Why Write Poems About Love
Must we go on like this,
full of viciousness, criticism,
quick to judge
ready to be offended?
Are we empowered by
this irascibility
or are we enslaved?
Hate is an island
formed in an ignorant sea.
Build a bridge of love.
A poem is that bridge,
can you write one
to reach the other shore,
to conquer another without
losses.
In this valley of words
let your poem rise like a mountain.
In a deluge of disease,
let your sentences float like
a life raft.
In a world full of strangers
let your voice be
as calming as that of a mother.
Let your similes be as kind
as a true friend.
Let what you leave as a legacy
be as full of hope
as the three lettered god.
Are you not overwhelmed
with everything,
everything lacking in love?
In the Eye of Storm
Sky is a woman
about to bleed,
moody and brooding.
Wind dances bacchanalian.
The bored sea
wakes up to join in,
the tears of earth
pooled into oceans.
The day is swallowed
by night as the sun is shot down.
In the court of god
thunder strikes like
a gavel restoring order.
Where do the birds disappear?
As people retreat to their homes.
Lightening is a crack
that shatters the cupola.
For a brief moment
we are all watched
as brightness
fades into the dark by
this fulminant storm
with its calm eye.
House Has a Tongue
May I ask,
What is the geometry of joy,
the color of fulfilment,
the pattern of your loyalty?
What is the height of your dreams?
How much room does your
sadness take?
Does your front yard
sun your purpose?
Does your house grow roots,
does it bloom,
does it have unseasonable showers?
Does it sound like noise
or silence,
whisper or laughter?
Does it spread its boughs,
and welcome strangers?
What lies behind
that closed door?
Is it aired or does it suffocate you?
Does it feel like home or
does it merely bear your name?
Is it you who lives there or a shadow?
Is it suffused with love or
built on a marriage
devoid of it?
Whatever it is,
do you hide it well?
One can tell, you know.
Leaves of Autumn
This place smells of dream,
this place smells so nauseating,
this place with its various scents,
this place called the past.
You preserve it like
in a museum and visit
often, so much so
you become a museum
when you were
only supposed to
be its gatekeeper.
This place so obvious
yet so confounding.
Autumn beckons memories
to hold us tight.
and yet look how the leaves let
go as if they know what
they are doing,
letting their hair down
as if they don’t care
as if they don’t
have a past, as if
they don’t like to wear it
like a habit,
as if they can see
beyond the winter
and fly into the light.
For How Long
You open your front door
stepping into the world
of guns, grief and helplessness.
You close it at night in gratitude, relief
and survivor’s remorse,
looking on as the sinners multiply,
and the gods follow suit, but
for how long?
These poems were part of The Poetry Issue 2023, curated by Shireen Quadri. © The Punch Magazine. No part of these should be reproduced anywhere without the prior permission of The Punch Magazine.
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