Facts and Values
As I sat in a lush green field, With the Sun hiding behind Silver clouds, I heard two old men Debating about the importance Of facts and values. One sage said: Facts are the most important Thing in life; With Facts, we can map The course of our lives, Stars, everything in nature. Another sage calmly replied back: You could know all the facts Under the sun, And still not know which facts Are important; you could Know all the facts about The physiological changes Caused by love and yet be Oblivious to what love is; You could know all the facts About the brutalities Faced by a nation, But still not know its courage, Dignity and resilience During the adversities. How I noticed clouds Disappeared quietly, and Sun rays Glowed our faces. ©️https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ Of man
Just a pile of some flesh dressed up on a few bones, with some veins and arteries branching in and out of a pump; with a little breath constantly going in and out; with a myriad of formless thoughts due to the action of neurons; with an insatiable hunger, for new things, he is often unsatisfied with the things he owns; with unharnessed desires, and a fear of being ordinary, he sprints on a thousand feet with an odd cramp of altruism. Finally his flesh, his bones, his vanities, his dreams, dissolve into the elements, disappear into a nothingness. Perhaps a regular reflection on this reality will ease many of vanities and maladies. (The Galway Review-Ireland) ©️drjal02 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. (Gushing Fountain-A Collection of Poems) @drjal02 A dream
We are sitting, in a dream, On a wooden bench. During the day I carried the image Of my dream: the face Of the pond, the dewy eyes Of the evening, the soft-mouthed Breeze, the freshness Of the air, the fragrance Of the moment, the flutter Of the fallen leaves, The twittering of birds, And the warm touch Of your hand. As the evening approaches, Carrying the weight Of my dream, I concur Dreams float free, like buoys, In the deep sea of our minds, Pointing to our sunken Past, our hidden desires. (Poet`s Espresso Review- USA) @drjal02 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 Kashmir, 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 Kashmir's 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 children and 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, living or dead, is worth worshiping". He deserves his own prayer from God. (for Haji Mohamed Ramadan Wani on 27/08/2020) (The Poet's Espresso Review- USA) @drjal02 Silence
We must always have a place In our homes, in our offices, Behind our shops, To discover the silence, To open the casks Hidden in the recesses Of our minds. We must always have a place To go into ourselves, hear The hum of our souls, Discover the corals In the basement of our minds, And alight from the ships Laden with our, dark, past. Even a prophet, away From the hustle and bustle Of Mecca, would climb The Mountain of Light, To meditate in the Cave Hira, To know the unknown. (The Cannon's Mouth Literary Magazine-UK) @drjal02 I order my heart to be patient
"And I ordered my heart to be patient: Be neutral as if you were not mine!" -Mahmoud Darwish As the hands of time remove The veil from their schemes; As the new breed Of foxes, hiding Behind a forest of people, raise Their heads; As the new legion Of peacocks Master the craft Of seducing the marketplace; As the silver footed, democracy, princess Turns into a bondmaid; I order my heart to be patient. As the butterflies of change Spread the pollen Of fear and hostility; As the herd mind gets intoxicated By the opium Of "Us versus Them"; As the amygdala overrides The frontal cortex; I order my heart to be patient (The Cannon's Mouth- UK) @drjal02 I create a royal road to my misery
When I judge myself, When I judge others. When I am oblivious Of my thoughts, My emotions, My senses, My actions. When I live in my past, in my future. When I ignore my present. I create a royal road to my misery When I intoxicate the air of life By complaining, By comparing, By criticising. When I am unforgiving, Ungrateful, Unkind, And wrapped up in myself. (Scarlet Leaf Review- Canada) COVID-19
When gloves and masks became our daily attires, and aeroplanes were grounded like birds with broken wings; when love lost its sensuality, and the frost of isolation gnawed on our souls; when no one prayed in mosques and churches, and no one attended birthdays, weddings, and funerals; when death rode swiftly, secretly, on the wings of an invisible monster, and danced in the crevices of our, gasping, lungs; when time, unlived, turned stale like unused fruits in our fridges, and no one noticed a blooming spring; when we spent our days and nights, idling, talking about angst and boredom, about deaths and wills, about the spread of a contagion; we all clung to the straw of life with hand washing, and social distancing. 29/04/2020 (The Galway Review- Ireland) Sorrows
You stretch your cloak Of gloom, intermittently, Across our lives. You fill the sacks Of our souls With gnawing blues and tears. You reveal Our helplessness Before the Fortune, Her merciless darts. Yet you unveil Our courage To withstand adversity; Water our seeds Of compassion. (Gushing Fountain- A Collection of Poems) @drjal02 O Democracy
