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Showing posts from 2019

Nellie, 1983

Very often the sun rises in warm, golden rays on opening buds, birdsong and dewdrops, and the stench of stale death. Very often the sun rises Upon mutilated men - blood drying over their eyes and gore-caked machetes rusting in their abdomens. Very often the sun rises over hyaenas fretting over the carrion going waste - they can eat no more, nor can the vultures. Very often the sun rises on a day already defeated - shrieking, screeching, screaming, demanding that it go back for there was peace in the night. Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.

abr-e-inqilab اَبر اِنقلاب

جو اِن جھُلَستی اُمّیدوں پَر آب خَلاس بَنکَر بَرسینگے کِسی دِن تو فَلَک ظُلم پَر وَہ اَبر اِنقلاب چھاءیں گے جو ظالِموں کے اِن کاذِب میناروں کو بَہا لے جاءییں گے کِسی دِن تو وہ اشک مُلازِم ایک عظیم سیلاب بانیں گے جو بیکَس سونیپَن کو بِکھراکَر صبَح کی ضوء لے آءییں گے کیسی دِن تہ اُمّیدیں خاک سے اُٹھکَر آسماں کو چھوءییں گے جو اِس دِیار خوار کو دولۃ و خَیر سے پھِر آباد کاریں گے کِسی دِن تہ خُشِیوں کے وہ بیحِساب اوقات لَوٹ آءییں گے جو مَحکوُموں کے سَپنوں کو جَمحوُریَۃ کا نام دِلاءییں گے کِسی دِن تہ خانہ بَدوش رجاء کے نجم ٹِمٹِماءییں گے Jo in jhulasti ummeedon par aab-e-khalaas bankar barsenge Kisi din to falak-e-zulm par woh abr-e-inqilab chhaenge Jo zaalimon ke in kaazib meenaron ko baha le jayenge Kisi din to woh ashk-e-mulazim ek azeem sailaab banenge Jo bekas soonepan ko bikhraakar subah ki zau le ayenge Kisi din to woh ummeeden khaak se uthkar aasmaan ko chhooenge Jo is diyaar-e-khwaar ko daulat-o-khair se phir aabaad karenge Kisi din t

Ninety nine

It is an interesting number one short of the one that is held as a gold standard for measures of success and failure, the number that judges everything from someone's sincerity to the contamination in a bar of iron. It is a hungry number, besmirched by an accusation of incompleteness though it is so perfect in form, its twin members so beautifully illustrating its two divisors the first one less, the second one more than that other fabulous number which multiplied by itself yields that magic figure all men yearn for. Perfect and yet always incomplete. Ever hungry, ninety nine. (Exactly 99 words) Published in Amaravati Poetic Prism 2018


Black tea, a new day dawns. Trees dice the sunlight turning blinding white into playful delight. The soft tinkles of the anklets on your feet: is silver's beauty still in its cold shine? The heart amuses itself in teaching what it never understood. Stained-glass window shadows on the floor paint a fresco: nature also makes chameleons that contrast with her butterflies. Smileys on the screen, this heart enchants itself with your imagined smile. They're sodium chloride, but by what chemistry do tears wash away sorrow? What am I - a body and brain, products of carbon concatenation chemistry hurtling into nothingness. I live on coffee and black depression, neither water nor fire touch now, of my shell what is left to hurt? Few thing delight one as fried maida and petty triumph; my memories have erased you. Published in GloMag April 2019