Category: Poetry

by Saheen Rahman.

don’t take his name, or name him something pretty,
like the poets in love do.
don’t dictate stories about your love,
or make poetry out of your love for him.
don’t gulp down some cheap whiskey or
smoke up weed in his remembrance.
don’t ask the waiter to put two cubes of sugar in your coffee,
because that’s how he liked his.
don’t spend another of your nights
trying to find ways to help someone
who is broken.
don’t make his bed, if he doesn’t let your love rest.
his arrival, unannounced like november rain,
unwanted like unplanned pregnancy.
he got you caught up in a tornado.
he showered on your life,
so harshly, so mercilessly,
with repercussions so many
that you must’ve lost count now.
don’t let him win.
close your doors today, bolt it proper.
tomorrow, don’t let your pen write another word for him, about him.
mend your own skin.
fix your own heart
before trying to save him from drowning.
write poetry about your breasts,
or your kindness that knows no bound.
drink wine to celebrate victories,
more so to acknowledge failures.
drink your coffee exactly how you like it.
two cubes of sugar hurts your teeth anyway.
make your own bed, let your love rest.
fill up your own body,
here’s a gentle reminder that you can’t pour from an empty cup.

Ft. Nishtha Konwar.

 

Lying in her Bare Minimum,

Her Insides Growl –

In Revolt. She Hadn’t Tasted A Morsel,

Since Ages Now.

She Flickers Between Consciousness,

And Nothingness.

Slowly, The Darkness Starts to Dawn,

Once More. But She’s Determined,

To Cling On. For She Knows,

She Might Never Come Back,

If She Does Let Go.

Every Breath She Inhales, Feels Like-

Drawing Fire, Straight From,

Mother Earth’s Fiery Core.

As if She’s Only Fueling a Raging Fire,

That Slowly Devours Her Own Bloody Soul.

She Licks Her Parched Lips, Gently. Barely,

Holding Her Bruised Eyes, Open-

As She Stares Onto that Dreadful Door.

He’d Visited Her Today.

In the Morning Or-

Was It the Noon?

Time had No Place in This Room.

For She Had Long Lost its Track,

And Surrendered Herself –

To A Timeless Existence.

Only When He Came In,

Did She Start to Count –

The Seconds, on Her Skeletal fingers.

Her Nails- Bloodied. Bruised. Broken. From-

Scratching Futile Prayers,

On the Hard, Stone Floor.

She Wonders If It Really Is,

Worth Fighting Death Anymore? Wonders,

If It’ll Someday Be Her Messiah,

Who’s at the door.

It’s Only Hours Since He Had Gone.

And Yet again,

The Wicked Wooden Door, Parts –

To Reveal A Ray of Morning Hope,

That Coldly Ricochets,

Off the Cuts, Burns, Stabs, Slashes,

And Slyly Escapes. For It Knows,

If It Lingers Any Longer,

Shall It Be Devoured,

By the Darkness,

Like her. For-

It Too Is No Savior,

But a Survivor. Like Everyone Else,

It Flees as The Devil Walks In. Casting –

It’s Evil Shadow,

Upon the Sad Remains of Her Tattered Body.

Covered in Red. Blood. Like A Wounded Animal,

That She Was.

More Dead Than Alive.

A Little body, Slogging-

On the Cold, Hard Floor. She Looks Up,

To See A Monster Licking –

His Fangs at the Sight of His Frail Prey.

As He Gets Down on his Knees and Caresses –

His Little Maiden’s Head, Her Innocent Eyes,

Meet His Gaze. She Desperately Hopes-

To Find the Loving, Candy Sharing Uncle,

He Once Was, Hidden Somewhere,

In His Cold Stare. But in Vain –

As He Quickly Looks Away. Ashamed.

“My love”, He Says,

As He Slides His Hand Down Her Hair,

Onto Her Bosom. And Sets Off –

About the Same Sinful Ritual,

Once More.

She Wants to Snicker in Disgust,

But He Had Left Her Jaw, Broken.

