A patient note 
 
I am in a hospital: dressed
in a hospital gown, reclining 
in a bed of pain, aware 
 
of an irritating catheter draining
the pink urine into a bag; 
                                           the city skyline
 
illuminates my room window;
                                            I scroll down the pictures,
the people, in my phone;

                                            an absence fills
the shelves of my mind. I pine
for simple things, like piddling, like washing,
 
in privacy, with dignity.

(07/03/2021)
(Setu Literary Magazine- USA)
©https://www.poeticnoesis.com/

An Attic Hand

There is a steed
of life, within all of us.
 
It is tall, muscular,
hyperventilating with the air
 
of our desires.
We all mount it, gaily,
 
carrying an armour
of reason, a sword
 
of free will.
We all make our steed
 
neigh, trot, and gallop
at our own will;
 
until an Attic Hand
grabs its reins.

©️poeticnoesis.com

​O dreams 

O dreams, you give wings
to our lives.
You encourage slaves, born 
in the cradle of misery, to aspire 
freedom from their masters.
Your fire emboldens a nation 
to rise against a tyranny.

O dreams, you sweeten the pain 
of a pauper. Riding the chariot 
of hope, he carries the dreams 
of possessing the riches.
Your saccharine consolations
help a prisoner to fight
the pangs of loneliness.

O dreams, seeds buried under the blanket
of snow, in your warm company, 
sprout during the spring.
You squeeze out the sap
of stagnation
from our hearts, from our minds.
You inspire us to know the secrets 
hidden in the heavens.
 
O dreams, in your pleasing company, 
we navigate around the boulders
of daily difficulties, carrying
the earthly, and the celestial dreams, 
in our hearts.
 
I say: hold fast to your dreams,
for they manure the roots
of hope, for they illuminate
the precincts of our hearts,
for they sustain us
between the alp of life 
and the precipice of death.
©️ https://www.poeticnoesis.com/

I love dreaming

I love dreaming
About a place, Pahalgam,
Where I whispered with a friendly breeze, 
Where I discovered the face of peace, 

Where I observed the fluttering wings 
Of colourful butterflies. 
I still hear the soulful music 
Of its river, the symphony 

Of our tolerance.
I remember, a forest, collecting 
Pine cones as souvenirs, galloping 
A white horse in a meadow,

Sitting on river boulders, 
Dipping my feet in the river, when no one 
Chained our steps. 
Here, across the oceans, I recall 

Everything: the sweet delights 
Of student life, camping 
Along the musical river, shuffling cards 
Of happiness, the comradeship, 

A neighing horse calling 
"I am here, where are you?".
One day we shall return 
To that magical place, 

The gateway to the cave 
Of a deity, when no wailing 
Echoes from its valleys,
When no grief plays on its flute. 

One day we shall sit, again, 
Along the river Liddar, breathing 
An air of safety, 
Under a white moon.

Until then, we shall continue 
To carry the sack,
Of our dreams, 
On our shoulders.
@ https://www.poeticnoesis.com/

​​O life
 
At dawn you greet us with bird songs,
energise our spirits, with the first rays 
of sunlight, to overcome the hurdles on our paths, 
to steel our resolve against your vicissitudes.
 
At noontide you sweeten our pain of daily struggles, 
rekindle our dying desires with the warmth of the sun, 
allure us with the sweetmeats of hope, and display 
the illusionary rainbows to our heart's contentment.
 
At eventide we eat the bread kneaded by our sweat,
drink the wine of our desires, draw the comfort 
for our tiring bodies, and prepare to sow new seeds 
of hope in the fields of our dreams.
 
Then next day, again, besotted by your seductive baits, 
hypnotised by your new dreams, we forget 
your deceitful nature, we forget the approach 
of your unbecoming sister.

©️ https://www.poeticnoesis.com/

Grandfather 

My grandfather, a bearded family man,
dressed in a khan dress, a waistcoat,
a brown cap made of lambskin, 
would often sit in a room
smoking his hookah.

He, dutifully, woke up 
before the dawn,
for his morning prayers, lighting 
the kitchen fireplace to cook, 
long before the rest of the family 
woke up. 

He liked the company 
of his, peasant, friends.
He was kind, more than his children, 
to his orphaned grandchildren.
His wife, my maternal grandmother, 
I remember
mostly praying or chatting.
She never cooked.

He tuned to Radio, daily, 
mumbling Sufi songs
with his eyes closed, as if 
in a transcendental state. 
He would talk, to his grandchildren, 
about his six months pilgrimage 
to Mecca, by a ship, about sea burials 
of pilgrims, who could not make to the land. 
 
He would distribute 
Zamzam water, discovered
by the heel 
of thirsty prophet Ismail, among the family
and friends, even years after 
his return from Mecca. 
 
To follow the tradition
of the prophet, he  would, for months, 
look after the sacrificial sheep.
He would feed, wash,
and apply henna dye to them, until the annual festival 
to commemorate the sacrifice 
of prophet Abraham.

We went through his things.
We found his marriage 
certificate, witnessed
by would be prime minister,
his snow-white burial garment 
he bought, decades before 
his death, from Mecca.

His home, filled 
with soundless words, memories, 
of his grandchildren, now sold 
to some strangers.
They have whitewashed, 
memory-stains, voice-stains 
of our childhood and his life.
He, persistently, told us 
"no human being, living or dead, is worth
worshiping".
He deserves his own prayer 
from God.
(for Haji Ramadan)
©https://www.poeticnoesis.com/