English Poems - Sadia Khan

~ I do not find it fair—
that a fly should die,
within a few days of its birth.

And I'm quite in disfavor,
with the ephemeral nature,
of the wait, to be swatted in mirth.

Yet, this inquest is,
leading me nowhere... ~

~ If, at all, to make it worth its while;

you shall notice,
that by the end of it,
only an exiguous few will stay;
and insist on;
not letting you do the dishes...
... alone. ~

~ If ever, I am to be mistaken for something, known,

let it be the poise on my father's sunned face,
and the warps and wefts of his wife's grace—
let it be the twined phonics of my yodeling lad,
and the sweet, countryside scent of his dad...

and, if ever I am to be mistaken for something, perennially unknown—
let it be any backyard sod— that which with grasses, is always sown...

Perchance, if again mistaken for something— warm and free,
let it be all the summer mornings, which shall come after me. ~

~ 'tis toward the dawn of a day,
that many a man is led astray;
unhinged cavaliers wherefore foray—
mist, maples, hillocks, and ochre roads—
beneath their feet, rolling away...
rolling away... rolling away...

verdure in all dales shall thus be gray,
and 'tis toward the dusk of a day... ~

~ How do I weed...
these rooted inhibitions,
and importunity of my perennial heed;

to climb a mead,
where love may embower;
to see born of us then... yet a sallow seed.~

~ In a fleck of flitting seconds, such sore,
I let many a felicity envelope me, more;
and thus to moan like a dream— accursed—
escapes from my eye, another love-lore. ~

~ Fading of the long night in a waif's eyes—
And in the nuances alike— I see your face.

A forlorn road, to the tumultuous deep;
as I walk the subterranean in my sleep. ~

~ They flip and flop,
then drawl their fall,
strutting much buts,
they flap, they rap and tap!

Ho! Occurs no sweet happenstance...

An eternal battle ring...
paddling with a wing,
perseverance they sing,
if rain this can bring,

but they fail to trill... tch tch, alas alas!

Swaddled like a goose,
in a noose that is loose;
they twirl, they whirl;
their feet are tied with rope;

and they twiddle, with the rope's end... ~

~ वो पैरों की छम-छम,
गलियारों में तुम हम,
हुक्के की गुड-गुड और,
सड़कें कुछ नम-नम...

मैं होता यहीं हूँ, न होने से पहले।

And then in a moment such Epiphanous,
I indulge my quiescence into a dance until the last drop of frenzy...
To behold the salt
of this, and much beyond.

Do I see God...?... ~

~ The best life is that I have lived already,

and the rest is transitory... ~

~ Fascination has become of the unknown;

and to get embalmed in the silt,
then even a rose must wilt—
tacitly, on its fleshly stem.
Or quietly shrivel,
in the condescending hand of a grown—
as though a trifle!
Or on the tarmac of weal and woe,
maybe die of one last throe—
inside a dog-eared book;
or lie between the sheets, ever and anon. ~

~ A bloom,
she carries to home—
from daily morn stroll—
and repose it in a sconce,
clung to her boudoir's cruddy wall;

her bosom,
is again flushed with—
redolence of the past fall—
rising from the trousseau,
to which, this bride, was in thrall. ~

~ Homebound but beyond—
the periphery of dusk and dome;
I rove,
the hem of one faraway grassland—
to know—
how the trail could take me farther,
unto another auroral dawn. ~

~ Any dimwit eventide—
circumvents the status quo,
of the heretofore sententious day;
whose unimpeachable, implicit image—
gets engrafted with a known poetic-rage.

The longhand in blue-books, worldwide, becomes illegible;
and all remnants of memory begin to pall—
with every stereotypical nightfall...
Another day,
is again convincing, and so overnice. ~

~ We are this close—
to touch your nose with my nose...
yet like bight of one worn, tasselled fibre rope—
hung between us—is—
long, tensile silence,
abrupt indentation,
and some loose, discordant nods.

Afloat afflictions, perhaps, never end—
and we are this close now—
to impregnate every nook and bend...
yet I linger at the sight, of your frozen fingers—
starting to blight this soft, starry night. ~

~ Unaccustomed to empyrean trend;
wherefore I must move on...

Into the wild blue yonder is my land;
ergo, I should move on... ~

~ Lest should another sandstone turret rise from the nape;
On thine arm, tie 'Imam Zaamin', one in the finest drape;
Then descry an anguished Catkin, plunge into nowhere,
And let the dew of its rue, dribble, in thy mouth agape.

***Imam Zaamin - An age old Muslim tradition of wrapping coins in a cloth that is tied around the arm for good luck and safety during travel or marriage, which is later given away as Sadqa (charity).
Catkin - A dense, cylindrical, often drooping cluster of small flowers (a spike) hanging like short pieces of string from the branches of some particular trees. (Used here for its remorseful look) ~

~ "Life is not at all docile as it does let on",
bemoaned the little girl from the grave,
coral headstone of which was long gone...

