In Memory of the Dead (A poem)

Now when you have left and they say your time had come
So what to grieve when you just danced a natural rhythm?
Why she has this picture of yours locked carefully in her drawer?
To nurture the pain like an eternal possession!
I must put it on a wall of my forlorn house so that she can kill you,
Looking at your sprouting whiskers and a faint smile in the morning
But your memories, still stalks and haunts her sleep like a street dog;
And remind her of those dreadful midnight knocks?
Everyday your mother stare at my silver coated bronze platter.
Does it remind her of you and your curious habit of eating?
Or does it remind her that day when you couldn’t even finish his meals?
Everyday I feel like I will throw it away down in Jhelum;
To get your memories forever washed out of her mind
But she never told me that it reminds her of you;
She just stares at it like a composed child;
Her eyes calm like the antique steeple of Jama Masjid.

Advertisements

Door to be Opened (A poem)

How long shall be the door guarded?
How long Truth not be regarded?
The moment should arrive, and believe, surely it will,
When the true light of being is embraced,
When the whole image of life is thoroughly traced
And the wheel of vagueness made to stay still,
To unveil the disquieting pearls of our holiest depths
That remains buried under the pedantic layers
Of unruffled custom of ignorance that severs
The holy path to the stream of self-discovery,
Where from the spirit of being is set free.
When that moment of moments do arrive, ultimately;
The blurry screen of immense powers won’t stand
The convulsive impulses of broken hearts,
Who will unleash on the floor of dust what it refuses to see.

“I Shall Live by Forgetting Myself” (A Poem)

This burden that I inherited from my life,
A life in which nothing has ever stayed,
I shall carry along the pathways of mortal existence
And “I shall live by forgetting myself”,
Dancing endlessly to the tunes of that divine flute;
That with its spirited music weaves and unweaves all that exists.
There won’t remain the flute, or its life-weaving music. For they never exist.
But He shall remain in all that remains and not remains.

How many times have I assigned myself the tasks, never to complete them?
I was always like that, unpredictable, like the summer storm,

which though in its reserve carry the fury, unleash only humble dreams.

There you can see scattered around my room my curiosities

(some half-read, some not touched even),

anxiously waiting to be given their due.
But I have always disliked formalities.
When was the last time I completed a task? I don’t remember one.
How tasks should be completed. Only in their doing are they complete.

Last evening Rilke, Borges and something passed my eyes.

I embraced them with serene courtesy. They shared my anxieties. I felt like living.
Just now when I recall that meeting, life weighs heavy on me.
Because I have once again assigned a difficult task for my self;
And I know “I shall live by forgetting myself”.

Pursuit of Being (A poem)

Let me play with my fanciful pursuit,
The pursuit that is aimless like a thought.
Let this thought grow in the wilderness of soft dreams
This is a night lingering like a dream
When the dawn breaks I shall cease to live
So let me live till this night lives
And open up the skies for my dream
Up in the darkly expanse of joyful wonder
In the brightness of stars I see you
I will keep on dreaming with an aim
To reach you to see you with all my being
To loose myself in your eternal spirit

Only If You Come…(A poem)

How fortunate were those sacred eyes,

When of eternal light the obedient had a glimpse

Only if you someday put on the attire of matter

And touch this mortal ground only for once

For that would be much better

For my heart, yearning so long, O Providence!

To put its stained head at your divine feet

And lick the dust of its existence

And that moment the gray thoughts shall meet

Their end and no more look back for retreat

And I could see the deep grimace

Wretch those proud visages of heretics;

Suffice it will, if only the pumpkin face

Of that midnight’s child which oddly pricks

And the dreams of blind hearts break

But if that way you really may come

Stripped right away will be everything fake

And I won’t be what I am

And nothing else, not even this mortal kingdom.