Schizophrenic Sky

spears of sunshine comestabbing through waywardbranches. and the wind is coldin my face, almost erratic.it shakes massivejackfruits to the ground. mywalkway is pulp-splashed,and this lazy drizzle does littleto wash it clean. sprinklingsoundlessly like fine sand -dusk-colored and oozingout of this schizophrenic sky;touching everything, drenching nothing. my garden is a messy emulsion.enough earth but too little rain.enough water but no real mud.i am...

The Wait & The Welcome

last summerwe sowed lemon seedsin a plastic pot kept on the balcony rails.it had been empty for a while,and pigeons idledon its edges, peckingat the sun-hardened soil.twigs of grass broke outof the soil and perishedon its own. mostly torn awayby pigeons and squirrels tocushion their modest nests. for months after, with dots of greenhovering low over moist soil, we keptit covered with a wicker basketlest it became nests in no time.and shooed all birds...

If rains are lies...

my weather isnot in the radianceof the sky, but in thecolors of my being.what's daybreakbut my fond recollectionof your laughter, a silverbrook my poems sailedto become songs;the mellow nights- our secret hideout,where in the shadowsyour ravishing spiritmilks my longings intothe tired blue of a crestfallensea. and the great rains, thedevouring downpouris when the old postmanslips your letters underthe doormat when i'm not home.you write to me askingif...

Living Again

this city is stoppedand started by windows,sweetheart.stopped when shutagainst the dustand destitution of livessweating at the heartsfor the night to settle upon dew.and started when pushed openat dawn to drop breadcrumbsfor pigeons, and water the pallid hibiscus. i’ve been your beckoningboth as the evening din andmorning's gentleness.but it’s been a whileyou’ve been out of bed.drifting between shots,syringes and men every newhour. that's not the way,...

White Lies of Wronged Nights

i know you didn't sleep with him. but neither does it take a hammer to break a heart. and i have dieda hundred deaths in thethousand little thingsyou did around it. there were days when the summer got the better of me, and i had dozed off without a good night. but i did get back to you late, close to daybreak, only to know that you'd been awake - in a candid conversation with a dear friend, and i admit, i felt terribly substituted. i remember leaving...

Shadows, Sorrows, Sorries

the dusk upon my office streethas no color. this strip of roaddown the deserted lake, cuttingthrough closely-huddled buildings,and a looming cliff has the sunslowly departing behind it, leavinghollow clouds in its trail. and all we have here are shadows.lengthening every minute to becomethe night. the flowering trees, windblown.their blossoms one with dirt. the clinkingof glassware from the milkshake kiosk.and employees on smoke breaks: fatigued,frustrated...

Unkind Dawn

oh what an unkind glory you’re, sunrise. perversely you walk-in on people possessed in intimate dreams with hotburst of light, and fondlethem to lurid consciousness.you seep past curtainsinto dim, sweaty bedroomsof lovers naked and snuggledunder sheets and havethem break away fromnight long embracesto get on with life. youbreak a drunk man’s reverie,pouring like molten leadinto his blurry, double vision.and raid the unfaithfuls escapadein a shady hotel...

Damn, your PDA!

a jovial you prancedabout the kitchen counterin your instagram story. there’sthis annoying clankingof pans in the backdropthat wants me to close it.but i stick around. like always.looking at your dimly-lit face,and your delicate lips tintedby beads of moisture, while youpour a thick stream of lavishchocolate into an egg-mold. it’s bewildering to watchyour Easter preparations.last year i remember your askingme what’s good fridayall about. i will be...

ABSAR

(i)absar cannot tellred from orange.with a clumsily held crayonbetween her fingers, shecontinues to paintthe rose orangein her drawing book. (ii)the last words of theaazaan had barelytrailed off the loudspeakerthat a massive stonecomes flying down the skytowards the army cordon.it was enough to set off Downtown. (iii)‘red, jaan! roses are red.like our blood.’ says najma,her mother, rolling herprayer rug off the floor. the falling suntremendous on her...

Conquer

i know places you reminisce your melancholy in, and no wonder you never evolved. the park bench you burn frigid nights on, dew upon your eyes and menthol cigarette to your lips, with your ashen spirit winding skywards in smoke, is where the aging gathers every morning to whine about their arthritic knees, or quietly count upon their rosary. the coffee shop you invariably frequent, taking to the farthest...

On Being a Writer

grieve if you must,but know where todraw the line. any further than that,and you'll be trappedfor life - in this quietsquirming of words onyour skin. like the gentlehands of a woman rovingdown your chest, and youcannot resist being taken. it's alluring, but it'dtwist your soul andclinch your breath.make you see the worldin absolute inverse whereyou'd cut your vein to laughat the throbbing blood,and weep hard at being loved.where you'd shun laughterand...