"It gets into an impromptu strife,
against all erroneous, discordant odds;
it then heaves, and it hauls;
lugs, tugs, pushes, pants... sighs and cries,
until in the arms of death...
can feign a dissimilar, hereafter life." ~

~ In 'Knot' manifests a proverbial poise,
of one silent in another's noise... ~

~ What is it that holds your tongue—
from falling off—
when you open your mouth,
and molars pantomime...

when your raspy voice whiplashes around,
raising wales on my pneuma—
and the skin I wear inside-out.
Also,
what becomes of your tongue after that? ~

~ In front of you,
I reiterate my lie,

and scour its false smutty chin,
of the itch for glazed, opaline skin;
there, somewhere, a snake sloughs too,
and begets something appeasingly true...
I swallow it,
not much later as you do. ~

~ Salt-box

Nothing that you draw on the moon,
wouldn't drip...
drip and dribble,
coalescing back into you soon.
And it is only the moon, who rides,
on those high and low briny tides,
however the salient brows—
they sit surreptitiously,
on what doesn't dissolve in your sweet, soft eyes. ~

~ Just some deep, sad orange splattered unsymbolically,
across the bloated huffy faces tainted grey,
and winged black blotches,
flying to their picked oblivion,
on being denied the flight of my hackneyed hallucination;
there is truly nothing more to this sunset,
I ruminate...
I ruminate on this indignation...

A dusty, clefted crag beneath my feet,
and yet I stand disillusioned,
denying it again the gratification,
of being felt and feared—
I go on to ruminate again,
as to who can indemnify your omission. ~

~ Far-flung, and yet not a jigsaw puzzle;
I am brought together at ease.

Assembled,
Arranged,
Accosted,
And made to fall back,
Into a synchronized rubble.
Have I not been a decent merriment?
Now dominos instead... please! ~

~ The timid nuances I envisage to inflect,
And retell the plenary narratives of here;
Those being carted by my heart for years;
They weigh as hundreds of fortnights put together.

I but no more contemplate this second,
And sit down to write you an ivory letter,
Which must find its road to you, I reckon,
Because to somewhere, also my hiccups travel... ~

~ To rend my skin,
and scald my flesh…
how harrowing it is to let go off,
when all I have but myself. ~

~ You...
Obviously are,
A jejune blip,
In this very,
And every parallel universe;
One that forgets,
 To sporadically breathe,
And blink.

So why not ossify the effluent fright,
 And ease off on your evanescent light.
For have you never espied?
The unassumingly fleeting beauty,
Of glowworm over incandescence white! ~

~ Here, answering to your arctic desires, I leave your city now,
Keep my Sun warm, for I’d leave my light for none but you… ~

~ Claustrophobic soul,
Has been shunted to another cavern—
Pretty less miasmic! ~

~ On baoli's chipped and dirty step,
Sitting side-saddle since wee hours,
She hurled another cuss toward the earthen pot...

While soft patina tainted silver hoops,
Jingled in the feet of an agitated pigeon,
On the rooftop, in the solitary pigeonhole...
Earthenware has wandered off to the eye of baoli,
Enraptured by the harmonious burbling of water around...
And pigeon cooed—
Mimicking the discordant drowning sounds,
As something in the coves and bay-windows also chirped along...
Like a wailing banshee has just wafted by,
Before cusses and murmurs could die down. ~

~ I have,
A black hole,
Inside me,
Growing,
With every blow,
Coming from the closest,
I know.

Shrunk and distorted,
Empty from outside,
I have innards,
But not me,
As a whole!
Won't you now,
Absorb my chaotic void,
O' dark pit,
As my heart, body,
And my soul?
I crave for pain,
I long for peace,
Love me,
Kill me,
I have always been only yours! ~

~ It is in the warble of the falling raindrops that I come to see the reflection of my dreams, in the lingering light of the trudging sun and the silvery slither of the moon. And on one such mauveine evening, when sky must be sending love abound to the mellow earth below that I sit under the awning of some busy cafe and mull over my good life. While the ruckus being played on the tin sheets and huge wooden planks grows, and gets transcribed stealthily by the reedy tentacles of the approaching night.

After every rainy night, I wake up to the sweetly tantalizing songs of self.
The petrichor stirs a deep longing in me, and subliminally I am transported to another such day. A day when parturition of poetry must have happened in the presence of none but a dainty drop promenading singularly on the tinted window pane. Rain is mightier than other occurrences, and indeed, because not just mizzle, it brings along nostalgia, friskiness, trilling birds, and a plentiful of sogged poems and narratives. Poems that carry in their breast the reminiscence of wet hours, smell of fresh rain-sodden breeze, the fleeting glimpse of the tears before they might have found an immediate refuge in the falling of rain, some uncomposed tender symphonies, and remittance galore.
Undaunted by its fall, it washes away all my fears, woes, and regrets. And I feel like a newborn poet, lacquered in its hazy wholeness, and thence ready to let more wordly dust settle on my soul and skin until the next rainfall. ~

~ The piping hot pottage had,
Rumination,
Reluctance,
Reticence,
Refined fear of rejection,
And imperial detainments simmering in it.

Unworded, shapeless expressions were the fuel,
Maintaining the status quo of the pot.
I thence assume the unassumed,
As my unassumed gets assumed by all...
And a gauche lover I become,
Of apéritif in a glittering sherry-glass,
Relishing the debauch of talking non-stop;
Thus willing to gape my small tongue-less mouth,
Like a waterfowl, and get easily shot!
But I shan't talk,
Yes, I shan't talk! ~

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