Beyond the Shell

MAN-GAZING-INTO-UNKNOWN-BEACH-SUNSET[1]

I wish, like the cycles of day and night,
our eyes too knew, when to stay open
and when to remain close for the rest.

How easy it would become
should they too follow the order,
for both the counts of emerging dawns
and the times of darkness.

We would know what to see,
and for what to endorse blindness,
what to feel and for what to
sport the numbness…
No matter how inclined we find
ourselves towards any essence.

But then I also realize,
that day and night follow
a succinct pattern, like
everything else in the nature,
that hosts a chaos with-in.

They enthrall us with their
order, their rules, their norms,
a regular dose of routine.
So we’re there to look for them,
to recognize how well they
carry inside a life,
just like one outside admiring them.

For what would be a Star,
if it turned up each day with
a same flare,
and how would we wait
for a sight of a moon’s charm
would it appear daily as usual,
with a same face?

Not many of us recognize
little change, they bring up along
in each passing second.
Perhaps, we’re too occupied
with their enormousness.

Umbrellas that we’re born under,
change so slow,
we hardly notice its color are
fading or escaping the edge.
Perhaps, we fail to gather,
order is only what our eyes have made
themselves accustomed to, already.

For each and everything in nature
has a boundary for distinction
but inside that
it hosts, pathways, junctions,
cross-ways, slopes and steeps
limitless.

And so do us – the humans,
greatly so,
who carry sense of recognizing
the order in madness
– if we will.
Who have heart beats,
following a rhythm, often
not of our own but of
someone’s influence
– should we wish.

Hence, I am glad, we have eyes,
for they split apart on the
pavements of the heart,
to entertain what matters
most while keeping the life
from falling apart.

And then they come
a full circle again,
knowing, rules are mere ruse.
For when they’re keen,
dreams are no different from goals,
carcasses become scaffold,
the garbage leads to the gold,
and wilderness becomes the road.

For eyes are here
to step into the dreams,
to pickup the pieces of reality
in a snow globe of perpetual myths.
To host the chaos and
figure an order with-in.

To float like a butterfly,
but not to perch mere on established green,
rather to put up a dance
on a rhythm unique.

For how will world ever see anything new,
if our eyes would flow
only with the current of streams,
or follow what’s agreed on by the
builders of past or breeders of fences
as an only perspective.

I am glad we have eyes,
that in the darkness, we can keep open.
Since not everything is visible under the Sun,
like not everything disappears
even when bewitching moon has
its spell casted.

The shadow of a tall man creeps eerily across the cracked playa of the Alvord Desert in Southeast Oregon as the moon looms above.

– Dedicated to the eyes that try to see invisible, even when it’s declared as non-existent by the rest.

Image Credits:
1. “Morning Prayer” – haikudeck.com
2. “Alone in the desert” – benchasephoto.com

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The Insurmountable

Angel-Falls-Venezuela[1]

Had there been a huge wall of rocks
to scale between us…
we would’ve built stairs together
even if by piling all our possessions,
to nail a pole, holding the flag of surmounting love…
for we intended to never harm
the vines or twines of nature
that surrounded us,
and built us a nest – a safe haven when
we were most withered.

Had there been a mighty ocean
to swim between us…
we would’ve built a bridge together
even from straws spread across the shore
to cross and discover love-islands we adored,
for we intended to never harm
the trees that guarded us
and protected us
from the storms when
we were most scattered.

Had there been a gigantic mountain
to climb between us…
we would’ve formed the ropes together
even from shreds of clothes covering us,
to reach the peak intensity of our love…
for we intended to never harm
the nature that kept us enclosed
and sheltered
from strong winds that blew when
we were light feathered.

Had there been a blinding fog
to swab between us…
we would’ve inhaled it all together
even at cost of the senses that empowered us,
to establish purity of an unending love…
for we intended to never harm
the weather or the seasons
that were always kind to us,
showering their blessings
as dew and sparkle when
we were most dry and arid.

Had there been a breathing volcano
to pass over between us…
we would’ve built clouds and thunders together,
even by evaporating ourselves into a thin air,
to soothe a fire in mountains from rains of love…
for we intended to never harm
the geezers of nature,
and fountains of warmth,
that kept our world soothing, and
filled our wells with compassion, when
we were most abandoned.

Had there been a thick forest
to maneuver between us…
we would’ve explored its maze together
even by forsaking all we regarded dear,
to prove what pulled us together was more
entwined than anything that appeared
for we intended to never harm
the decorum of territories or foliage patterns,
that kept us segregated
from the beasts and the demons when
we were most befuddled.

