Poet’s Note: ‘Snatching poems from the dark’
It would be best for me to admit that I have no fixed writing practice. But I do keep notebooks and pens handy near my bed, and do try (though I often fail) to seize the passing thought or what seems like a wonderful line. It is, of course, a very special day if I am able to pin down the line or lines; if the thought becomes clear in some lines that flow. If I write a whole poem, where the words seem to fall into place, it is a matter of joy for me all day, or all night, if I missed my sleep it doesn’t matter!
My recent illness has made things more difficult, especially as I can’t wander around the house searching for a line in a book, or for some old paper or book, or just sitting and reading aloud some lines of poetry! But I have still managed to snatch some poems from the dark, which makes me happy and proud!
Words
words are fish
swimming in the ocean
Unless there are waves
the fish won’t come up
unless there is excitement
the words won’t swim up
that’s how a poem starts
with waves of excitement
A tidal wave or tsunami
might scatter words
beyond recall
a full tide in moonlight
might sweep in words
which may lie scattered on the
sand
waiting to be rescued.
Lost and disparate words
not swept away,
Coming together
in a centrifugal wave
A gentle tide might
let the words float
meditatively on their backs
and come into being,
Much as eggs in the woman’s
body
Fuse together with their partner
And new life is created.
Chagall’s Lovers
Once in a while,
As you skip along,
Once in a while
As you meander along
A song comes and hits you,
Knocks down your defences,
So you can see with a new vision.
The law of gravity is challenged,
So you’re floating upside down,
Or in the air, like Chagall’s lovers,
High above Vilnius,
Ethereal lovers, floating like air
balloons,
Candles yearning towards their
radiance
Ballerinas bound for the stars,
Mystic white flowers bloom
around them.
The church spires and buildings
below them,
Dream of reaching them,
Aspire to become them,
Souls bound together,
Human, yet pure spirits.
The air is filled with the chimes
Of all the church bells in the village
All is floating and drifting
In a metaphysical world.
Hints in a World Caught Between
Living and Dying
As fragile as moth wings
Yet substantial as architecture
The wind throws hints to the
searcher —
Sunrays carry a profound message
Miracles are hidden in the eyes of
children
And the trusting ones walk upon
stormy waters.
The litany of praise the birds sing
And the sombre chant of trees
Speak to us through the traffic’s
din.
We, drowning, clutching, lost,
straying,
Volatile children of fallen women,
Offspring of a luminous grace
Unthinking carriers of future
generations
Find love in hidden corners.
Laughing, we throw out our hair
to the moon, saying Catch
And the night of sad memories
Drifts away across the sea
to lost continents.
We throw away the burqa of
shame
And gaze deep into the eyes
of our lovers.
We laugh and we weep as we sing
How beautiful are the feet
that walk upon the waters
The feet
that walk upon the mountains.
Forest Paths
The years are forest paths
Where I’ve lost my way.
Not even a sun-ray
To guide my wandering,
Get me back to the clearing.
So I must keep on this way,
So narrow, steep and winding,
Groping, falling, climbing
Between the tall trees,
The shrubs which scratch my
face,
Accepting that the only way
Out of the dark forest might be
To delve deeper, yet deeper
Into the forest’s very heart —
The keeper, perhaps,
Of my heart’s lost secrets.
The essay and the poems are part of our Poetry Special Issue (January 2021), curated by Shireen Quadri and Nawaid Anjum. © The Punch Magazine. No part of this essay or the new poems exclusively featured here should be reproduced anywhere without the prior permission of The Punch Magazine.
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