The portrait
A maiden, a muslimah, In a silver dress, silver dupatta. The pearls embroidered On her sleeves, like the stars, Sigh for her whisper, Long for this silver moon's gaze. Her partly covered Brunette hair: a flower bed For a clan of butterflies. The smile in her hazel eyes: an ignition For the imagination Of the poets. I look for dreams In her eyes. I find Her prayers, her playfulness, Her invitation. Let us believe, dear people, In the beauty Of the snowflakes, in the moon Dressed in shalwar kameez. Let us believe in love. (06/05/22) ©https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ Eden rose
Ah, Eden rose, you have filled my life with the colours of your petals, with the fragrance of your breath, with the ache of a confusing joy. You have slowly climbed your way, over the walls of my heart, into my heart. Ah, Eden rose, I will add a bead of your name to the rosary of my prayer beads. I will run after the wafts of your fragrance. I will drink every drop of the evening dew spread on your petals. When I am caught in the riddles of my mind, I will seek refuge in my Almighty and your embrace. In the dense forest of my wishes I will seek you, and you only, like a thirsty man seeks only water. I will use metaphors and similes to describe your beauty and grace. Ah, my Eden rose, every poet needs a muse. (03/05/22) ©drjal02, ©https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ New liking
Eden roses. Blooming cherry blossom trees. The confusing joy. Stylish hijabs. Hesitations of a woman. The pleasure of believing. The works of Rumi. A distant muse, A solitary moon Over the Arabian Sea, A pining heart. The days I spend, Chasing a dream. The nights I lose, Following a silhouette. ©drjal02, © https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ Mango people
She said: we are mango people, We don't read or write poetry; We don't create, or knead A better universe for others; We don't weave the peace With our acts, words or tweets. He said: the comparison Is an insult, a denigrating Act, against the mangoes; Our magical fruit Pleases our senses, Never schemes Using serpentine thoughts, Never spews the venom. ©drjal02, © 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. (Poet's Espresso Review- USA) ©️drjal02 Proem
I believe in reason, In free will, In science, In human stupidity, And in the magic of love. I believe we are slaves Of our habits, Our desires, our biases. I believe our decisions Are mostly automatic, Bypassing reason. I know science casts doubts About free will, And flirts with Determinism, But that negates Our individual responsibility. I have doubts about Fatalism, About pre-determined destiny, As they contradict The concept of divine justice. I believe we can change things If we have a burning desire To change, remain persistent, And are willing to face failures. One needs thousand pages book, An encyclopaedia, to explain Such complex beliefs. This is my Proem. (14/04/22) ©drjal02, © https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ Social media
Like an irresistible intrusive impulse I keep checking my social media accounts, More than I initially thought I would. Everyone here carries a tongue Of Martin Luther King, a heart of Rumi, A soul of Mandela, a mind of Socrates; Everyone here uses Likes and Shares, A new currency of altruism and activism. Everyone here sends love emojis Across the oceans, yet ignoring Their families, their friends, across the tables, Their neighbours down the streets. People discover their inner activist, Inner philosopher, inner poet, Inner prejudice and bigotry here. People behave like celebrities here. My News-feed is colourful like a rainbow. Sadness has evaporated from our perfect Timelines, yet sharp icicles of loneliness Hang from the grey ceilings of our minds. ©drjal02, © https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ Forgotten orphans
The face of an orphan boy, sitting In a lawn of an orphanage, is imprinted On the canvas of my mind. Like an autumn leaf that has fallen From the tree of life, during the spring, he sat Among the scattered autumn leaves. A veil of misery covered his face. An emptiness in his heart overflowed Through his sorrowful eyes. He sat, wearing the raiment Of sadness, orphaned By the arrows of a conflict. His haunting eyes, tattered garments, revealed His sail, a ship without a rudder, On the turbulent waters of life. He lived in a local orphanage like a bird With broken wings, with a childhood Crowned by poverty. His childhood is stolen, With insecurity Sowed in his heart, With a crown of thorns Placed on his head. His bruised heart whispers Into the ears of my soul: The cries of orphans, like him, fall on the walls of His political masters- a legion of pygmies, His priests- a band of empty tin pots, His people- a multitude numbed by a turmoil. With no helping hand To rescue them from the claws Of poverty and despair, they beseech The heavens to relieve their sufferings. They whisper with the lips of their hearts Into the ears of the divinity. They invoke the all-seeing eyes Of the Providence: to induce an awakening, To plant the seeds of compassion, In the hearts of their indifferent countrymen. ©drjal02, © https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ The dinner
