#FreeVerse
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Strange cold
That year’s cold was strange Our thoughts were frozen Our eyes white washed…We started fearing our own cold questions Some elders felt necessaryThat more of us must burn as wood-stockUntil the cold is goneAnd dissenting voices were silenced We kept burning our own kindIt reached a point when ‘Our words grasped each other for warmthAnd suddenly started to rhyme…’This year we feel the same coldPeople are burning as wood stockAnd words are dreaming to rhyme again together…November 2023On wars happening around us.
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Ode to unanswered questions
Today I want to celebrate those unanswered questions we all live within us. (Because no matter how convincing the answers we find along the way , we just don’t want to believe in them) Questions, that transform themselves from naive desires of moths on fire to distant dreams of snow laden birch trees to destinies entwined beyond space and time beyond the ideas of heavens and hell… these unanswered questions tie our past and future sometimes surpassing generations flying within us like Siberian cranes with endless wings on calm lands in troublous skies patiently determined covering thousands of miles to reach their summer pastures only to fly back again all…
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Swings of life
To seek,outside of ourselvesin order to find ourselves What bullshit is that…Yet we keep on asking more from life outsideswinging back and forthback and forthfar beyond smiles and heartbreaksto feel meanings and answersin this life and beyondOnly to feelmore fresh and windy questions back…I see ‘Time’ sitting on a swingheld firmly by long ropes of ‘Destiny’moving to and froto and frosame beginnings , same going nowheresame smiles, same heartbreakssame looking outside,this infinite sky of desiresthat big mountain of dreamsto and froto and froEvery effort to go even more bringing us back even more Yet this godly child in us keeps us movingon these swings of lifeHope mistress pushing…Fear monsters dragging…Fresh…
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Ode to Birch
(Siberia , Feb 2022) Snow is whiteSnow is pureBut snow is cold too.Is it this coldnessthat keeps her pure and alive? Hope keeps us on the railroads of lifeI see , outside the train windowpassing Desires,as pure as snow,on this infinite canvas of whites…shrouded by Birch treesin numbers unknownwith their tender white skinsSoft, as if about to dissolve in uslike a Russian девушка*Yet hardest in soul…Buts it’s also the hard birchthat burns the best and burns for long…And like hope, she keeps burning herselfto keep everyone warmbecoming nothing in returnOr perhaps everything for some? And these snow-like desireskeeps on coming backfalling onto her, like crazy loverssometimes with tender kissesat times…
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Mountain Tango!
And “the Wind” seizing a tango moment initiates his first steps with a White Cloud again.. Nobody sees the Wind, but her. And she needs a wind, to dance too, no? And not just some ordinary wind But the strongest of all winds Wind that can blow her away from all her questions of the past and the present... Nobody sees the Wind, but her. And "the Wind"; he needs her too... to exist , to be felt... to become from nothing to everything (in those very moments...) And like an experienced Milonguero he leads her way to the sky floor holding her strong yet giving her freedom as wide…
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Otherness…
Otherness To experience the Other. Holding hands for the very first time and... to keep holding on long, forever, even when this wet otherness is felt, seeping in between mingled fingers... Shaping the Other, fast in thoughts , in dreams and slowly in trailing sillage of left behind smells and broken hairs and finished coffee cups still bearing lip marks of contagious smiles and unspoken emotions... this Otherness comes and goes, in many abstractions. Silent conversations without the distance of words and spaces in between, Or the silence that hangs in between the very words and spaces... Spaces created by the Other Or the otherness we create inside us, of…
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Ode to Desire…
(Inspired by a Crimean Tatar Friend) Jan 2016, Kiev, Ukraine Red red Desire burning in the eyes. lost staring deep in the fire, A young young bride on that cold Mongolian night. Thoughts of her future Were dancing in the fire Her heart flames in uncertainty Her fears shouting shadows from the fire. Who could have told her than! Her sons and daughters Riding on the wings of desire are destined to travel and rule Strange strange people and far far lands in not so distant time. Just few hundred years apart Knot by knot Birth after birth Wars after wars Fire after fire among strange people, among strange times,…
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The dance goes on
The dance goes on…. (Moscow, October 2015) A white white cloud Holding smiles of Appolinaria. His efforts are useless, the smiles keeps on escaping, Here and there and everywhere. For how can he hold Something , as godly as “light” In his hopes, in his dreams, in his songs Light is for everyone, No?
