Poet’s Note: ‘Poetry is a way of finding closure or to celebrate happy moments’
As a writer of poetry since the mid-seventies, I’ve always been something of a formalist, making sure that the lines and words interlock and emanate a certain tension through the form itself and through the emotion invested in them.I’m not quite sure how I’ve ‘evolved’ as a poet after my first book was published back in 1981.
It is the changing circumstances that influence a poem—falling in love,the birth of children, deaths in the family, the passing away of friends, major political events and of late, the sweeping pandemic on which I’ve written a set of ten poems called ‘Isolation Word’. Poetry is a way of coping with such events, of finding closure or to celebrate happy moments. I also feel a curious sense of detachment after a poem is done with. Glancing at some old poems, I sometimes wonder who wrote them. As far as I’m concerned, it’s finders’ keepers though, of course, I would like the finder to share the poems with others.
Crime of Passion
Her gods at odds with his own,
He remembers that last
Broken glance, her eyes
Red over garlands
Exchanged with a stranger,
The showers of coloured rice,
The rustle of silk and chiffon,
The daggers drawn of vengeful,
Shortchanged in-laws
As she was led
Away by trumpets and drums
From fire
To fire.
He can still feel the flames
Of the funeral as he stood
At a banished distance.
His vengeance was sweet
Though the summer heat
Now hangs heavy as a shroud.
He kneels on the bare floor.
Over his dry eyes
The shadow of
The scaffold
Is a cross.
Touch
Trolled into despair, he turned
To his notebook made of paper.
He shut down his system, tapped
Nostalgically on his Remington,
Doodled in the margins of newspapers,
Lost himself in the op art of crossword puzzles
And in such passions as ceramics,
Bonsai and calligraphy.
He turned his back formally
On those bleeps and blimps
And found solace in cutting up
A fresh lemon into sunrise,
The leaves of lettuce into frilly
Handkerchiefs. He playfully
Lopped off the phallic heads
Of mushrooms, the court jester’s
Cap of the aubergine, caressed
The concealed weapons in roses,
The silky down of Kiwi fruit.
He basked in the iridescent spotlight
Of the dragonfly on his
Fingertip and in the hummingbird’s
Standing ovation.
Raw Deal
Forgive the obvious pun
But if he’s their trump card,
Blonde cap of hair and all,
A Dennis the Menace double
(Minus the freckles),
The joker in the suit who
Partners the sheik of diamonds,
What will become
Of the black queen?
If he’s the king of knaves,
The jack of oily deals,
Their ace in all the right
Moves and clubs, always
Set to cash in his chips,
The prez who builds
The tallest towers,
What will become
Of the two of hearts?
Haute Couture
Yes, try this mask, it’s the latest
Fashion statement, polka-dotted
Or striped and in various hues
Of green, pink, red and sky blue.
Take your pick, Sir, choose, this one
Suits you, the strap snug behind
Your ears, its subtle shade blends
With your shirt and shoes.
It’s exclusive, customized, one
Of a kind and wash ‘n’ wear.
It doesn’t match your tie?
Then take this one, the fabric’s
Silky smooth, ultra fine, doesn’t
Absorb stale smells and as you know,
The label is all class, famous,
And, yes, of course, it’ll keep you
Safe from that wretched virus.
And for you, Madam, this one’s special,
Satin white, perfect finish, matches
Your sandals and hairband.
Yes, thank you, nice choice, and here’s
A dab of scent for your hands.
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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