
The blaring of the radios
issuing from the shops
The robbers fleeing oh no
At the sound of the cops
The droning of the airplanes
From the airport nearby
The beggar counting his gains
The baby and his cry
The greeting of my dear friends
and subdued side comments
Like a road which never ends
We wait for that moment
The sighting of an egret
When we all shout with glee
The call from the minaret
Street noise and its melee
I think about my dreams ;
and i think about the nightmares
they carry on their wings !
My dreams they fall like sweet rain
from the clouds on the minaret ;
but still hard to satisfy...
The Gods in the tone of nightmares they cry.
(25.02.2022)
poised
above the minaret
a crescent moon –
a woman in labour
holds her husband’s hand
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A Strand (1048) Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
© 3rd December 2021
Note: The crescent moon is related to life… a sign of fertility.
The ‘curve’ refers to the moon and the belly of the pregnant woman.
From the day I destroyed my own invisible world-
Surrounding me all around
By trampling all the streets and avenues of deviations
I sacrificed the meditation of the intense silence of thousand century
And I wanted to build a very damn Burja-al-king-
It went by-
Like the students go one by one
Making the classroom empty
After the School closing bell rings,
The radiance of the most beautiful eyes
The unshakable redness of the wonderful sun of early morning
Exquisite palm tree with long hair as advanced guard!
And a few more days later-
Opening the latch escaped from the house
The glorious majesty of my exalted Minaret.
Heart contractions, deep sighs of souls regret
Distance from love, cause of agitation
Inbuilt compass, discerns cause and effect
Action prompt for consciousness correction
Within and around, joy aberration
Shrivelled is our stance, in Gods world perfect
Mindful eye senses sinking sensations
Heart contractions, deep sighs of souls regret
Fears and desires, once we choose to eject
Each breath of life, dance of celebration
Embrace one and all, forgive and forget
Distance from love, cause of agitation
Delusion is, thought of separation
We all are one, is the divine secret
Head and heart aligned, with loves vibration
Inbuilt compass, discerns cause and effect
What avail life, if we be joy bereft
Bliss ignition in continuation
Ceasing to interpret, make light in jest
Action prompt for consciousness correction
Let sighs of our heart outpour elation
Let love and light shine from souls minaret
Nestled in vibrant void of cessation
Resting lower mind that always suspects
Heart contractions
11-July-2021
No pen in the hand of writing thought
Here every page of day feeds me a lot
Golden butterflies are flying over there
Before the evening dark falling sheer
Teen girls are busy in the badminton game
In dreamy selfie with kids some of them
Along with the sun outside is becoming silent
Stays empty the field alongside the rail lines
From the minaret holy words of azan is coming
Awaken in me the smell that another day is going
Every life keeps going on in this way trip
Where true confidence changes into a belief
Though no belief I have, yet I pray to the Almighty
Belief is a true collaborator of confidence only
07.11.2020 Chattogram
Are you following some path
to a schizophrenic's neverland
are you trying to teach me
your sophisticated alphabet
did you just fly from someone's
dungeon dream
into the minaret of mine
are you dancing with fairies
or just a stumbling sky drunkard
maybe your just an erotic dancer
flashing your wares for
jiggers of forever nectar
whatever the case may be
I will forever cherish your
no touch lap dances
We drive breakneck over hot roads.
Churches, big as cathedrals, rocket
from pocket villages.
Castillo's cast their campanile on the baking earth.
The Great Mosque of Cordoba,
the green Alhambra shades us
through a preaching dust.
The Giralda; its Christianized minaret
stretched like a tourists neck,
and above the Papal parapets,
a banished Allah.
The holy places have hollow guts,
their tubes are wrapped
around a torso, like alien spaceships.
One edifice dwarfs another
until awe sinks to its knees
attired in the black mufti
of old peasant women.
We are traveling fast now.
Nave and transept are our crossroads.
Basilica and sacellum our roadside naps.
The car parallel parks itself
beside every altar and shrine,
it's engine running
as we chase God's works down,
ticking off not only Him
but ourselves.
Notre Dame...Notre Dame...
your eight hundred years of wisdom’s gone;
eight hundred years of beauty strong;
architectural sage, Notre Dame.
Notre Dame your life has seen
so many broken centuries and
oh, the stories your stones could tell,
told by the ringing of your bells.
Will they rebuild you once again?
Will your façade grace more eyes and
then will you be the same as once;
can France’s spirit overcome this loss?
Survivor of revolution and two world wars;
you’ve stood beyond the bombing hoards.
How many strove to give you life?
Their legacy’s now a burning pyre.
One hundred eighty two years of sweat;
poured into stone and minaret.
Gothic, stained glass beauty of Pa-ree,
such blood and sweat poured into thee.
Oh Notre Dame...Notre Dame;
survivor of eight centuries;
what’s now to become of thee?
Written 4-15-19
As an artist, I am sorrowful for this beautiful loss but, glad that no lives were lost. When I think of those who poured their life’s work into Notre Dame’s Beauty, the artist, architects, stonemasons, carpenters and more, I feel an even stronger sense of loss than just that of an
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