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Anahita
Anahita (26 feb 2015,Luxembourg) Another sea, inside her… moves… rebels… concedes… and finds calmness everyday Much bigger, much more uncontrollable the wavy thoughts, splashing her feelings , emotions, dreams… Her self-awareness, matches the flight of the seagulls sitting on the wind, flying over the world and the wind smells of gone by moments (they always do!)
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Openings and Closings..
Openings and Closings.. I keep opening you in my dreams, in my songs, in my search for reasons in my reasons for living layers after layers, thoughts after thoughts like those nesting Russian dolls And by some strange magic you become bigger and bigger in my dreams, in my songs thoughts after thoughts as if i am not opening you but closing my self into a bigger you 7 Jan 2015 luxembourg
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Butterfly dreams
Butterfly dreams In my dreams I keep opening you as a butterfly opens her wings ready to fly into unknown worlds… and sounds of that wing’s flapping often open my eyes and often, long after waking up I find my self in those unknown worlds dreaming you with open eyes…. 15 dec 2014 Luxembourg Inspired by another poet’s idea of a butterfly.
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These days and nights
These days and nights Smiling…and smiling again, your thoughts awakes me. Taking those long deep breaths, I smell my morning tea Observing those Rooibos thoughts of you simmering… infusing….blending giving their better selves to hot water… (In those moments I think one should live life like a tea) Stopping by the traffic signal Watching one of us, two raindrops sliding slowly on the windscreen The one moving faster than the other asks ,Why? All day Fingers speak and eyes listen the dance of the dots, on a one ft screen. The keyboard beats like a heart beat The real heart beats somewhere else And in that somewhere place I find…
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Hints
Hints Like slight hints of cinnamon and cloves whispering songs of antiquity in a perfume full of wild roses of Isparta I feel you… in those hints of life. Missing… yet so much there all present , yet all hiding As if, though covered in thousand veils of silk curtains in concrete medieval fortresses in skies after skies of surrounding nudity, Yet all these efforts of veiling reveals you more and more.. Like a universe revealing itself in the eyes of the smallest Babushka doll. And I write these songs of longing and hope in pursuit of those slightest hints of cinnamon and cloves. And i wonder If , in…
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Ode to a broken Hair
Ode to a Broken hair Tangled-up in a purple sweater, a broken long blonde hair. soaked in some free moments of yesterdays Twisting, moaning ,imprisoned in time (Not willing to give up it’s momentary existence) An iceberg, a sun, traveling, moving country by country heart by heart Carrying along, cold snow of so many winters Different places, so many people, just one story. A grandmother near a window, holding an empty pot of a ‘gone flower’ A grandfather, with smoky bearings somewhere up in the skies, smiling A mother, concerned of her grownup children A father, thinking, who will show up next smiling. Generations of unborn children dancing in a…
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Desire Imprisoned
