Sunday, 28 July 2013

Poetry 28/07/2013

Daylong, nightlong, apply the balm,
where the injury is deepest, therein,
mayhap might come, with greater fury -
Water, to wash the pain to calm.

Wednesday, 24 July 2013

The Lunette.

When the sun takes longer to set in London, it shines brighter on its women. Behind them, there was young woman in a blue bikini.

She's certainly hot, says one of the men. There is a suggestive glint in his eyes. He's the louder one of the two; the more cheerful; the one better endowed with the spirit of life. The other man remains quiet, but makes an observation: I like the shine on her thigh, he says.

When people's skin were heated by the sun, something warm awoke in their hearts. This warmth had nothing to do with the sun, it was intrinsic, like the core of the world that was as hot as the surface of our star. The shine was a catalyst, not the source. This shine on her thigh, he assumed, must have caused her to warmth. They speak of writing, drink to writing, and smoke for writing. The boisterous writer translates Piaf, the quieter one listens intently. There is fervour in his voice. It was one that, the quiet one thought, uplifted his fellow man. As they exchanged their work, the happy writer went silent. When he read poetry, he had a peculiar way of closing his ears so that only the cadence of the words before him reached his brain and not the rhymes of nature that sung in such parks. When he read the quiet writer's prose, he paused, and repeated it to himself - I knew her breasts. I knew her - there will be many women, he said, who would misunderstand you. Would you consider changing it?

No.
You may not be read by many.
I'm not writing to be read.
You write for yourself ---

His eyes rose from the grass because a memory formed a smile. That's what she said too, the silent writer says.
You love women... says the happy writer.
I do.
Why?
Because the glint on her thigh looked beautiful. Nature was a woman's accessory that she didn't know of.
And you try to understand them?
Not in the way they seek to understand themselves ---

They light another cigarette each - Edith is singing - there is a cheery air about the place and people are laughing.

If I am to be born again - if one is to subscribe to such a belief - I'd want to be born a man. There is a convex, the pensive man says, a gentle curve - here his hand rises and draws a lunette - that a woman's breasts make when they are naked and standing. I like running my fingers below it. In tracing the crescent, I feel its gentle weight on the tips of my fingers. This weight differs from woman to woman; if I close my eyes, I can remember them for all the women I've experienced. Have you noticed - he returns from his mind, and looks into his friend's eyes - that their skin are the smoothest here? They should have a name for it.

He finishes the wine in his glass. The woman in the bikini has now left. Neither, had noticed her leaving.

And do you remember hers?
I've never experienced hers.
You're such a sensual person - what you just said… it makes me want to fuck a woman.
The pensive man laughs a crisp laugh.
It was through loving that I found the lunette.

Saturday, 13 July 2013

Different.

It takes a particular kind of strength within a person to see that we are all different. It is an obvious enough fact but one that does not permeate us until something has happened to our being; something so violent, so unimaginable, that our minds must resign to this truth. We are forced to find that the vile outnumber the good, and the mediocre outnumber the vile. And for all these contingents, it is the good who finds it the hardest to accept the differences in us, to accept that others may choose momentary joy over integrity or one's own joy over another's pain. It is the hardest to him because he is tasked to look at these differences and respect them even to his own detriment, and then, without prejudice, without the notion of indifference or revenge, to try and plant goodness in tainted soils without the promise of its growth into a tree.

Thursday, 4 July 2013

Azaan.


What beauty lied between the pillow and her lips, in that space where her breath lived warm before going cold; in the scent of her black tresses over her bosom as though the seas had foamed over mountains; in the curve of her pelvis that moonlight slept upon when she slept upon her side?
My eyes, too poor a device,
to see, all the deluge in the sea
God liked hiding beauty in women that they themselves could not see. And to us wretched men, He gave half a sight, half a nose, half of hearing, that we may discern its existence but never grasp it. When I traced the silhouette of her body against the rising sunlight - Allahu Akbar - I felt a calm in my bones. When I raked her unruly locks with my fingers -  Allahu Akbar - I felt the need for a supplication. His plot, ash-had an-la ilāha illallah, was revealed. I wondered if the muezzin knew what I knew as he was calling them to prayer. That her every curve, hayya 'alas-salah, every lock, hayya 'alal-falah, her every mystery that was veiled and unveiled, was His azaan to me.