Steal me from the reed field! Pierce me and leave me to die in your soul.. .. until I breathe again. Breathe again, between the cups of your hands .. like a prayer. Breathe again, beneath the sole of your feet .. like a whirl.
Put me to your lips O’ Beloved! Put me to your lips, and give me life again! Play me into songs, caged within your mute heart. Sing me into chants, born amidst your loud tears. Let me show you.. what a simple reed flute can do. And let me tell you.. what a piece of dry wood can be. Come… Sit with me in this barren field, where you had me plucked from my silent dance once.
Raise me in your eyes! O’ raise me in your eyes now, and let me bring both worlds to you. So I may shed the garb of The Lover and whirl.. .. whirl like a Sufi dervish in this “mad mad trance”. O’ come! Before the splendor of my songs are lost, come! Come blow a breath of your soundless soul into mine .. and let this ‘Ney’ be the one for you. Yes! Yes! The one to raise you in your final ‘Sema’. The one to raise you to your final ‘Fana’.
O’ Beloved, come! Come put me to your lips now, and give me my Life again.
~ IZ ~
*Sufi: a Muslim ascetic or mystic (Sufism) — *Ney: an end blown flute made of hollow reed or cane, commonly played in Sufi ceremonies (often in Turkey — *Sema: a special ceremony performed by Sufi dervishes “in remembrance of God”, comprised of music and, often through whirling. — *Fana: the ultimate state of self-annihilation (Sufism)
If you’d let your perfumed body be my paper for a day, then, I’ll let my silent fingers be your pen for a day.
Let me mix my verbs and nouns.. .. and gently pour them onto the curve of your back. Let me weave my adverbs and adjectives, and slowly spread them… over your heaving chest. Let me write all day long — till sun yawns.. and moon wakes. Let me write all night long — till stars hide.. and dawn creeps. Oh let me gently fill the spaces between your fingers, with the ink of my mute hands. And let me softly scribble forbidden poetry into your ears, .. and make garlands from it to decorate my wavy hair.
Let my words.. .. letters .. and spaces take forms of balmy simpers on your honey nectar lips — like verses never penned before on your lazy waxing smile.
O’ let time write all the way.. till the paper is filled! Let moments write in any way.. till my ink is dried! Let my fingers bleed unknown languages.. into the voice of your trembling heart. Let my fingernails speak a thousand cosmic dialects, upon the planes of your blank skin. Let me break every norm of literature! Let me reject, every form of grammar! And then.. and then let me simply forget, where to put my commas my colons my full stops… so our poem doesn’t pause, .. doesn’t stop .. doesn’t end
Ah! Tell me this much, my Gibbous Moon! If I make you love every line, every metaphor, every synonym — even the antonym of my Poetry — will I get to keep the Poem … and the Book too?
Yes, You! You are my poem! The poem I have still to write!
Now that you are here, let’s make a journey together. Do not speak, do not move, .. and do not close your eyes.
Let’s pretend this paper is a boat, and this poem a sail. Let’s pretend these words are winds, and their meaning a compass. Let’s pretend that this moment is an island — and our “silence” its only route.
And… Must you ask about the missing ocean, come sit by me for a while — have a look into my eyes. So you may begin your journey from there, .. where “salty waters” roll unbound.
Yes… Now that you are here, let’s make this journey for once.
Measuring yards of Life coming apart, at the seams of my creviced soul, I sit every dawn with a needle and thread it, with the veins of my spinning heart. Stitching with knotted yarn. Sewing on fragile fabric; I raise my eyes in-between every stitch; and spy on the night to count each conspiring star.
Now..
Like the studded clear-crystals on my black velvet Prayer-Mat — every shuddering star upon the ‘Fajr’ sky, stare back at me and pity my eyes. Only to deliver to the listening ears of His firmament, my mute sighs .. Of how frayed the garb of life has become. Of how loose the thread at its seams have grown.. So He may bestow upon my soul His ‘Noor’ — in the form of a white veil, a cloak, a wrap, .. or even a shroud, just thick enough.. to contain these oozing breaths — whispering your name in silence — from fleeing through my old tattered being!
Each corridor of my mind leads to the grand Foyer of the Heart, where no entrances nor exits are found.
In its magnificent high vault — decorated in stained red glass; is a mural etched on gold.. of a dust covered Paradise. In which the Architect of my memories had forgotten, to sketch and build the only gateway to my salvation.
And I keep walking in circles; between my Mind and my Heart — trapped in this divine mansion — without a map or an astrolabe, to lead me .. .. out of my memories’ dilapidated Hell.
And we sat one last time.
Face to face,
in the ‘Mehfil’ of Life.
You, drunk; from the red chalices of your many lovers. And I, sobered by the hemlock of death’s black kiss.
In your presence candles burned.. moths burned.. .. I burned too. Verse after verse, I read out to you.
Uff…
in my delirium to learn about you,
I had byhearted
the alphabet of God,
.. and made dictionaries out of you!
Time moved slowly — night passed.. dreams passed.. .. we passed too. Verse after verse, I won from you. Until the final turn came unto you! And I missed…. I missed out on the letter L, which you plunged to grab like an eagle; nearly singing out your winning word — ” L I F E !”
.. s o k o o t ..
And I? I sat with my lips pursed tight. Rolling beneath my tongue my words — “Loneliness.. Longing.. Love..”
Brava, my love, my fine Poet! You rhymed well. You chose well. After all, in the final Baithbazi of our Life, You have finally won! You have finally won!
~ IZ ~
* Bait Bazi – an Urdu verbal game of reciting poetry by two opponents, in which the last letter of the last verse is given to the opponent to begin his next verse with.
* Mehfil – evenings of courtly entertainment, especially where poetry or classical music is performed in an intimate setting for a small audience.
There’s a wine I had drunk without you; lying between two tombstones in my cemetery.
This weight of soil, pinning my body to the earth like an anchor on a sea-bed has now become my sojourning Tavern. I sit with Ghalib and drink all night. I lament with Rumi and whirl till dawn.
But..
Each time I see your face; shuddering and shivering through the empty night sky, I fly to you… I fly to you, like a drunken kite — swaying from side to side. Yes, even with my clay tethered to the ground, I am still drawn to you, .. like an anvil to iron .. like an ebb tide to moon.
~ IZ ~
* Ghalib: eighteenth century, popular Urdu poet. Rumi: thirteenth century famous poet and Sufi mystic.
We were two Handwritten-Love-Letters, in a world of cold toneless screens. As soon as our fingertips bled ‘lovable words’ on smooth shimmering glass; our meanings shattered .. .. and we fell — stuck to the sharp edges of cut letters — back into our own creased envelopes.
Alas…
Little by little, the splinters slashed our paper. Little by little, their edges tore us into shards. And.. with stamps without seals with addresses without roads; ‘Qismet’ knew not where to deliver us. Thus, a pair of undelivered Love-Letters we remain .. forever forgotten.. in the abandoned old mail-sack of Life’s only Postman.
Do not ask me to speak.
For if I do,
the moon would fall from my mouth,
and spill your name
across the vast silent sky.
Away from the Universe
I had kept secretly,
a hidden galaxy beneath my tongue —
a galaxy that tastes like
saffron..
rosewater..
and crisp pomegranate.
And..
Every evening
as I lay myself in bed,
I carefully run my fingers over my skin —
to hush its silent moans.
For if it speaks,
a starry night
would stretch across my entire body,
and shout out your name to the world —
in thousand burning breaths,
which you had left carefully..
.. on the width and breadth
of my ruby-red soul.
Silent Fingers 