2015, Paintings and Scribblings, Urdu musings

Daam-e-deevangi—دامِ دیوانگی

خوف، غم اورجستجو کی تنگ گلیوں سے نکل کر

کوئی رنگوں میں کھوئے اب ناچنے لگا ہے

اسکے پیروں پر بندھی رسی کُھل کر اتر جو گئی ہے

اور اب ایک پایل

چھن، چھن، چھن بولتا ہے۔

شور مچتا ہے پر آوازوں کی دنیا خالی ہے، کچھ ہے جو آسمانوں سے اتر کر رقص کرتا ہے

کچھ ہے جو

پیچھے سایوں میں چھپ کر روتا ہے۔

اندھیرا اب ختم ہے تو روشنیوں کی چکاچوند بھی بیکار ہے

مگر دل نہ جانے کس کی تھاپ پر نکلنے کو بیقرار ہے

ایسا لگتا ہے جیسے تمام عالم

اس ایک لمحہ کی چاہ میں سب ہی وارنے کو تیار ہے۔

Khauf, gham, aur justuju ki tang galyon se nikal kar, koi rangon me khoye ab nachnay laga hae

Uskay pairon par bandhi rassi khul kar utar jo gai hae

Aur ab aik payal

Chann, chann, chann bolta hae.

 

Shor machta hae par awazon ki dunya khali hae, kuch hae jo asmaanon se utar kar raqs karta hae

Kuch hae jo

Peechay sayon me chupa rota hae.

 

Andhaira ab khatam hae tou roshnion ki chaka-chond bhi baikar hae

Magar dil na janay kis ki thaap par nikalnay ko beqaraar hae

Aesa lagta hae jesay tamaam alam

Is aik lamhay ki chah me sab hi waarnay ko tayyar hae.

ماریہ عمران

MLD_

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2015

9:00

I want to say something nice to you.

Light like a feather, comforting like a raindrop

Like night, your own. I want to let you hide how you want to

but I also want to help you come out of your hole and be,

what you want to be. I want to gift you all the courage in the world,

and stay by you to see. I know you will do wonders

if only you understand you’re free.

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2015, My Writings, Poems and poetry

You can’t play with matches, but you can play with hearts.

Nighttime’s longish plain hours.
I stare at the sky but don’t see you. Instead
it is the vastness of blue patterns with glistening silver balls:
on repeat, on repeat, on repeat.
I sit on the grass.

Life for me has been simple,
much like that of stars.
They stand at their place among millions, and shine
bright some days and not-so-bright the rest,
waiting to be wrapped
into the Eternal Blanket at last.
They don’t reach the Moon like I can’t reach You.
I can’t move.

And the desire–only the desire fills me with so much fear I tremble like a sick man
with its fever.
I will embrace a sadder ending, I guess.

I stand.
I walk on the grass and tell you in my heart how I love
the wet, tickling feel of it.
I wish you were here but I wish I would stop wishing that soon.
I need to move on, like we all do.

I never knew where I was heading to until I found myself
stranded and alone.

I have missed your presence on many occasions.

I have known the void–the unfillable void–
and I’ve tried everything in my power to help it.
Only, it just grows.

They tell us not to play with matches.
Why don’t they teach us ways of protecting and surviving instead?
If you can list me horrors of things that could bring harm,
why can’t you freaking save me? Or tell a remedy?

Fire burns, yes. But so do feelings.
Did nobody tell you: you should not incite in others what you have no intention of serving?
That breaking hearts is just as lethal, that being in someone’s tears
just as dangerous as is blissful being in prayers?

Stars disappear every day, seeing life after dark after life
after dark.
You won’t care if I tell you how I do, too.

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2015, My Writings

Father’s Day

When the baby was given in her hands, the mother let out a scream of joy. A flood rolled down her eyes and laughters full of life and love echoed all about. She was standing on the gates of heaven.

