I dwell upon the rainbow flames twerking on the clouds where dragonflies under the bronze toned sky kiss their reflection on a calm lake sprinkled with sunlight. Under the shadow of sage leaves who flaunt the raindrops fallen of them during monsoon showers, I breathe in the heavenly garden of my mother's heart brimming with a ocean of pure love for me, she's a kind human who cares for other people more than herself but plants while lilies and red cotton flowers that blooms only for me.
The ancient scriptures inscribed on the tall monuments glittering with gold are the teachings spoken by her that nurtures my soul. The coos of dove are a prelude to the gentle sunrise which plasters it's yellow warmth on the grassy meadows, deciduous forests and well pruned vineyards.
Romanticizing the season of autumn in plum poetries, I found a permanent shelter on the half moon bridge of winter. In the platoon of sestina poem, I am the scorching verses of a heart broken poet.
The vignette of a love poem slung on a pistol thousands of half baked verses melted on porcelain tiles withering the carnelian dusk dangling from hanging baskets, blood dropped like the whistle of steam train knocking on unknown earlobes, death sneaked from the tangled braids of brown hair.
Crockery set breathed out the overcooked saying, "time heals everything" resting on her lap, the hamstrung grief was the blowing trumpet of how time kills everything, it scrunches the pain until a cassette of void builds a home within you, your shadow mocks you and you feel the urge to run away from the blinding lights to a place striped of known faces, the facade collided with the globules of lies long ago when you were a false prophet preaching the unpractised.
Ice cream vendor chiming bell, birds singing and childen giggling, sage leaves dancing in the wind under the flickering street lights, raindrops on the window getting restless seeing the rays of longing in my eyes.
she promised,"we will be together on your birthday" but promises made sometimes slither away.
worn out ballerinas sticked to jaded feet are still tapping on the stone cold floor across the busy city, it's already eight in the evening and mama is still working, juggling with four different jobs to keep the home fire burning.
dad left us long ago, no not to heaven but with his heaven, they say mama is a evildoer who prioritised her ego over her daughter for they haven't seen the onyx under her eyes that squeals she's sleep deprived but she tells me, "my daughter deserves a better life."
she slides chopped vegatbles in fry pan and the clattering oil burns just like her bejeweled dreams now in ashes lying in the tombstones strewn with birches, I didn't realized when mama's dreams became mine and mine became hers. she's weary and suken but still won't give up to easily the naked storms.
I have failed enough number of times to feel like a fallen disaster from the cloud capped sky but everytime I question my existence, mama embraces me in her arms and whispers, "You carry the most gorgeous smile I have ever seen."
clock strikes nine, bricks and cold stones transforms home, the dinner tastes perfect tonight. together under the night sky, her face looks like a resplendent sanctuary I smiled, looked at her half sepia eyes, "woman like you drown oceans."
Doves are like death my poems are like you burning in agonized fire woods enshrouded promises buried beneath the cobblestone street of an overcrowded city will you save the breathless words or will you sell the stock of their heartbeats to the scavengers of time the raucous cry of bellbirds erupting across the magenta sky is a perfect classical chorus to match the words of my crestfallen poetry I stare at the station of sky through which several train of clouds move gently towards self destructive path at times the empty spaces lying between them stares back at me with shunned eyes what's more empty than a calloused heart dripping hope a saint once looking at the massive tombstone stiched on my forehead preached that this world is a beautiful disaster I told him that I was a dying soul and you were an igniting flame full of sparks and smoke grief isn't as soothing as it feels on a wrinkled piece of paper maybe I should write another poem in the name of love but tell me will you come to read?
Wise girl who adds rainbows and smiles in your day when you find yourself diving in turbulent streams she's a golden palette dipped in summer hues Of march freeze and sunset eyes, her heart resembles a cherry blossom forest with glorious castles in her bones, she's a rare gemstone honeyed soul who scatters stardust across her poetry and sings melody like a chirpy nightingale.
I'm from my pen and paper Started with a single dot Multiplied by hundreds of poems And was recognized from your soft naked peach mouth
I'm from the verse of decayed metaphor On freshly blossomed daisies and dandelions Among those dried pages, I came out as new shoots on petrichor tales
Where I'm from? I'm from the land of the promise In the pearl of the orient sea Where I was once a dormant seed And awaken from a medium moist soil Watered with red and white blood cells Nurtured from both type O parents A loving family is where I am from
I'm from skies, born above the stars. zillions of sparkles or gallons of raindrops, millions of ounces of petrichor, or, countless fairy floss hanging in sky, nothing has been comparable to me ever.
I'm from beneath the lands, below the graves, rusted hellfire is helpless to my shine, roots from ashes of burnt fields, still carry the innocent scent of flowers, that dies in winters, waters from glaciers aren't as pure as me.
Love lost in the air in my lungs, sanguine thoughts with silver lining of crescent, my works still alive in my dead brain. What's left is, my bones, that have been inscribed with metaphors, still breathing through gravewax, neat.
I'm the main lead of lost stories, the books with no readers, like a beautiful moon lost in nights, I'm alive.
But the truth is, I'm the sunshine that lasts alone, from the beginning of, verses to universes.
They ask me where I am from To answer I say , I deluge rays of warmth for the mother that sobs of patriarchy , And father that screeches of dearth.
I've seen women with sorrows tucked in their braid carry me in their palms. And men too afraid to cry shove me down their pockets of grief and wash them with masculinity under the stars.
I come along the 3 sunflowers you grew down the street that smell of love and melancholy when withered. Amidst the alleys of the street where children play and pensioners sing the days of patriarchs, I shine upon them as crimson rays of sunshine. They smile , they sigh
I've been a lovers muse and artists canvas , they paint me in colours of sorrows and grief . I reside inside within as sonnets of love and polaroids of hues I paint a picture of love to the lovers that sit clinging onto the bench for hours, making promises and whispering love. I mizzle tenderness over them , they smirk and then they shy.
I come from the sky , A rainbow, a sunbeam. A lover to the sunflower and A muse to you.
Imagine a crowded railway station in a metropolitan city. Passengers scrambling from one platform to another like busy ants. Some loitering, while others rushing towards their destination. Can you spot that woman in a straw hat, sitting on the steel bench, rambling by herself? She is our elusive 'Miss Thought', hiding in plain sight.
Our job is to identify her amidst this sea of chaos and temporarily mute the noise in our heads, so we can listen to what she's been saying. Only when we've heard her, would it be possible to amplify her voice and transcribe it with lucidity. To me, that is how clarity of thought works.
Without this clarity, the meanings behind our words get murky while the average reader stands there hassled, straining themselves to separate the context from the cacophony.
I am guilty of muddying up my thoughts under flashy metaphors and attention seeking phrases. When I look back at what I've written, more than often, the tacky words seem like an impostor covering up for the obscurity of my thinking.
Have you ever noticed those village belles in a garish lip tint, wobbling on stiletto heels, uncomfortable in their own skin, while trying to be who they were not? That's who I turned my words into.
In trying to make them seem, oh so sophisticated, I buried the earthiness of them walking barefeet in a lush rain garden, sashaying their dainty little waists, carrying the weight of the words on their heads with such grace.
All because I didn't take the time to listen to what they were trying to tell me.
Kasturi- it is the musk of the deer that sits on its navel yet the dear keeps foraging the jungles for it. Our roots are where we stand yet we keep searching for them across man made maps Artwork by Manal Mirza