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I look up, again, at the cold moon

pressing its face against the windowpane,

sucking the edges of the corner table,

closing the language door.

 

In sleep,

I am walking to the graveyard

waking every insect

not in sight.

 

And mornings

always full of father

splitting an anthology of breaths,

now capable only of bloodline

in my wife’s womb.

 

The moon won’t use the door, only the window.
– Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

(Feb 2017)
Italics | Rephrased from Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi (translation by Coleman Barks)

 

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Monsoon in Hometown

                      A survivor of present

                      — memory is instant.

I could walk so I flew,

stumbled forecast,

saw everybody turning

a tattered face,

 

in an awkward pause

the tin-roof spasmed

on the wall, violence ensues

even an old building.

 

The epigraph severed

through the rainyard.

 

                            Monsoon is too pretty a name for a season as messy as this.

                                                                                         Nadeem Aslam, Season of the Rainbirds

 
(Jul 11, 2010)

panic

The last of gravedigger’s wives
wriggles while bathing,
neck cold as leaves shivering –
aftermath of rainy nights.

Several hours ago, rubbed
against jute, storm after storm
inexplicably sweet lashes burned

her faint-less skin brown.
Growing brown, her fingers
excavate down his shoulders
where fireflies would drown.

Yet. In cold night dreams
he clumps lightning in her ears,
her body melts in his palms

of mud and skin.

(jun6 – jun25, 2010)

A SPILLED LETTER

Curls on your heart sides disappearing
in trembling ribs of clues,
yellow, burning
on definite turns and dates
I take sides of farthest returning
before mystery is not faces
far away from you, and curving.

In intentionality of careful conversation
I brought early images tonight:
Of Augusts, and composition
of instances in night-light ―
arms on a lean thought, a compensation.

In parallel life living
clad in odors I soak,
stoke lightning
on a possessed silent blink,
stranded on silhouettes, resembling,
the rumpled edges of a beck,
I draft addresses, growing

on you.

bedfellows

On a reasonable circumstance,
Waking plucked
Behind a familiar shape
Lying bare feet
Along unfamiliar edges,
On assumptions relationships seethe;

On impermanent birth certificates
Names are not given,
So, I can not include arrangements.
Old sheets are older
Than panic of skin,
Bones have a way of piercing.

Seeing a friend in full
Like reading a reluctant poem:
An instant elegy for luxury
Of words and burden;
A transient innocence
On a silvered movement of gaze.