When the baby was shown to the father, he refused to pick her up. A daughter, oh? Not mine. He stayed as quiet as a ghost until they were in the hospital ward, and only became a devil when they reached home. This, he pointed to the bundle of new breathes, is not to live here. Take the filth away!

That day, a TV set broke. A row of perfume bottles was thrown to the floor. A knife was shown to threaten the weaker sex. Curse words were gifted. Tears were shed. Hell visited house.

That day, mother didn’t leave. That day, baby didn’t weep. That day, my father didn’t sleep.

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2015, Proses

The sculptor.

The lines on your face mapped the road to my heaven.

Clay blended with the holy water of passion, I drew your face with utmost devotion. It took days and nights of sit and struggle, but the value of work was much more greater. I couldn’t care less.

To finally feel you, I could barter every other possession treasurable or not. I have always worshiped you in my heart, and now my worthless fingers will learn the true experience of touch and adoration—they will memorize what my heart had did years ago.

That is, if you’d please allow.

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Promise

2015, Poems and poetry

Promise

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2015, My Writings

My dark man. (2)

December 29, 2014:

“It is not I who accepted the Dark Life. The Dark Life accepted me.”

He sat on a rock, his head bowed and hands resting on knees. “I did not want to be what I have become. But I like it now… It suits me. I feel I am where I belong. It is Real. It is Me.”

I was sitting before him on the road and there was no one else around. When he said these words, I looked at him. I wanted more answers, and I was searching for them in his eyes. They are windows to your soul, after all, but somehow his soul was a locked corridor now– the key to which was unknown to even himself, I suppose. Read more.

“You don’t know how it’s like to be what you are not.”

“I sure do. I have known you for so long and never uttered a hint about you. That is the same thing in a way, if you see.”

He turned his head. I stood at a distance from his seat: a log placed in the middle of the road. An empty road– our secret place.

“No,” he whispered. “You cannot see the sea in me. You can only see the waves.”

“I can see the sea,” said I. Then taking his name, I continued: “And I can also sense a storm. Please confide in me now, let it crash me down if it so must. Break me because I need you.”

For some time he said nothing. I walked closer to him and sat by his knees. Putting my hand on his lap, I asked him to look at me.

He did. His eyes were red.

He was crying!

I can’t say how it broke me into bits to see him unwrap himself out of that favorite strong shell of his, but I begged my eyes to not show. I was going to be brave, for once, for him.

“I got defeated, ¦_. They took away my child. You should have heard how he cried, how he wailed! I don’t know what to do. Can any man be as helpless as I am now?” Each sob pierced my heart as I heard him speak.

“My baby was snatched away. They ripped open his chest right there. He died among a crowd of brutes. His soul – it didn’t find a flower bed on exiting, but got trapped in a tube of viscous blood instead. It makes me cry. I could do nothing but watch, and watch I did as they pinched his little fingers away. My breath stops when I think of what I saw, but I saw and I am living. Why am I still living?”

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beauty

2015, Poems and poetry

Morning notes☆

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2015, Poems and poetry

[Re-]Quest

What am I without you?

A bag of bones;
useless.

A restless heart–
stopping just.

A cry unheard,
a sob.

silently packing way
into oblivion.
disappearance.
to unknown: nullity.

What am I without you?,
so see towards me.

Grant~

A Look
That may last an eternity.

Painting by Freydoon Rassouli; an Iranian-Born, American abstract surrealist painter.

¤

Before I wilt
Crush me
On your Palm
And let
My fragrance
Diffuse
Into your Skin
And be carried
Through your Veins
So that I
Dissolve Utterly
Into what
Is Ultimately
Yourself.

Painting by Freydoon Rassouli; an Iranian-Born, American abstract surrealist painter.

¤

 اَلْحَمْدُ لِلهِ الَّذِيْ خَلَقَ النُّوْرَ مِنَ النُّوْرِ وَ اَنْزَلَ النُّوْرَ عَلَى الطُّوْرِ فِيْ‏ كِتَابٍ مَسْطُوْرٍ. فِيْ رَقٍّ مَنْشُوْرٍ بِقَدَرٍ مَقْدُوْرٍ عَلٰى نَبِيٍّ مَحْبُوْرٍ.