When you finally arrived Into our hearts, homes, and streets, With empowerment inscribed On your forehead, Heralding a new dawn, new wings For our bubbling dreams; Tears jeweled our longing eyes. Our dreams soared high like birds with four wings. Our adulation was almost divine. After all upheaval, we greeted you With open arms, And minds. We carried you Gaily on our tiring shoulders, Singing mirthful songs. We seated you on a high throne, built On our dead bodies, studded With the pearls Of Equality, Justice and Liberty. Little did we know You would cloak dung heaps, You would hide their ugliness, You would deliver New avatars of bigotry. Little did we know You would adopt new tyrants, All speechifying, All sermonising, eloquently, in the attires Of democracy. Little did we know, O democracy, You would evolve, From a silver footed People's princess, Into a bondmaid With little allure. @drjal02 We often forget
We often forget the fallacies of our Reason, the limitations of our Free Will, the truth of our impermanence, our finite existence in an infinite universe. We often forget we did not exist, for an infinite time, before our birth; we would cease to exist, for an infinite time, after our death. We often forget we are not the centre of this indifferent universe; there is no person, or any deity, to ensure we are all dealt fairly or justly. We are all vessels, meat vessels, full of anxiety, prejudice, and vanity. (Poet's Espresso Review-USA) Time is going to come
Time is going to come When we won't be able to call A fig tree a fig tree; An orange tree an orange tree; Or an olive tree an olive tree; Because a willow tree Will take an offense, cry Discrimination, And demand We call everyone A tree. (Poets Espresso Review-USA) @drjal02 Solitude
Go and enter your solitude You may discover The unexplored terrain Within, you may Untie the knots Of your mind, your life. You may discover, inner Ghettos, the origin of your Beliefs, biases, and fears. Go and enter your solitude. You may stumble upon Words, moments, smells, people, And find the answer to many questions. You may uncover, a silence, A womb of bliss And creativity. Even if You find a dark, frightening, cave You will find a way to Illuminate it. Even if you find a gnawing fox, You will find a way To tame it, to domesticate it. Even if you find rusted iron Bars, in the dark alleys of your mind, You will find a way to mould them Into an armour, Into a lance, To fight your demons. (Setu Literary Magazine- USA) Perhaps it is not your famed beauty
"In her absence, I created her image" - Mahmoud Darwish Perhaps it is not your famed beauty Creating this absence. Perhaps It is waking up to familiar faces, walking In familiar streets; hearing An Azaan, or Guru Granth Sahib In your neighbourhoods. Perhaps it is feasting On a Wazwan, or enjoying lamb skewers At Khayam Chowk, or maybe It is blathering with friends On a bridge railing, in a college Canteen, or in a shop. Perhaps it is strolling On that, amorous, residency road, Or growing up listening poetry Of Sheikh-ul-Alam And Habba Khatoon. Maybe it is the joy Of Eid shopping, and lining up In front of grandfather To receive an Eidi. Maybe it is the aroma Of fresh bread, and the taste Of Nun chai, in our mornings. Maybe it is your women, tying Their prayer threads, whispering Their modest wishes, to the mausoleums Of your Sufi saints. Or maybe it is hearing Shameema Dev, on Radio Kashmir, sing. Maybe it is just watching Your face, in every season, without Carrying the sack Of longing in our hearts. Perhaps your memories Shall continue to orbit Around our yearning souls, Like satellites, until eternity. Perhaps all this excavation Of memories, this leaning On our history, this living In the past, is the story Of every uprooted plant. (The Scarletleaf Review-Canada) Notes-
Everyday her dawn arrives
Everyday her dawn arrives With a bread of martyrdom With a drink of tears. Everyday her bruised soul Is hammered, ceaselessly, On an anvil of a conflict. Everyday bulbuls, sit on the sill Of her soul, sing The songs of our tragedy. She carries a burden, a heavy sack Of our dreams, on Her sacrificial head. When I look for expressions On her face, in her eyes, I find a tearing emptiness. Like her last queen, Haba Khatoon, she carries A longing, a gnawing grief. Like dead stars She carries, a burden Of loss, a ruined destiny. Everyday she falls Into, an abyss, a black hole Of two toxic neighbours. (The Galway Review- Ireland) O my unruly mind
O my unruly mind I ceaselessly try to harness your unruliness with the rationality of philosophy, with the objectivity of science, with the finality of holy texts. I try to tame you with the magic of poetry, with the rituals of faith, with the wisdom of sages: I even try to order with the art of mindfulness, with the habit of journaling, with the promise of houris; yet you always find a way, out of every bridle, with your habitual conniving, monkey tricks, and reptile winding. (The Cannon's Mouth Magazine- UK) A Shikara Ride
On a hot summer day, away From the lanes of death, And the forest of grief, he sat In a colourful Shikara. Rowing through Dal Lake, Amid floating gardens, Moored houseboats, And the lake dwellers, He saw the reflections Of a fort, a mountain, A mosque, and a temple, All floating on the face of the lake. He saw the water droplets, studded Like diamonds on the lotus leaves, Flirting with the sun rays. He saw his timorous mind, A fluttering heart, slowly relaxing With a soft-mouthed breeze. He saw the tiring limbs Of his strained soul Slowly stretching in tranquility. (The Scarletleaf Review- Canada) Who am I ?