This is our first dinner: we sit in a restaurant, you are in an olive green dress, carrying a Louis Vuitton handbag, I am aware of my heartbeat; the paisley rug, the crewel embroidery curtains, the engraved copper samovar, kahwa, remind of home; the evening is dewy, food rich. I am caught in the finesse of your eyes, lips; weaving the net of my new dreams. ©drjal02, © https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ Like a poem
Sitting in a cafe Of a hotel lobby, I read her patiently Like a poem. Her every feature, well aligned, Stimulates an imagery, Evokes desires, Infuses longing. Her smiles, dimples, Playful eyes, The vanilla scent Of her skin, The dexterity Of hands, and lips, The colour of her Hijab, The curl of her back, All crafted together Like the stanzas of a poem. Her every glance, Every laughter, And the sound Of every syllable, like a metaphor, Enough to ignite The fire of imagination. ©drjal02, ©https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ I carry you with me
Your deep sea eyes Where hearts drown Like wrecked ships; Your fragrant hair Where butterflies hide Like in flowerbeds; Your soothing words Where serenity flows Like in snow flakes. I carry you with me, Your inviting glances That ignite new desires; The veil of your shyness That cloaks little secrets; The curl of your back Where you hide the treasures; The chink of the little hearts That hang from your bracelet. I know you are far far away. But no distance can fade Your voice from my house, Your scent from my dreams, Your silhouette from my mind, Your colours from my sky. @drjal02 How I imagine you in Ramadan
Fasting, wrapped in a black hijab. On a prayer mat, Facing towards the Mecca, reading Holy Quran, bowing In a long Sujud To whisper prayers In the ears Of the divinity. How I imagine you Perform night, tahajjud, prayers; Wake up for Sehri, a morning Meal before the sunrise; count The names of Allah With the rosary Of Turkish prayer beads; upload Hadith on Instagram; Visiting bustling bazaars To buy dates, basil Seeds and Falooda For breaking the fast. Here I see you, a poem, becoming A morning breeze, a prayer, An Iftar sherbet, For my restless heart. ©drjal02, © https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ Desires of my mad heart
In the silence of a peninsula, my mad mad heart whispers in the ears of a cold night: I want to look into her secret filled inviting eyes, and whisper the tales of love into her ears; I want to find the sweetness in her mouth, and feel the silk of her company; I want to tie the Eden rose to her fragrant hair, and set a fire in the forest of her desires; I want to sip the wine of her valleys, and dance in the alleyways of her dreams; I want to give wings to her bubbling dreams, and find the remedy for my sorrows. As I watch the tempest, the whirlwind, of my unbridled desires, I order my heart to be patient. @drjal02 How to be happy
"Never", say philosophers, chase happiness. More you chase it, more elusive happiness becomes. If you can learn to invest in your family, friends, community, and work, and not move like an unhinged asteroid; If you can find a purpose, beyond yourself, to live, and not get caught in your vanities; If you can find an activity, a hobby, where you forget the daily drudgery, and live in the present moment; If you can remember everyone gets his share of problems, and learn to carry a hope despite life's tribulations; If you can use gratitude to tame your unbridled desires, and learn to interpret life experiences more positively; And if you can stop, throwing seeds on sand, chasing happiness, THEN you will discover the truth: "happiness is a side effect of leading a good, meaningful, life". (Poet's Espresso Review- USA) ©️drjal02 I know a girl
I know a girl with arched eyebrows, deep eyes, an anklet, smooth hair that falls on her shoulders. She counts her every step, every calorie, every inch, to refine her valleys, her waist. She can't find the magic in lush green meadows, in swirling snowflakes, on the face of a lake. One day lost in her thoughts, a clan of butterflies whispered in her ears: be careful with the tricks of mind, maybe you are a violin, in search of right fingers, waiting to create a perfect symphony. Then a solitary butterfly whispered to her soul: be careful with the crowd. Maybe you are a solitary rose that needs delicate pruning, daily watering with fresh dew. Then another one whispered to her longing heart: be careful with the snares, maybe you are a bird waiting for a flight. Here I tell a fleeting breeze: say hello to her when she is looking into a mirror, kiss her eyes, bring back a waft of her inner scent. Here I close my eyes: I find us in a seafront cafe, on a peninsula, whispering our dreams to a lustrous moon. @drjal02 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 the 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. (Gushing Fountain- A Collection of Poems) @drjal02 Once again