Had there been a puddle of quicksand
to crossover between us…
we would’ve built the wings together,
even by forfeiting our right to stumble,
to own the sky which hosts pairs of birds forever
for we intended to never harm
the sacred grounds, ambiance or atmosphere,
that kept us close and tight among those
we called our own, when
we didn’t know even a definition of love.

But alas, my love,
we couldn’t do that…

For what we faced
were man-made
impediments and sanctions,
those fences and barriers,
such encompassing restrictions…
that were perhaps,
more mightier than the oceans,
more higher than the mountains,
more blinding than the fog,
and even thicker than the forests…
or any other resistance in nature…

For those
hand drawn borders fractured the free sky
we would have created ripples of love in…
and hefty piles of traditions drowned the boats
that carried the love’s offspring,
Those sanctity of religions,
restricted heart beats and thoughts
that made one come close to beloved.
And those nailed shackles of
color, caste, creed, and background
that managed to bind everything together
except love…

The world we live in
still ranks people,
and relations on basis of everything
that comes along
involuntarily bound to us
since an incident of birth…
And somehow they become so
relevant to keep our souls in
chains and cuffs;
For justification of
our hearts to be sealed behind the
the walls and fences invincible…
to keep us apart forever from what our
souls crave, from our heart’s hunger…
no matter how much we intended or
geared towards all the passion and love…

Or
Perhaps,
we didn’t know how to try better, my love…
May be we gave up way too soon
like the weaklings
before
we could give chance to something,
we read in books, tales and poems,
didn’t they preach us
“only thing insurmountable is an unending love”.

– Dedicated to “Love – insurmountable”…

d1278201[1]

Art/ Image credits:

1- Angel falls – Location: Venezuela
2- Embrace – Artist: Tomasz Alen Kopera

The Word

This poem is a response to a rhythmic one written by Miss Tayyeba Irum.

Pal Szinyei Merse, Lovers, 1869

My World,

Remember how you once,
imprinted on my soul,
like a word,
from the spirits and the angels…
breaking defenses,
forcing me into a submission.
Making me forgo of everything,
I did to replace an inevitable.

Remember how you once,
carried me on your lips,
like a word,
forming wishes,
and hefty prayers…
capturing me into a vial of existence.
Not leaving a moment from sight,
not letting it evaporate in thin-air.

Remember how you once,
made me carry, an instrument,
like a word,
to repel insurgents…
To bleed a river that would
never surrender,
but live to sail vessels that carried
the messages of love.

Remember how you once
kept me close to your chest,
like a word,
said but yet in a muffled texture.
Like a pendant unfolded in a secret,
to reveal two faces of one mirror.
Like a letter that is kissed,
right at the moment of its arrival.

Remember how we once,
used to savor each other,
like a word,
that lend strength,
to march forward,
to put on with the trials of the world.
To replenish on everything we loved,
to endorse all that mattered.

Remember how we once,
used to wear each other,
like a word,
that would command
even fumes of heavens
to be acquiescent.
For them to seek a resort,
in embraces we referred as our castle.

Remember them,
before you revisit how
we came to state,
where…

You dropped me
from your eyes,
like a word
of an aged sinner,
stilliciding from the walls of
a confession chamber.
I wish now just, to become,
your only redemption.

You erased traces of mine
from your tongue,
like a word,
of poison imbued curse…
Forsaking everything that
was responsible to make
you indulge in cadence.
Now, I live in pages, as a song,
waiting to be sung.

You uttered me,
like a word,
of an extinct language…
found only written
in crypts hosting
docile sarcophagus.
Leaving me in ruins,
like an echo restless,
forever sentenced to linger.

You eradicated me
from your memories,
like a word
of an alien dialect,
accidentally heard.
Now, I too seek an exile,
from contours of enslavement,
hoping a déjà vu may occur.

You lost me
from contours of your eyes,
from grips of your fingers,
like a word,
written in a book forbidden.
Now, where am I to be found,
if not in sand or in depths of the ocean.

You foreshadowed my demise,
like a word,
from Monarchs and Caesars,
self-fulfilling,
ceasing an air out,
planting a last nail in coffin.
Honor your word now, and return,
my shrine to your temple!

Give nomad a courtesy of last word... make me a part of your final touch!

Give nomad a courtesy of last word… let beloved leave on me a final touch!

– Dedicated to outcasts and exiled… the words, waiting to be said, waiting to be written.