As a Small Token-

Of His Appreciation, For the Fight-

She Put Up the Last Time.

She Couldn’t Dare-

To Do It Again.

So, She Shuts her System out,

As He Enters Her.

Forces Her Eyes Down Tight, And Counts –

Back from 660, 659, 658…

As She Clenches onto Lost Faith.

Praying Yet Again-

For the Savior,

That Never Came.

She Used to Count a 1000,

But Then the Fact Dawned:

Unlike Her, His Manliness,

Puts up A Rather Frail Stand.

Ironic, She Thought. Is It Really Worth,

The Humongous Ego,

That This Little Motif of Masculinity Holds?

She Doesn’t Think So.

At 300, The Pain Numbs.

Thankfully, He’s Done. The Devil Departs.

The Door Comes to a Close. The Darkness Reigns.

And She Is Back in Her Solemn Solace.

And For Yet Another Day,

She Survives On.

–  Ish.                                    

 

 

 Art by Indrani Phukan.

I Am Art.

A Living, Breathing Piece,

Of Excellence. Guided-

By a Fragile Lil Heart, I Walk.

Wielding A Frail Little Light,

With An Undying Flame, Fueled-

By Passion and Pride.

I Can Walk Till the Land’s End. Walk-

All I Want.

But I Am Not Satisfied. No. For,

I want To Run. Gallop,

Like A Strong Steed-

Down Those Sly Streets,

Where Men, With The Workings of a Machine,

Toggle Down Their Routined Ordeals,

In This Town Of Automated Appliances.

Stained All Over,

Their Souls and Minds,

Is a Gut Wrenching Stench,

Of Stale Grease,

And Unburnt Gasoline.

The Familiar Fume,

Of the Unbecoming Of A Man.

The Becoming Of A Machine.

Their Senses Numbed. Minds Tamed.

They Don’t Think No More. They Follow.

Follow Orders. Follow Rules.

Follow Like The Timid Sheep,

Blindly Loyal To The Herd.

Whipped Around,

By The Master Shepherd,

And His Mighty Hounds.

None Dare Try to Run. For They Know,

He’ll Hunt Em Down. And Hang Em.

On A Stake,

By The Gates.

Right Beside A Sign,

That Says:

‘We Prefer Our Art,

Machine Made.

Those With A Creative Soul,

Better Stay The Hell Away.’

But To Those Monsters,

I Yell Back:

I am Not Scared.

Of your Words. Your Whips.

Not Even your Guns.

For I Am Art.

Not the Copy Of The Monalisa. No.

Perfectly Printed. Down To The Very Twist,

Of That Same Sly Smile. That has,

But Mesmerized.

A Million Eyes. No.

That Ain’t Me.

I am Not Machine Made,

But Modern. An Original,

Transcending,

Dimensions in Degrees-

Not Yet Perceived.

I have No Colour Schemes To Follow.

No Set Lines To Tread Along.

I Extend Boundlessly,

Beyond the Boundaries,

Of Black and White.

Yes. I Do Have A Mind.

And A Heart. And A Soul.

Yes, A Bloody Soul!

I Don’t Think You Even Believe,

In Its Existence Anymore.

But You Better Be Aware.

For I Am coming To Get Your Kingdom Come.

I Won’t Walk In,

Through Those Crooked Doors, Where,

Your Shooters Await. Ready –

To Riddle Me With Holes,

Right Into My Core.

Mercilessly. I shall,

But Break In Through-

One Of Your Walls,

That So Proudly Guard,

This Institution Of Machines.

And Wreck Havoc,

Into this Broken System,

You Call A Society.

With A Rumble,

Like Thunder-

Shall I Come,

Crashing Down Upon Your Pillars,

Of Prestige and Pride,

And In A Flash,

Reduce Your Regulations,

Into Ashes and Dust.

Undefined. Unborn. Unreal.

And From Them-

Shall Rise a Phoenix,

Of The New Dawn.

Who Knows Not of Castes,

Nor Class or Creed.

Like Lady Justice,

Blind and Impartial,

True Only To Her Duty.

