you

i think of you sometimes.
thoughts are allowed near you
now that they have learnt
not to dwell or fornicate with desire
and bear bastard expectations.

back then there was no time to contemplate.
love stabbed at my insides.all day long.
and i spent nights writhing in the pain
of the kernel of corn that never popped.

i never met you.
except in the need of a wilting flower.
the humiliation of triumph.
the fissures which once gave birth
to hot springs. 
in the crackle of trampled dead leaves.
the numbness of a familiar song. 
in the splayed vermillion mark of a new widow.

i never knew you.
except from stories trapped in unknown books
peering from windows of quaint shops.
in the cold spaces of a blanket warm
only where a body lies still.
at the zebra crossing awaiting a turn.
in the sound of boiling water
spilling over the flame.
from.blurred negatives of old photos
of things made useless.

now we sit across each other
paraphrasing.old.philosophers.
over steaming cups of tea 
you tell me of the great love of your life.
and i sit listening. Nodding.
and scalding my tongue.

love

there is peace here. there is calm.
before, during, after the storm.
the sun defines lengths of days.
the moon has its own reasons for being.
the notes on the fridge
are about food.
the silences are. just like words.
we are complete. we are unfulfilled.
but not through the other.

let us relish this.
it has taken time
(and what people call heartache)
but
love finally seems beautiful.

the making of a poem

a discontented you
walks out of the room
rendered cold by failure
to seek a faithful muse.
it surprises you, yet again,
the humility of winter night skies.
(how did we learn conceit?
you wonder)
the man on the moon looks on
holding the poem you just abandoned.
it seems complete
(though you cannot read it
from this distance)
he seems to approve.
(there is hope for you yet,
you think)
you reach out to him,
and just as you breathe in
the first waft of fulfilment
the treacherous rascal
flings it out into the empty space
nestled among stars.
you dive in unthinkingly
in a panic unsuited to the night
only to smell the familiar scent
of your putrid room. 

some poems are meant to be
the universe’s joke on you.

naming

how do you define this yearning
for the throbbings, the ruptures,
the disappointments of others -
the charity of what were once
your hopes, your desires
given away
in a gesture filled with
nothingness
indifferent to the orphaned corners
in which they now lie
sharing space and poetry
with other unwanteds
of the world.

love doesn’t even begin
to describe it.

Shahid

on quiet winter nights
such as these
through muffled ears
i listen to your voice
whose echoes
fill the hollow caves within.
i walk across the jhelum
with feet tucked in blankets
to where i might find you
looking at a life gone by.
in all pictures, there you are
looking slantingly away
perhaps at your “half-inch himalayas”.
i hold your words
on the tips of my fingers
where they dance like morning dew
at the sight of the sun 
and as they trail off
one by one
lost before they reach the palm
i find them afresh
on a moist cheek
in this season of dryness.

give me your longings, your love
your loss, shahid
it might empty a hole 
in an exiled heart.

poetry

the unyielding hope
for a remorse of an uninhabitable loss
gnaws at the insides of a heart
mushy with its estrangement
dancing in the still of night after night
in a landscape of exile.
poetry is home.
the last laugh
of the misfortune of the homeless.

the room

on a drenched winter afternoon
of shrivelled peacock calls
an old room of a well lived house
unleashed from rusted locks  
opened its creaky doors  
after tireless ages of silent imprisonment.
there was never a sigh.
or an utterable word.
the cleaning lady  
changed the sheets  
and in one swoop  
of her expert broom  
consigned its dusty history  
to a rancourless bin.  
but for the odour  
of loneliness  
that i knew only too well  
from the years of our love  
there was nothing
to betray (even by accident)
the story of unadorned walls 
and expired night creams.