Image Credits:

1. Lovers (Pal Szinyei Merse) 1869 [Blogspot]
2. The martyrdom of St. Sebastian (Hans Memling) [Flickr]

The destiny of a river

This poem is a response to Miss Tayyeba Irum‘s slow burning verse… On the banks of river

Nature-Forest-River-Wallpaper[1]

I am the river,
on the banks of which
stands an endless forest…
of fear, thirst, doubt,
hunger and darkness…

Wind, dew, rain, fog,
and even eyes that behold
contours and tangents…
pass through the dense
before they reach my doorstep.

They tell me,
beasts are my guards
and pines are the sage…
they are to look after me,
save me from intruders,
who misdirect or steer
in different directions…

I am told,
I am to walk along them,
if I am to reach
the farthest…
They have already figured,
it seems,
the outcome of all bends…

Like, how my each step
may play out, and
what would be the pace…
how on to my surroundings,
my flow will leave effect,
how each curve
will be making a difference…

But they miss seeing,
what is desired
by my heart…
uttered by each drop
that exists to make soul whole,
never misplaced…

The passion to break bonds
can never be understood
by those who keep perimeters.
And a desire to surrender,
can never be fulfilled
by the spectators.

Love me all you want,
adore me for my imperfections,
compliment me for my fierceness,
and accompany me to decorate a canvas…

But know this…
Rivers are meant not to be guarded,
they’re destined to merge into the ocean!

– Dedicated to the rivers…

Ocean_Waterfall[1]

Image Credits:

1. River Forest (wallpaper)
2. Ocean Waterfall (wallpaper)

The Passion Entrapment (Daira-e-Mohabbat)

Concept-Art-Branko-Bistrovic-A-Hunter-By-Day-A-Stargazer-By-Night

In an adolescence of union, settings for a year anew plays well…
In an entrapment of passion, beatings of heart-debut plays well…

With each meeting happens a new vow, for separation – a pledge,
In a wager of romance, offerings of a sweet fondue plays well…

“Did you comprehend gist of emerging whispers, oh pioneer?”
In all its posterity, silence leaves, a laughing dejavu plays well…

Even in depths of canyons, hunting a mirage of sun’s warmth…
For ages of remembrance, craving a point of view plays well…

For all the flames that arise to beguile from a star so distant,
Not loosing a shape or form, a diffusion of hue plays well…

In all its liveliness yet after passing of the centuries in passivity,
Due matters of whole life, ending with a thank-you plays well…

Closing in now, for loving, even the majestic skies of heavens,
Yet for real sense of bonding, only “a tried and true” plays well…

– Dedicated to the passion and its dominating idols…

powerboats-wallpapers-boat-in-bottle-hd-place[1]

Urdu Version:

Daira-e-Mohabbat mei dil ho non-e-haal acha hai…
Wasl-e-Mohabbat tera kamsin sa pehla saal acha hai…

Har mulaqat mei qasmei, har judai par waaday…
Labon par qulb-rawani ka gohr-e-kamaal acha hai…

Jo poochna sirhanay “Sunni kiya dil ki dhadkhan?”
Be-sakhta unka hansna, kehkar “sawaal acha hai”…

Pasta-e-haal bhi rawaan hon jo ufaq ki umeedein,
Ae umr-e-tehsil teri har soch ka jamaal acha hai…

Teergi-e-shab mei uthtay hein musulsul sholay,
Behekti karwato se yaha hosh ka zawaal acha hai…

Laut aatay hein aisey jaisey sadiyo mei bahaar,
Seena-e-pewast per yun do pal ka malal acha hai…

Aagaya qurbat mei Sohani ab saatwaan aasmaan,
Ya Ilahi yeh Ishq-e-mizaaji ka bhi to jaal acha hai…

– Dedicated to the idols of love that we create and perish…

occupylove_rtr_img[1]

Image/ Art Credits:

  1. Concept Art: Branko Bistrovic – A Hunter By Day A Stargazer By Night
  2. Stock image: Boat in bottle
  3. Occupy Love – TheNation.com

Lost in translation

lost-in-translation-scarlett-johannson

In a downpour of words, looking for drops with meaning…

Gigantic structures,
shrinking sight.
Stretched streets,
inescapable sides.

No where to go,
No where to hide,
where-ever you see,
labyrinth infinite!

Unmoved spirits,
animated signs.
Pitch-black contours,
stark neon lights…

Nothing moves,
nothing inspires,
All in flashes,
a moment’s ride.

Blunt emotions,
swift censor knives.
Hyper-bole expressions,
timid cold strife.