“Desire”, imprisoned in this long, vast prison of “Life”. Just like remembering an old forgotten melody tries to find herself… Her feet of “thoughts” tired of so much walking in the dark beg her to stop and rest for a while But “Desire” What can a “Desire” do When this mighty black monster of “being-ness” With a leather whip soaked in with still wet memories reminds her of passing time. And even with this 4th cup of Bitter coffee in Stockholm central station this distance of just one lifetime between you and me does not seem to end S. (Verses born in the midst of discussions with self) Stockholm
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دھوئیں میں تجھ کو ڈھونڈتے رہنے کی عادت هو گئی تھی
دھوئیں میں تجھ کو ڈھونڈتے رہنے کی عادت هو گئی تھی میں جلتا تھا اس لئے، مجھے بجھنے کی عادت هو گئی تھی خیالوں کے اس نگر کی، وہ اونچی سی چوٹی میری سانسوں میں، جینے کی کہاوت ہو گئی تھی اندھیرا تھا ، مگر پھر بھی روشنی سے بڑھ کر تھا نہ کچھ دکھتا تھا ، مگر مجھ کو محبّت ھو گئی تھی کہانی لکھنے والے ، سمجھتے تھے کے انجام ممکن ہے کہانی جینے والوں پر ، ہر ایک لمحہ قیامت ھو گئی تھی زمانوں سے نکلےتنہا ستاروں کا کہنا تھاکے ‘دوری’ سے فلک کا حسن قائم رکھنے کی ، ہدایت ھو گئی تھی میں، تنہا تھا ،…
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waqt kee daur
وقت کی دوڑ وقت کب سے بھاگ رہا ہے اور ہم وقت کو کب سے پکڑتے پکڑتے کتنی اجنبی جگہوں کے کتنے خوابوں کے گلستانوں سے کتنی خواہشوں کے پھولوں کو روندتے اور کتنے محبّت کے سرابوں سے باتیں کرتے گزر چکے ہیں وقت ہے کے رکتا ہی نہی (اس وقت کی محبّت می دنیا کب تک گھومتی رہے گی) وقت سے آگے بھاگنے والے وقت کو ایک بھیانک کالا کتا سمجھ کر بھاگ رہے ہیں اور پیچھے رہ جانے والے امید کے نشے میں دوڑے چلے جاتے ہیں ہم سب سے دور ایک کونے پر جب محبّت کے مکین صراہی سے ہولے ہولے شراب انڈیلتے ترچھی نظروں سے وقت…
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Half way to Kiliminjaro
(2011 Dec. Kilimianjaro) This mountain of my mind, this loneliness,soaked in green moss. This desire, as white as snow. These little by little disappearing footsteps of life This me, disappearing in the clouds of habitual living Like disappearing of snow on this great mountain. Will it be able to forget the snow, once it is gone? Can snow, as white as desire be forgoten Can loneliness, as green as these mossy trees be forgiven? “These woody thoughts, that forgive every one, but forget nothing…”
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ایسا ہو اگر
دن بھر انگلیاں بولتی ہیں اور آنکھیں سنتی ہیں ایک فٹ کی سکرین پر بنتے بگڑتے نقطوں کی بکواس کان کی بورڈ کی ٹھک ٹھک کے اتنے عادی ہو چکے ہیں کے اب دل کی دھک دھک بھی سنائی نہیں دیتی لفظ بولتے ہیں پر وہ نہیں بولتے جو دل کہنا چاہتا ہے صرف پیٹ کی گردان میں گم رہتے ہیں ایسا ہو اگر کے لفظ وہ سب کچھ کہیں جو دل میں ہے کان وہ سب کچھ سنیں جو وہ سننا چاہتے ہیں آنکھیں ان کو دیکھیں جو دل میں بستے ہیں اور “اپنے ہونے کا احساس ” صرف ذھن پر چڑھ کر ناچتی خوشی کا ناچ دیکھنے میں…
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Aaj hamara, ya hai tumhara
محبت کھوجتی ھےھمارے آج میں باقیتمھارے آج کا ھونا محبت پوچھتی ھےگزرے ھوے کلوں سےتمھارا آج کیسا ھےھمارا آج کیسا ھےگزارے کل بہت کچھ کہ رھے ھیںمگر ھمارا آجھمارا آج کچھ خاموش سا ھےایک چپ سی سادھ رکھی ھےکسی اٹھارویں صدی کیآئل کینوس سے بنیپورٹریٹ تصویر کی مانند تمھارا آجکے جس میں بسی ھیں خوشبوئیںگزرے کتنے کلوں کیجو اب بھی خبر رکھتا ھےکے کتنے پھول اب بھیاُس کو پانے کو ترستے ھیں ھمارے آج کو دیکھوکا جس نے فقطامید کاغز پرصرف خوشبوں کی تصویریں بنائیں ھیںخیالوں سے ھمارا آجکسے معلومھمارا ھے بھی یہ فقط اپنا سا لگتا ھےیے دیکھو کیسےتمھارے آج سے نظریں چراءےچھپ رھا ھے تمھارا آج دیکھو اب…