And Under The Luminance,

Of His Flamboyant Flames,

Shall We Rekindle A Civilization,

Independent Of Your Social Standards,

And Limited Goals.

Which Can Be Perceived,

Through So Much More-

Than Mere Scores,

And Crude Numbers,

Handed Out On The Basis,

Of Who Can Mug Up More.

Where Knowledge Needn’t Only Be Learnt,

Or Known;

But Rather Be Explored.

Rewrote. I Ask Not,

To Bend The Laws of Science.

Nor Change History. No.

What I Demand For Is Independence.

The Free Will Of Choice,

To Choose Their Own Future, Fearlessly.

To Carve Out One’s Own Path.

The Ability To Grow,

In Whatever Way One Yearns To.

To Outgrow-

The Shadow Of Social Mockery.

To Break Free-

From These Social Moulds. And Be,

Who They Really Want To Be.

Independent. Empowered. Eclectic.

An Original. Like Me.

For, I Am Art.

I Have No Beginning. Nor End.

Just An Immortal Ceaseless Existence,

Similiar To None other.

Since Years Bygone,

Have I Swirled to the Rhythm,

Of My Own Unique Tune.

And For Years To Come,

So Shall I Continue to Do.

Unflinched. Unhindered. Unsatiated.

Until Thy Eternity’s End.

 – Ish.

 

Last Night, Strolling-
In My Solemn Sojourn.
Under the Street Lights,
I Saw a Dog Hide.
Scampering for Cover,
At the First Sight,
Of Human.
I Wonder, Why?
I Wonder,
Of the Fear,
That Lies Inside-
That Stray Soul.
Lying to Myself.Trying-
To Drown in Denial.
The Answer,
To The Question:
Can a Human Heart Really Be So Cold?
Faking My Ignorance. Emboldened-
I March On.
My Loud Strides,
Drown the Dogging Thoughts, But-
Its From the Memories,
In My Mind,
That I Couldn’t Hide.
Warm Nostalgia Flows.
The Bygone Teenage Angst Grows.
I Can’t Feel My Face No More.
I am Back Home. Sipping on Tea Talk,
As my Relative Walks In,
Through the Door.
He talks. On his face, shines-
A Victorious Glow.
‘Just Pour Boiling Water.’
His Solution To Chase A Stray Dog.
Tells Me, ‘That’s How You Teach ’em a Lesson.’
So That the Stray Knows,
Not to Mess With Him No More.
My Patience Hits the Floor.
Adolescent Me Wasn’t As Kiddish,
Anymore.
Imagining His Scalding Soul- Steeped,
In the Same Water He Had Poured.
I Could Feel My Sadist Self Show.
I Remember Saying It Out Loud,
Oh! I Was So Damn Proud.
And ‘Snap’.
I was back to being,
A 19 year old,
Out on an Evening Stoll.
Reminiscing-
On My Fearless Soul.
I Was Still Seething Within,
But I Had Lost My Bold;
The Raging Fire
Had Gone Cold.
“Someone Else Can Raise Their Voice.”
I Whispered to My Soul,
As I Made Another Clichè Humanly Choice,
Moving On.
And Like Ever Other Theist,
Blaming Everything At God.
I Dissolved My Conscience,
In An Adulterated Social Solution,
And,
I Took The Next Metro Home.

                                – Ish.

The Winter Wanes-

Away,

Like the Leaves at the Onset-

Of the fall,

Blazing Into Nonexistence,

In a Summery Infero,

Leaving only a Lifeless-

Aborted Body Behind.

Damned to Its Death.

Only To bloom,

Once Again.

In the lap of a Lusty Spring.

Rebirth.

All Arranged In Line. Marks the End-

Of a Decade, a Century, an Era.

The Perpetual Cycle of Life.

Life and Death.

The Two Most Wrecked Mysteries,

The Extremes of Emotion.

The Crests and Troughs,

Which, Scripts-

History,

In It’s Undue Course.

A Relentless Saga,

Of Tragic Ends,

And Euphoric Beginnings.

–Ish Aan.