¤

Painting by Freydoon Rassouli– an Iranian-born, American abstract surrealist painter.

  1. Desire.
  2. Al-desire.
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2015, By the roaring waves!

Shutting old doors

Illusions. Mirages. Fantasies. There comes a time when you need to let go of the unreal things and start life anew. A friend, who wants to keep anonymity, wrote this piece a few days back and shared it with me. I like it because of the different perspective it gives and because sometimes, only written words can help you understand what nothing else can. This gave me hope.

There comes a time when you give up
Your old dreams, your unachieved goals
And surrender yourself to the reality.
No, not because you’re afraid or scared
But at some point in the chase
You get tired of running
Behind the unattainable.
You get tired of seeking shade
Under a mirage.
But remember, that moment of
Surrendering is not the end.
It’s far from being one.
It’s an opportunity,
A door to a new possible world.
Shut the broken unbolted door
With humility and grace.
And break open the new door
Take in the whiff of fresh air.
End the previous chapter
With the notes of complacency.
Start a new chapter,
With the ink of belief and faith.
Trust yourself.
There is a whole new universe
Of dreams spread out,
Waiting to be fancied.
And bazillion stars waiting
Impatiently to get into your
Bottle of fantasies.
And the instant you realize Continue reading

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2015

Punished

That night I fell in love with a voice. Only a voice. I wanted to hear nothing more. —Michael Ondaatje

With the voice now silenced, I remember only a silence today. A silence that screams like sirens in my ear. It does not stop. To make its presence known–as if I could forget it anyway–it keeps blaring. At first it whispers in my ear.

Like a snake.

Then it wraps me from head to toe; entraps me;

suffocates me!

It feeds on my mind, but doesn’t leave my heart. Makes my limbs go weak, makes me beg for relief, but also doesn’t leave my soul. It seeps in, like stale air, and spreads its stench everywhere. I feel I am brimming with silence now, and it finds no exit! I miss the voice— the one and only voice I have ever loved. But I am not sure if any part of me would remain to hear it again, if ever, it comes.

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2015

Obsessed

with the taste of metal
in my mouth

the purple wound

the cold that makes me
shiver

the liquid oozing out
from the wound

the threatening rhythmic sound
of the metal
chain

the wet blanket
wrapped around my shoulders
which fails to protect me from the cold

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2015, Urdu musings

Bandagi supardagi~

Insaan khuda banna chahta hae. Isay apnay wujood ki takmeel samajhta hae yani ke wo khudai hasil karay. Us ki paristish ki jaye din raat. Jism mandir, rooh zindagi! Subah kay sitaray ke chamaknay se raat ka chaand madham honay tak, shor se sannatay aur sannatay se shor tak, takleef me aur rahat me, har qadam sirf “ehsaas”. Aik aiteraaf. Aik naam. Koi kahay, aap aali maqaam! Inayat ho!

Kuch loug beharhaal ibadat nahi kar patay. Bandagi pe poora nahi utartay aur phir zamana unhain thokron pe chor deta hay. Aam mazahib ki tarah yahan bhi itaab nazil hota hay, aur sach maanye tou khudai ka dawa karnay walay inn lakhon khudaon me rehmaniat ki phir aik ramaq bhi baqi nahi rehti!

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Traditions bind sometimes. You don’t follow them, they follow you.

Passion dies. Will to live dies. Silently accepting that, kills.

Self-doubt kills. Self-hate kills. Numbing oneself from observing such death kills, too!

 Fear holds, characters choke. Writers die. // Escape (27.3)
(Created Feb 9, 2015. )
2015, Paintings and Scribblings

A silent death.

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Untitled_ra

My colors cross yours

but our paths never meet.

Maybe we can finally run away

to some place far

and be free

now.

(27.3.15)

Too often, the only escape is sleep art.

2014, 2015, Paintings and Scribblings

Escape (27.3.14)

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