No one to confess,
no one to confide..
no one to say “how”,
no one to hear “why”.

Cleanest slogans,
messiest vibes.
Emptying earth,
busying skies.

No well left,
to be sucked dry.
None has clue,
where to side.

Stolen brilliance,
conjured noise.
Shallow longings,
crazy appetites.

Nor sound action,
nor true voice,
till last breath exists,
playing a lice.

Declining morale,
rising heights…
Larger billboards,
confined lives.

No one left,
to fight for rights.
None to catch-up,
with illusion of choice.

Amidst this all,
an alienated existence of a kind,
where heart’s misplaced,
mind’s untied.
Whispering words…
perhaps no one can find…
sharing it with clouds in heaven,
with all green in pines…
with all birds that sing,
and all in nature that shines.

How do you know
to root for which manifestation,
have you found yourself…
or you hunt for your own reflection…
when have you felt, lastly…
perhaps,
lost in translation…

– Dedicated to all those wandering and wondering…

Title of the poem is inspired and lifted from title of one of my favorite films: Sofia Coppola‘s “Lost in translation“.

Caged or free, unable to find self in world I see...

Are you caged, are you free? Can you find yourself in world you see…?

Picture Credits:

1. Promotional shot from film: Lost in Translation
2. Screen-cap from film: Her

The Gift

Like a garden full of flowers, I wish you a state full of fragrance...

Like a garden full of flowers, I wish you a state full of fragrance…

They say, you wish one a world, one who is a world to you.
Well, I wish I can truly do something that close for you.

It is your birthday and I can’t think of any gift that I can find you…
There isn’t anything in world that you don’t already have.
Yet for all what you have given me I must gift you something.

So I wish you here, not just happiness or good future, my love,
but means to create a state of perpetual one.

Here, I wish…

Your heart to be brim with passion and compassion,
where living is worth more than continuance for existence.
Where enabling and empowering positive impact matters more
than counting breaths for mere survival.
Where contentment of spirit sustains life,
than chase of lights in gloss and glimmer.
Where like a burning sun passion propels its power in self-reliance,
and casts the net of hope all over not just on own shelter.
Where hope leads to drive, to ethically disciplined action,
and each act is backed by love and constant inner radiance.

I wish your mind to wonder…
with inquisitiveness of a learner,
to ponder with rationale and reason,
to choose with due-diligence,
and to plan for generations
than a transitory period.
I wish you hold the eager eyes of a yearner,
child-like curiosity of a toddler,
to discover new planes, to embark on new adventures,
to earn and gather a value worth experience.
I wish you contemplation of a monk,
seeking the truth behind a curtain,
one who desires more than a cursory experience.

I wish you a voice, freedom of expression,
one that leashes peaks of the mountains,
and touches a depth of the canyons,
one that echoes in minds as much
as it floods the heart’s defensive chambers.
Songs that summon the clouds,
poems that bend the river.
An expression ruling the pulse,
inviting in realm of trance,
critical thought and reflection.

I wish you a stance unbiased and undazzled.
One that is steadfast on its values and its spirit.
One that would put through a lot but never give up
to fight for what’s right and what’s clear.
One that would work for a justice,
and struggle for an independence
from bias, non-reason, prejudice and indifference.
A stance that would keep itself in check
reviewing timely what matters.
Like a journeyman traveling
keeping track of weather and his condition…
while never forgetting the mission.

I wish you a freedom – independence
from shackles of conformity –
rules of yesteryear,
that bogs one down,
and pushes them in trap of temporary security
than a permanent freedom;
And freedom from all overrides
that impedes one’s growth –
one’s chances of reaching height of relevance
and creativity’s pinnacle.

I wish you be as free as a breeze
carrying scent of the gardens,
one that carries fragrance from flowers,
leaking a joy in atmosphere,
and like of free birds who know not of the
boundaries sketched on papers,
as they are oblivious of
man-made jurisdictions
and all artificial restrictions,
such as those that try to snub a birth right,
or those that try to cage the spirit,
or those that clip the feathers.

I don’t know what else to give you
as a birthday present, my love…

But it never ends at making a wish,
does it?
With each wish coming out from the heart
it requires a commitment from a wisher…
to be ready, to do their part,
to always do what it takes to see it through.

So, I gift you, my love…
my dream,
my passion and my promise –
I will be along,
to become a state in my own
that I wish to see in you.

Happy Independence Day!

– Dedicated to a dear love.

Art/ Image credits:
Flag-Art-with-Grass – mosthdwallpapers.com