Just when I thought I had doused my fires, I saw an amorous spring changing things again; Just when I saw snowdrops, hellebore, Dancing tulips, and the sunshine, I saw my dreams murmuring again; Just when I saw the fluttering Butterflies, and the singing birds, I saw an old flame flickering again. Once again, caught in the talons Of leman, my heart is carried helplessly Over a new terrain. Once again, my days are filled With the ecstasy, and strain. @drjal02 It is not every day I feel my heartbeat,
I hear it bouncing, like a ball on a ping pong, Its cusps flapping like sails of a ship. It is not every day I get a tide of dopamine, I feel dreamy, open, vulnerable, And dangling over a cliff edge. It is not every day I enjoy the sunshine, I clear my Deadwood, I notice daffodils, the purple lilies, And the colour of butterflies. It is not everyday, streams sound like flutes, Roses sprout in battlefields, Doves rest on canons, Dawn rides on the wings of butterflies, Rain rejuvenates the garden Of memories. It is not every day we feel a Spring, When life crawls back to the Life, when heart breaks Its icicles and flutters in an ecstasy. @drjal02 Time has embroidered your face
Everyday, helplessly, I stare At your silhouette, standing In the courtyard Of my dreams. Everyday I hear the echoes Of your voice, Reverberating, In the attic of my mind. Every night I weave the net Of my dreams, And cast it widely In the sea of your eyes. Every night you watch, like A white solitary moon, at the forest Of my solitude, At the cave of my soul. Every night your fingers, like A violinist, vibrate the strings Of my soul, create a music Out of my chaos. Time has embroidered, your face, On the canvas of my mind, With the exquisite threads Of my memories. Take my heart And break it like a mirror, And you will see your face In every shard. Carrying a light basket Of my dreams, in the forest Of my poverties, I nurture hope. @drjal02 I no longer talk about
How life stops gazing at tomorrow, how life freezes dreams in our daily drudgery. I no longer talk about an endless road, the ruins of a pining nation, the silence of our song. I whisper my poverties in the ears of my solitude. I illuminate my cave with the light of my dreams. (The Galway Review-- Ireland) @drjal02 I remember wearing a Pheran
I remember wearing a Pheran, In winter, when days felt shorter, Frigid, and darker, And work felt like torture. When the administration napped Under a thick fleece of snow. When our houses, bereft Of electricity, warmth and glow, Got stuffed with a Chillai Kalan, Kangris, pickles, icicles, and beans, With sacks of dried fish, Aubergine, and leafy greens. When we sucked the breasts Of our warm dreams, Under the hanging rosaries Of dried turnips, and moon gleams. When grandfathers, sitting around The samovars, wrapped in layers, Narrated stories about Sheikh-ul-Alam, The Partition, and the invaders. (The Galway Review-Ireland) @drjal02 Note- 1. Pheran is a traditional Kashmiri warm dress for a winter , 2. Chillai Kalan is a traditional Kashmiri name for 40 days of harsh winter starting every 21st December 3. Kangri- a traditional fire pot used in Kashmir during the winter months 4. Sheikh-ul-Alam, also known as Nund Rishi & Alamdar-e-Kashmir( 1377-1438 AD), was a Kashmiri Sufi saint, mystic, poet and Islamic scholar. 5. Partition means division of British India into India and Pakistan in 1947. A patient note
I am in a hospital: reclining in a bed, measuring my precious stones. Aware of an irritating catheter; my urine drains, pink, into a bag; the city skyline illuminates my room window; I scroll down the pictures, the people, in my phone; the ghost of absence fills my room. I pine for simple things, like pissing, in privacy, with dignity. (Setu Literary Magazine- USA) @drjal02 I love dreaming
I love dreaming About a place, Pahalgam, Where I whispered with a friendly breeze, Where I discovered the face of peace, 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 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. (Scarlet Leaf Review-Canada) @ https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ As I sit in a room thinking
As I sit in a room Thinking About the phantoms Of the past, The uncertainties of future; I imagine my mind, like a room, With two doors. First I see a tide of fears, a fog Of gloom, entering my mind Through one door; Then without letting them To take roots in the soil Of my mind, I watch my thoughts leave slowly Through the second door. (Setu- Literary Magazine- USA) ©️drjal02 Srinagar
A city of Dal Lake, houseboats, And Mughal gardens. Where I was born. Where I schooled and grew up. Where I walked, and ran, in joy, in terror. Not your addiction to easy money, Not your preoccupation with land prices, Nor your mercurial will, Nor your ecclesiastical sermons; It is the mystic tranquility In your gardens, Under your chinars, near your lakes; It is your Himalayan resilience; That I admire most. (17th July 2016) ©️https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ |
PoemsThese poems have been previously published in various literary journals, magazines, books and anthologies around the globe including the UK, the USA, India, Ireland and Canada.
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