​​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

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

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)

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-

• Wazwan- a Kashmiri cuisine 
  
• Sheikh-ul-Alam - A highly revered Sufi saint and a poet of Kashmir 
  
• Habba Khatoon- She was the last queen and celebrated poetess of Kashmir. 
  
• Eidi-  a Muslim tradition to give small sums of money (Eidi) to children on an Eid day.
  

​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)
​

​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)