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Best Poems Written by Amanullah Khan

Below are the all-time best Amanullah Khan poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Open Letter To Thomas Jefferson

Open Letter to Thomas Jefferson

You sir, destination unknown, I dare
To address. A son of worthy causes  
For land vast in majesty and vast as
Vast can be in matters of liberty;
With ideals so prim and suffused with 
Philosophical forethought derived from 
Your bumper harvest of keen knowledge from
 Poetry to paleontology;
You the offspring of music and science,
Master of the whims of public forum,
Framer of destiny of the nation,
Bearer of the conscience of masses and
Winning hurdler of political kinks.
Now, the moldering public discourse is 
Unbearable. One can no more cover
One’s nose. Nowhere is a silent shelter 
From megaphone of ubiquitous din.
Where is a refuge? Simply, know not I.
I beseech you, sir, for learned counsel.
As thundering wildebeest migration
Clouds the slopes of national horizon:
Tulip of your acclaimed Law of Nature
Lies in the path of a roaring rampage.
I beg to ask, why uncanny tactile
Projections of your mind failed to measure 
And forecast proneness to such afflictions.
Sir, you did not proscribe such maladies, 
Or provide cautionary bells, at least. 
Where have all the magistrates gone, I ask?
As I flip pages of your Summary View:
Prefaced by a motto of Cicero:
 	
“It is the indispensable duty
Of supreme magistrate to consider 
Himself as acting for community, 
And obliged to support its dignity,
And assign to the people, with justice, 
Their various rights, as he would remain 
Faithful to the great trust reposed on him.”

Your pristine flora of the applied skills 
In statesmanship and proper decorum
Is being supplanted by scurrilous 
Scions of egocentric rhetoric.
Pails of justice are perceived as empty
By the parched sectors of land of plenty–
Await quenching rain of tenderness, but
Clouds of compassion remain unseeded.
Please forgive the outburst of my verses.
To rein my pen is to muzzle my soul.

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Covid-19

Covid-19 
Villanelle

In this season of Covid chat
We have no room for silly talk
Just don’t try to be swanky, Brat

You can’t pull the cure from a hat
Public has no time for the crock
In this season of Covid chat

When you stay home you can adapt
Love the peace and listen to Bach
Just don’t try to be swanky, Brat

No social calls, no this or that
you may like a leisurely walk
In this season of Covid chat

Be patient and no tit for tat
Even in jest you do not mock
Just don’t try to be swanky, Brat

It may be lethal what you spat
What you exhale let the mask block
In this season of Covid chat
Just don’t try to be swanky brat

Details | Amanullah Khan Poem

Devotion

Devotion							 

Hell emptied its belly,
dropped lava from the sky,
where once stood a compound
in a remote village. 

Then there were only ruins.
Barking and sniffing rubble for familiar scents; 
he emerged limping	
from the dense cloud of dust.

Something in there, he sensed, 
in that strange mixture of smells,
which bound him to the scene.  
He would not break the shackles.	

Minutes turned into hours, hours into days.
His friend and his master
wasn’t there to fill the bowl.
Small puddle, next to house also went dry.

Hunger pains slowed him down, 
but he sniffed and he dug, 
till his paws had no pads and his
bark waned to whimper.

Had no strength to prop his head.
Ears hung flaccid.
Curled up in the rubble, 
head resting between legs.

Panting ceased, breathing slowed–then stopped.
But the eyes remained open, waiting for his master.

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Canons of Maternal Love

Canons of Maternal Love

Whirled pestle like a dervish, 
a meter long wooden rod, 
in a mortar of clay.
 
Body swayed in rhythmic moves
as her feet anchored mortar.
Jingle of bangles added harmony.

Lunge of pestle into mortar 
pressed condiments to exude
and perfuse sauce with fragrance.

Oh! The aromatic bouquet, 
redolent of mother’s kitchen.  


Fingers measured blend of spices–
cloves, cumin, pepper, coriander, 
cinnamon and a glint of turmeric gold.
 
Her dawns began with cock’s crow.
She milked buffalo, churned yogurt 
and skimmed the spume of butter. 

Coaxed us into eating breakfast of Paratha, 
suffused with love, enough to last our
 two–mile walk and a day at school.

When we returned the house was clean,
floor was scrubbed and clothes hung on the line.
She heard our stories with love and attention.
 
Our selfish wants never acknowledged,
years were taking toll. But she remained 
a center pole, holding the tent–
built of canons of motherhood.

