Month: October 2021

Why don’t you try to look deeper inside
In the nestling hopes of finding your story?
Though all you’ll get is a little upset
At the emptiness of seeking glory.

It’s the ear of the viper
That can listen to songs
Playing in the vacuum of tomorrow.
It’s the hug of the boa
That can squeeze out the wrongs
Staying in the yesterday of sorrow.

Take up the green, slither out of the scene,
And leave the heroes to their crime-fight.
You do your own, go enter your zone.
There’s hardly any point to limelight.

It’s the punch of the python
That can crack out the jades
Shutting up the luminance of power.
It’s the kick of the cobra
That can shatter the blades
Cutting up your ambitions to flower.

So, come on in, come be a Slytherin,
And tell the Hat you know what you’re doing.
Keep up your stride, keep walking with pride,
Don’t mind the haters or their booing.

It’s the House of the Serpent
Where we do what we can,
Grinding, when it’s needed, as a novice.
It’s the House of the Serpent
Where we be who we can,
Shining to the fullest of our promise.

The Holy Mosque of Khaspa town
Is still the place where people throng
To watch the man on weak rattan
Convert a kerchief into song.

With pens in inks of resin hues
He brushes words of sizes all:
The small and large mosaiced as
The floral motifs on the wall.

Some days the songs are Ajrakh fields.
Some days they fall in Cashmere drops.
Some days they grow like Calico.
Some days they shame Suzani shops.

But everyday he draws his art
From wells of faith and memory.
And come the night, with much delight,
He gives it all away for free.

He eats the food the Mosque provides
And sleeps on rugs the Mosque discards.
He feeds the birds with loving words
And reads the works of arcane bards.

His story comes on local news
And sometimes barbers tell his tale.
And some compare his soul’s repair
To how a lizard grows its tail.

His prime had seen him quickly rise –
An artist extraordinaire.
They came to see calligraphy
Which had a painter’s scenic flair.

His songs could take the shape of stars,
Or shine as silver crescent moons,
Or drop as rains on window panes,
Or rise in waves at blue lagoons.

He sold his art to magazines
And traders of exquisite shawls.
And many came to buy and frame
Designer kerchiefs for their walls.

His wife could copy his designs
And stitch them on to burqa sleeves.
As she preferred the sparrow bird,
He hid some in the floral leaves.

He taught his art of dots and curves
To children who didn’t want to learn,
As they were smart and knew the art
Will limit their methods to earn.

“So what if strokes go squiggling out?
So what if I don’t make them tall?
It takes too long to draw a song
Which no one cares to read at all.

“The computers do neater work.
Our fingers want to type and click.
Have you forgot? This art is not
What customers now want to pick.

“The garment shops are changing fast.
They buy their stock from branded names.
They love your art, but do they part
With money for your fun and games?

“Do let us sell some printed clothes.
And once we learn the computer,
We can design and print online.
So, let us get a good tutor.”

It was indeed the case, he saw.
His customers were drying up.
But like a child, he only smiled,
Returning to his chai cup.

“The God above is watching me.
He knows I am an honest man.
So, do not weep, for He will keep.
Come, let us do the work we can.”

“The God above was hearing too,”
Or so the sons would later think.
“Within a day, He had His way,
And told your destiny to sink.”

A bus had hit his motorbike.
His wife had fallen: bled to death.
He had survived for he had dived
With Allah’s name upon his breath.

His writing arm was paralysed.
For many months, he lay bereft.
But rose again, despite the pain,
And started signing with his left.

He left his business to his sons
And left his name to history
To be alone, and so atone,
Accepting Allah’s mystery.

His children were supportive of
His decision to leave the place.
Why spend on drugs when prayer rugs
Can heal him with divine grace?

He brought with him a bundle of
Few thousand wheatish handkerchieves.
He brought his pens and will intense
To sing again in buds and leaves.

He taught his art of dots and curves
To fingers on his moving hand
And brought his best to Allah’s test
Ignoring doctor’s reprimand.

