Tag Archives: poetry

Damsel in distress

Serene environs.

Silence broken by the gushing water

falling down the rocks…

amidst green, secluded space,

stands the damsel in distress…

Unperturbed by the chaos in the vicinity,

un-amused by all the beauty at her doorsteps.

Fighting some futile tireless mind-battles,

over-stressed. Ungrateful.

Oblivious of all the gifts.

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I can’t rhyme anymore

“You’re the reason I can’t rhyme anymore.”

I always keep repeating to myself that I shall not write about you, not any more. But the moment I stop writing – I have realized – I stop writing at all, once and for all and I write none.

I write about you. I write about it every now and again, and keep it deep secretly under the closet.

I can’t understand whether I am too afraid to say this all in your face. And I can’t fathom, if that insinuates my cowardice or my excellence in keeping secrets.

I have started loving similes since I created them in bulk, unheard and unsaid; and a million metaphors that end up nowhere – unseen and unread.

Similes and metaphors describing your smoggy eyes and wavy hair, memories and distance – distant memories to be precise, delusional hopes and everything else cherished and regretted.

Certain tales are better off unspoken, and unheard. Or at least our parable is the one.

You always said it out rightly from the very outset. And you jazzed around your point of view straightforwardly. And you danced around the truth so convincingly so you never have to break anything – or anyone.

But even then – you’re definitely not the one to blame – my parts and pieces feel bent and broken, at the mercy of 24/7 harsh weather in my mind, and scattered to whatever the rains and storms happen to pass. I feel like a building standing without the firm base ready to fall apart without anything holding it up.

Missing someone, they say, is self-centered. I self-center you every single second of every single day.

Every single piece of fiction is a reminder of thee and I want you to read; every second note of poetry – merry or melancholy – makes me crave to read it aloud to you, out rightly ignoring the very fact that it could pretty much be a nuisance on thy part.

So what am I left with? Build a sand castle along the shore, transcribe everything I wish over the sand, graffiti my thoughts in invisible ink on every wall around, build the virtual bridge and forget what I left underneath.

Even if it means, I am the one drowning under there in waters which are dry and lifeless enough not even capable of an absolute kill.

Anyway, all that is happening is for your good. You don’t have to watch me fall apart, and I don’t have to let you hold me together. And I am not falling apart either. So you don’t have to hold us together.

But I wish you would. Though, it’s a lot better that you aren’t. And it’s a lot better that you won’t, and very importantly for your own good.


Melancholy melody and pensive poetry

Touching notes of melancholy melody,
playing over the headset,
whisper into the ear so earnest.

Moving pieces of pensive poetry,
couplet, eulogy, sonnet, elegy,
inscribed onto the pages so pretty.

Sailing through the eye,
hover over the mind. Defy?
Piercing through the heart,
penetrate into the soul. Set apart?

Reminding of blurred images, hazy places,
elapsed memories, foggy faces.
Intimating of delusional hopes, unmade promises,
busted dreams, unfulfilled desires.

Prompting of assumed friendship, ephemeral kinship.

Touching notes of melancholy melody,
moving pieces of pensive poetry,
rejuvenate nostalgia, fuse reminiscence,
revive hopes, renew dreams.

Touching notes of melancholy melody,
moving pieces of pensive poetry,
enliven friendship, revitalize kinship.
rekindle infinite love, and companionship.


Friendship not forever lasts

On the crossroads of life,
With an affinity did friends meet.

But time betrayed in such a way,
One went this way, other went that.

A ship was there, that drowned;
Though its planks kept floating.

A flock was there, that scattered.
One went this way, other went that.

– Translated from Sindhi


And I write and erase and…

I do have to start writing about you. And I do write and erase, and write and erase and write and erase or throw it away into trash and dump it away in a quagmire of nothingness.

That’s where it all including the scribe, that matters not, belongs – an absolute oblivion and hollowness.

Before it all meets its ironic fate, I have written innumerable blogs, scores of broken poems, beautiful little stanzas, dirty half a dozen passages, cents of dreamy essays, fairy-tallish stories and spell-binding prose.

Magnificently bewitching, maddening, marvelously magical, magnetic and mesmerizing.

Self-praise may not be a recommendation in the world of sanity. But my dearest one… all that is about you, and all that is about me thinking about you, is majestic beyond bounds. And I need no judge, not at all, without any doubt.

I have to have a means of expression, for the best of intentions, in all your admiration that to you again matters not. All that I do is all I have to do and I do it for myself and nothing more.

I write and annihilate a big assembly of phrases, crush a crowd of courteous clauses and sentence to death an emotional mob of sentences, and I know what I am doing.

At least, it makes me realize where I am heading. What keeps my existence where it belongs is dumping it all away. And I know what I am doing.

Singing an invitation of insanity with the flames I find at your door, I write and erase.

The door that gets farther the closer I move while the flame gets nearer than ever. And the warmth do I savor. But I am not a moth meant to burn and blaze. And cast the flames of your door any blame.

In a losing race as the scribe would put it, the writings and scribe keep draining, dripping through the ink, streaming, flowing before eventually getting sunk, numb and lifeless.

That’s how it works; self-annihilation to be precise.

And it hurts, and it hurts, and it hurts. But still, I write and erase and I write and erase… everything that I am supposed to say… and nothing that I am supposed to say… nothing.


Shadows – not a poetry

Shadows.
Shadows are beautifully haunting images.
Images that never exist but they really are!
Lights create shadows;
More light and they perish.
Shadows are like desires let lose.
Shadows baffle just as the desires do.
They fascinate at times.
They’re some serious illusions;
Casting magic-spell over your mind and sight.
Brighter the lights, heavier the shadows.
Shift light placement and they disappear
As if they never were.
Adjust and shadows transform.
With a slightest change in positioning of the light,
Shadows lengthen, widen, overpower and/or disappear.
Shadows are, in a way, useful.
They ascertain existence.
The darker side need not threaten;
It simply means light is somewhere behind.
Closer than ever.
Shadows are not meant to be frightening.
All that is needed is to switch sides.
Pursue light rather than dark.
Face light and fight shadows.


An enthralling sight

Sunset by the Serene Rawal Lake Islamabad

Sunset by the Serene Rawal Lake Islamabad


Could man ever find a sight more enthralling than:
A glittering sun that soothes his sight,
A caravan of dancing clouds that mesmerizes his mind,
A dazzling drizzle that bathes his soul,
A towering Margala Hill that lifts his spirits high, or
An enlivening serene lake that spellbinds to ecstasy?
And the moment when this is all combined?
Just imagine!