Cutting a long story short: A patchwork. Made of incongruous pieces: My genes and my family, My culture and faith, My town and country, My successes and failures, Their beauty, their ugliness; My education and my work, My friends and leaders, My travels and leisures, Their inclusiveness, their exclusiveness; All seamed together In the circuitry of my brain. I am an ever-changing Medley, I contain Multitudes, dyed By every experience. (Poet's Espresso Review- USA) We are often lost
We are often lost, in the thickness of thin things, in the weed of our thoughts. We often tread through life like ants tread on an elephant: close to the skin, busy in the wrinkles, yet completely oblivious of the whole elephant, of the big picture. (The Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine- UK) @drjal02 Despite all grandiosity
Despite all grandiosity, all exaggerations, about Human rationality; despite all wisdom of Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle; despite all discoveries, inventions, and every human stride; majority of our actions run on an autopilot, looking for shortcuts, by-passing reason, by-passing awareness. (Poets Espresso Review-USA) You are always with me
You are always with me During my joys, during my grief, Like my breath, like my heartbeat, Like the marrow in my bones, Unlike the soul that abandons during the sleep. Despite all space All mountains, all seas, spread between us I carry you as a cask of memories, As a vial of saffron leaves, as a sachet Of Nun Chai leaves, As a collection of souvenirs, As a playlist of folk songs. I remember you everywhere..... In every meadow, During every snowfall. I see you everywhere... On the forehead of every mountain, On the face of every lake, On the leaf of every Chinar . I see you in the language Of my college friends, their jokes, their dreams; In my mother's dress, in her tea, in her worries. Where ever I drift, where ever I run I return to you, Like a wave at the shore returns to a sea. (The Galway Review-Ireland) @ https://www.poeticnoesis.com/ I see a new face of Kashmir
I see a new face of Kashmir, Seething unarmed youth Protesting fearlessly Against the might of India; Defying curfew, braving bullets With only stones in their hands. I see frightening whirlwinds Around these courageous souls, Chanting fierce Liberty songs. I see a conflict generation, Full of resentment, full of valour; Carrying a fire of disobedience, A cyclone of dreams; Slayed, maimed, blinded By alien bullets, by alien pellets. I see a mercurial nation With grief eternally fastened To her bruised forehead. I even see fat cats Licking double cream At the gates of its graveyards. (15th July 2016) (The Galway Review-Ireland) I sing a song for those
Who are full of energy and fairness, Full of love juice, and dreams; Who are not afraid of failures; Who walk with both arms and legs To climb an arduous summit, To create history with their strides; Who jump into turbulent waters To collect treasures from the sea bed. I sing a song for those Who burn books to light new paths, Who dismantle the idols Of dogma, inequality and injustice; Who burn old bridges to carry a nation On their strong, just, arms. I sing a song for those Who have cleared the dross of bigotry From their hearts; whose clamour Disturbs the sleep of fascists and tyrants; Who adorn the forehead of the life With their ideals, loves and impulsivity, With their dissent, valour and sensitivity. ©drjal02 (The Fable Online-USA) O my soul
O my strained soul, long have I dreamt about Seeing you fly joyously; high above the cloud. Long have I known your gravity-defying nature With an inherent longing to fly to your creator. Long have you moved like a crawling reptile Collecting dust, grime and shame in the exile. O my squatting soul, long have I seen a shame In your eyes; loaded with heaps of self blame. Long did I try to freeze my dragons for your joy, To set you free, from the heavy fetters, to enjoy. Long have I invoked you to glide like a bird Away from the green grazing of this goat herd; Look straight into the eyes of a noontide sun, With your winged feet; and go for a higher run. Enough of this squatting, cringing and crawling, Rise and dust off your wings for an inner calling. (2013) (Gushing Fountain-USA) |
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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