He woke up earlier than dawn
And lettered kerchiefs through the day.
Then with a scoff, he’d wash them off,
When fingers chose to disobey.

He’s been at it for eighteen years,
And those who know him from before
Are quick to note and cast their vote:
His art has dwarfed his prior lore.

They come to him in shabby clothes
To mirror his austerity.
They stand in queues, and let him choose
The ones to get his charity.

His children keep beseeching him:
“Please, do not give our art away.
The times are tough, we’re poor enough,
With many urgent bills to pay.

“These admirers are crooked men.
They love you for the cash they make.
They sell our art, don’t give our part,
And sneer at us. For Allah’s sake!”

He smiles at them and slips his hand
Out of their double cupping palms.
“My lefty art is from my heart.
Come, stand in line to take your alms.

“You think this cloth is worth a lot?
That patterned songs can now compete
With factory print, though once they didn’t,
And shower money at your feet?

“The kerchiefs will lose all their worth
The day we put a price on them.
It’s not our need, but only greed,
Which they will notice and condemn.

“These people come to see a man
Who lost an arm but not his skill.
They see my work as just a quirk
Of human nature and its will.

“I know their love is not for me.
I’m blinded not by this renown.
This storied fame is for the name –
Calligrapher of Khaspa Town.

“I’m not the name, I’m not the work.
I’m just a creature in His thrall.
My art I make for Allah’s sake.
His love is lovelier than all.”

1.

Even dustpan poems
Don’t scoop these up.
I brush them under listicles.

2.

I’m an Einstein cat
In a Schrödinger pig.
I may have nine shitty lives
But I need a hole of my own.

3.

Pride chokes me
When I swallow it.
I’ll chew myself out now.

My diary is using me
To fill her emptiness inside.
…
…

My Chinese pen opens her ends
But only if I press her down.
…
…

My ink is always wet for me
And makes me screw her up the pen.
…
…

My schedule is a needy one,
Who makes me look at her a lot.
…
…

They start with promises of rhyme,
But always leave me halfway through.

Inside a highway bar-and-inn
A Perfumer and Poet met.
With purses sad, the artists had
To share the one mosquito net.

The Perfumer had heard the bard
And wondered how this gifted man
Was penniless and loverless,
For he deserved a caravan.

The Poet took his turn to muse
About the fate of fragrant flowers:
The ones who please the honey bees
Lie pollenless come after-hours.

That night the two did hardly sleep,
Nor once a word was ever said,
And come the morn, they carried on
To share the one remaining bread.

The bed and bread were hardened stiff,
The men had softened over them.
And so they talked, along they walked,
And let a friendship slowly stem.

The Perfumer was first to cry
About his jasmine-scented dew,
Which he was sure held much allure
For women courting suitors new.

“The jasmine is moonlight condensed,”
The Perfumer relayed with pride.
“But all they see is just a tree,
And not the potency inside.

“The scent can make our men docile.
And steer them from the ways of force
That they employ and so enjoy
Without regret, without remorse.”

“You sell the plant,” the Poet said.
“And that is why they all ignore.
You need to tell a story well
And show the moon you have in store.

“Your scent is not a liquid, friend.
Your scent is more hypnotic charm
That makes a man do all he can
To bring her love without the harm.

“Your perfume needs a name,” he said.
And took the bottle in his hand.
“A feeling true, a virtue too,
That plucks at a divine strand.

“The name should tug the lover’s rein:
Behave with proper reverence.
To want to touch, but not too much.
I dub thee: _Eden Temperance!_ “

The Perfumer lit up in joy.
It was indeed a name to sell.
And so implored, “O Poet Lord!
“Do name my other scents as well.”

And so were named the perfumes nine
Of fats and flowers and barks of trees,
Which grew around and could be found,
Or came in ships from overseas.

The Perfumer, in his delight,
Again implored his Poet friend
To think not twice, and name a price,
Or name a trouble he could mend.

“I have no troubles, dearest friend,
With poetry from land to sea.”
He shook his head, and smiled instead,
“My only want is legacy.

