Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
Black is my ink
Black my pain
Dark must be thoughts now
Dense this tress must be
Night has anyway put on
A sketch of my darker lines
How shall now I write
A poem of my darkness amidst black night
This ink too has submerged its blood
Like my thin ink
Circulating in my dark veins
Who shall now read this dark volume,
Shall I open my crimson artery
To pen down thy tale
And my of my vale.
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2017
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
Poverty and poetry
No bard is poor
But indeed all
For he sings
For he weeps
When time demands
His pocket is poor
But his heart rich.
His books, his heir
His pens, his tools
His pains, his property
His poverty, his poetry
His poetry, his publicity
His publicity, his problem
His problem, high priced volumes
His wishes to buy all
His pocket sighs
Why on earth publishers shelf
Makes him rich
And we wait in queues
To correct our vision.
In his fancies, he rules
But in reality, he is ruled
What makes him write
Is no currency notes
His blood flooded with tears
To narrate common woe.
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2017
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
Few days more my dreams need to come true,
In that heart me to kindle a candle
The conurbation of lovers’ to locate
And to renovate the ruins of past
And to patch up with a friend much annoy’d
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To heal the wound of love deep and down
To raise the pennon of pain so high
To make the wind pleasant and saccharine
To glide the kite of hope up in Blue
To make every troubl’d eye to gaze at it
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To cut a gate through that steel of hatr’d
Negligence, ignorance and the race
To let the air overtake the barb’d line
To make the earth a place universal
With no country, coinage and congress
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To make my beloved to touch the peaks
Of my platonic love so untaint’d
To make her heart soft, tranquil and calm
To discover listening the grief on beats
Battered down by nay but native sob
Few days I need, few days more I need.
To make a Brooke to sing not from book
But from the half dead voice of the poets
The verses they compose from broken beats
Nay with steel Nibs, but by the rib’s edge
To make the mass to pick up the ache
Few days I need, few days more I need.
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
Advise nay me, oh ye refugee
For pains have found a joy
And the sighs, a song so dulcet
And errors have designed my crown with diamonds.
Ye O! refugee, nay believe in reasons
For my ignorance has blessed me
With innocense and Love and Beloved
And my reasons have snatched my word.
Nay ye O! refugee in thy camp lives
A wish that as soft as puffs of heaven
For It lives deep into the bosom of Innocents
And on the crown of king without subjects.
Nay ye ask me O refugee, the pain of this heart
For my pains but dissolve in my vein's ocean
And my blood has lost the colour
And my face is snow white, calm and content
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
Deep into my heart
A pain so sweet and dulcet
Un traced but delicate
And over my eyes
A flow gentle in full glow
Marking Ah!my ail
And some folds of love
Like a virgin waiting for
The beloved's cozy arms.
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
Break the pot of mind
Nay with stone or hammer but
Break hard it in love
For the rest, may need
A piece to live, earn
The bread for a voiceless lot
Broken pot thus serve
Nay for potter alone but
For earth to dig hard.
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
I write, what to me and you
comma instead of colon, I use
Vowels at will, so what!
I am licenced to write poems.
Rhyme? a ring of my little finger
Rhythm but my gate keeper
Puns and punctuations Tom and Jerry
Fight often
Bark occasionally;
My mood but a King crazy
Raises huts
Breaks edifices
Punishes the metre
But saves the matter
Order reverse the reveries revered
I am licenced to write poems.
My inabilities, my poetic devices
Errors, my punctuation marks suitable
My blank and free verses
Nay but oxymorons and paradoxes
All faces fair
My pages to write
I write what others criticise
I re-write what others praise
I am licenced to write poems.
My metaphors are metachemical
My smilies, similarities ironical
My exclamations vary
Like my broken pens many
I write on walls, when it rains
I have my style unique and unfair
I use, misuse the Muse
I am licenced to write poems.
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
In the tummy
Of gray matter
A grinder of ghostly gushes
Sends down
A pulse, cunning, brutal and nutty
And the skull’s
Soft mass………….
Booty to desert vultures
Pulling apart and tearing
What not, nerves
Otherwise steely, so to say
But noodles……
To woodpecker.
The bulged torch’s ugly show
Even the lamps dim—a cry
One wishes for prolonged turn
Of not dim voltage
Of but total shut down
For the light is oh! But so malicious.
And the bag of bunches alone
Raises the voice, calls the pulse
‘Idiot’
Of the muscles at the neck
Held in cage of cactus dry
And the bullet’s spiky head
Makes the eyes to bleed
Yet the poor flow un traced
Like a mosquito held in traffic mess.
The factory of jammed wheels
Running poorly deep into the skull
No pill or potion
Satiates the lust of devil
That ravishes the nerves
Right at the square,
Leaves undone the tattered skin
Of not chest, but of brain,
Makes fool of us
For we rely on
Doctor’s vague reason
Yet they push their pills
Deep into our poor stomach
To grab our fee
Poor Lot…………….
In nuisance, often I
Pluck the hair out
Till the bald head protests
And I do burn my fingers
On that hot plate
Or often over that silently burning candle
Yet into these eyes
Stay a nail of pains
And in despair I do often
Turn to music
But the strings of my guitar
Fail to find a tune
And in hope I sip
The hot coffee
But in mug too big
Yet no way
The devil leaves
In utter lunacy
Often I with trembled hands
Begged for tranquiller
But alas! No relief
Till I bow before the Mighty God
And weep bitterly
And often the nose
Leaves the space for the flow
Like a traffic cob suddenly
Appears in the mess
And makes the wheels to move
For the next episode
What craftiness?
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
Go with the wind Oh! my pigeon
And sit on the minaret of my Beloved
Kiss it softly, gently and sacredly
And come fast, pierce your beak
Deep into my heart to feel that touch
Of love and devotion.
Do go over the lovely vales
And do pick the scent of roses
Do go over the velvety rocks
And pick a touch cozy gentle
Do go over the Oceans' deep
And pick the sheen of cool breeze
And don't forget to pass over my ailing heart
For every pulse ,there , looking to be healed.
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2013
|
Details |
Mushtaque Barq Poem
Lost my oar
#kashurqalam
In the middle of Wular, lost rudder
Ripple of love forcibly dragged me down,
The skilled plank heavy swimmed across the lake
Like a corpse without core above the Blue.
Who took rudder riding on horses two?
Leaving this mundane mass at the mercy
Of half dream, to wonder in 'ether' high,
Where every vessel draws on by the wind
Tied on finger tip of prophet Noah.
Wave , melodious whirlpool submerged me
In my own flood, I lost my ark handmade
But Wular a drop reduced like being
Till a song sweet amidst thousand notes sang
The song , so much pure, the rudder appeared
But with a golden hand and airth arms long.
Skelton of hundred two and seven bones
Has from my birth , before a source serene
Met my source but only after losing,
How great is loss! How vital is to lose ,
Losing is to board , leads to the Ganges
Where sin sinks silently, emerges a saint
Leading the race to bay without rudder.
Copyright © Mushtaque Barq | Year Posted 2017
|