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Paradise No More

Those mortals who have a history of 
About five million years having survived
Many calamities: fires floods viruses 
Hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes  
Man made wars and environmental events

A minute ball in cosmic terms, afloat
In nothingness of space held by tug of
Neighboring planets. Shooting stars Hit and 
Miss Some burrowing leaving craters or 
Vanish in black hole.  Foretelling fate of 
Worn out planets in the universe, spent
 
Themselves maintaining sovereignty over
The vast suspended universe that is
Immeasurable on all accounts which
Makes it unmanageably immense 
And boundless. A minute globe in the midst

Of infinite cosmos occupied the
Central place in our limited logic
A people whose ancestors once expelled 
From heaven now teeter on extinction
 And are at the brink of destroying earth

Nature cries in the form of jolting rumbles
Of earth quakes and loud roar of tornadoes
Sends repeated warnings of forest fires
Raises ambient temperature of the earth
Dotted with torrential rains causing floods

If we fail to heed cries of nature and 
See what is staring us in the face we 
Are bound to lose like the dying sequoia
No amount of foil can stand fury of 
Nature. To challenge it is to spit in the wind.
© 2021 Aman

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Dreams Fade

Dreams Fade

Curtains lift to changing scenes– 
mountains conquered, fairytales.
Leisurely visits to heavenly beaches,
dissolves of scenic Bali, 
montage of bohemian safaris,
unicorns, ocean of repertoire, 
kaleidoscopic and bewitching,
invisible to all else–
form a halo.
Camouflage from the ambient 
to stave off annoying knocks.

Flying carpet glides above the 
storms and provides
escape from the churns.
A safe haven from shrapnels,
coming from many directions, 
known but mostly unknown
and a flood of wonderment––why?
Sources vary and roots hide from the light.

As journey reaches foggy trails,
retrospection begins to nibble at the halo

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Drive Train of a Poem

Drivetrain of a Poem	                          
 
During lapsed conscious hours, I have often
wondered and received mutable counsel
in varied tongues– at times uninvited.
This time it was virtual dream.

I sensed caress of a presence
while my pen was stringing strewn patches of
similes, metaphors, rhythm and rhyme. 
“I am watching you from a vantage point 

and your skull is no barrier.” 
He went on: “I see the marauding
lines on the ridges of your mind, 
It seems you are a struggling versifier.
 
Creation is neither forethought nor a whim.
It hails from the sky and gains access 
through the pores of skull.
Mind gets hacked and moves to a different zone.

Chatter picks up in the synapses
seeking untapped cerebral sectors.
Trivial transmitters are kept at bay.
Brain hoes banal growth: new thinking sprouts. 

Frontal inhibitions are banished.
All gates fling open.
No more sentries! No checkpoints!
No fly zone for the critic's megaphone!

Unleashed limbic flow of emotions is
nourished by a Gamma spike in the brain.
There! You pirouette with the lines
and feel the Aha moment.

Details | Amanullah Khan Poem

Passing the Baton

Passing the Baton

she cried at the site of lights
but they laughed and they reveled
praised her lips, her eyes
2
wrapped her softly, fed
intimate nectar, she grew large
garb kept getting short
3
Sprouted buds of her own
one two, three and four
she gave her nectar
4
they grew and grew but
her own nectar was now dry
and she was barren
 5
they left the tree house
gathered twigs and built their nests
and they grew their buds 
6
she wanted to see, 
how they lived, her body was
tired, she went to sleep
7
she was silent, they
cried and lowered her gently
no light, no more cries

Details | Amanullah Khan Poem

Happens Everyday

Happens Everyday 

As the lobby door inhale fresh air 
They walk in puffing the indoor
Hoping it will multiply their dwindling puffs
A limit imposed by the illness

Pretension turns into wish, hoping, 
Mask may come off, turning into need for 
A cane, a wheelchair or merely a crutch of concern 
Search for hope becomes a primary concern

Door revolves all day long.
Similar exchanges similar masks
Years teach whether to peer behind the mask
Or to let the curtain stay

Their gypsy eyes searching clues
From my entry into the room, my posture,
My looks, position of my eyebrows–
Piercing every pretention
 
I ruminate facts and figures and
Use stomach full of experience
At times emotions escape from the vault
Expose lies of love.

Details | Amanullah Khan Poem

Thomas Jefferson's Reply

Thomas Jefferson’s Reply

I had my passion, my delight and me
To blend the union: fast, unfading, yet
Of doubtful glory. Willing to stand up
To daggers in the savage king's eyes and	
Refuse submission to his sharp bare sword,
So well known to swathe the free natives red.
Let me sate your inquiry, as I know.
I tried my best to seek wise counsel and
Read leaves while I sipped tea with the statesmen.
I channeled my thoughts through my pen for then
And future generations, but shunned speech.
Resort to caustic language was although
There even then, but no one crossed the line.
Republic is a river, each drop moves
The other thus charts the course and carves banks
While conquers fissures and it shines rough stones.
Emerging puddles often clamor to
Gain access but may languish in earth’s crust.
Therein lies the charge of sage leader to
Corral the feral thinking and beliefs.
Remember, democratic rule counts heads
Which adds to total richness of content.
It takes a circle to uphold the pole
Atop the crest of democratic climb.
Thus the need for each and all to pitch in.
Spare me from smear of gossip on my tomb–
Though my components have now ceased to be   
My thoughts are sprinkled in the pixie dust.
And I have left my writings on shared rack.
Search the shelves and you shall find all you seek.