“For when it hears me sing a verse
My prowess the whole world extols,
From plutocrats to ziggurats,
But no one reads my written scrolls.

“My singing falters as I age
And soon I will lose all my voice,
With readers none, my days are done:
My verses drowned in history’s noise.”

The Perfumer said, “Worry not.
For I can remedy your grief.
To read with zeal, they need to feel
The music on a written leaf.

“The mind is where attention is.
Attention wanders everywhere.
The senses rule the wise and fool,
The common people and the rare.

“If we can rein a dogged sense
It will restrain the monkey mind:
If we can hook the nose to book,
The eyes will not be far behind.”

The Perfumer got down to work:
He mixed some oils with some mud.
They felt it swell, that rising smell
Of poems blooming in the bud.

He rolled a scroll out in his hands
And rubbed the vellum with the cream.
And on it wrote, a little note:
The recipe called _Morning Dream_

“The scrolls will smell of wisdom fresh,
Which deepens as the vellums age.
With each inhale, the scent will sail
And lift your poems off the page.”

The Poet hugged the Perfumer.
The friends together danced and laughed.
Each friend then wept at how adept
His friend was at his chosen craft.

The time then came to bid adieu.
With hopes to see some better days,
With many sighs, with many byes,
They went along their different ways.

The perfume names became a hit.
The Perfumer a millionaire.
From lovely lips to belted hips
The Poet’s scrolls were everywhere.

The bottles sold by carts and ships.
The copy scribes were booked for years.
At times they failed, but still prevailed
Against all fortunes and all fears.

The Perfumer went overseas
To forests full of flowers and fats.
The Poet found commissions sound
In courts and holy ziggurats.

It was therefore so strange a sight:
Despite their many gains and wins,
They dressed in grime from time to time
For sharing nets in highway inns.

It mattered not how hard the bed,
Or how the loaf would hardly bend,
They took the chance, for happenstance,
To find another lucky friend.

They knock before they come in.
All of them but one.
They wait for me to say, “Yes?”
All of them but one.

They are never too angry,
Never too loud.
They never tell me what is right
Or what is allowed.
They never say how to look
Or what others see.
They never tell me how to live
Or how to be.

They are well-mannered voices.
All of them but one.
They are good at giving choices.
All of them but one.

When he wants to say No,
To deny you permission
To do what you really want to do,
He just says, “I won’t advise it.”
When you ask him why, he glares.
“I don’t have to explain myself.
You can do what you want.”
But if you really do what you want,
He acts like you’ve taken his tea,
Snatched it from his trembling hands
And splashed it on his trembling face.
You tire of asking why, why, why.
He never answers. Only glares.
Only grumbles. Only trembles.
That’s how he keeps you shackled up
Inside a cellar, four-by-four,
Of his narrow-minded grumpiness.

1.

“Judge a moth by its candle.”

O Rumi, I’ve become the moth
Whose candle has been fired and
Replaced by an LED bulb
That better fits the firm ethos.

2.

“Be a tree and let the dead leaves drop.”

O Rumi, I was searching me
In fallen leaves of autumns past.
I found you in my gnarly roots
Becoming rings around my being.

3.

“Be an empty page, untouched by words.”

O Rumi, what a flaw I have:
I can’t abide an empty page,
As silence scares me more than words.
I lose myself in finding use.

Corns of black pepper,
Buds of black cloves,
Cups of black coffee,
Clothes of black cotton,
Leaves of black lines
Pens of black ink –
Instruments of writing
Spell out the black words,
Dispell the black moods,
And clear my black eyes.

1.

I shooed the pigeon pair away,
Without a care to hear their words,
And back I went to Robert Frost
To read his rhyme on garden birds.

2.

I came along with pen and ink
Opened the window to the dawn,
And found the Muse in pigeon eyes
That glared at me ‘fore moving on.

3.

I scrubbed the floor off pigeon egg,
Which Humpty-Dumptied from the roof,
And wondered if the mother bird
Would grieve aloud or stay aloof.