The Water Bird’s Song
I will tell you from where the water flows
when all the rivers run dry
and the reckless seasons of pain
dry their anarchic anguish
as light grows brittle and drops to dust.
The robins are right, astute and watchful,
hares vanish at the sight of porcupines,
but the waterline streaming beneath
the armoury of dust, now clogged and rabid
with reason: stifles.
But there, where the twigs are silent,
where the grass kneels before the sun,
your eye tunnels
to the source that has grown infinite, free —
and the water table rises as you breathe.
Something Exists
There are grey reasons for denial always,
when the light cracks between
your emptiness, and the truth
you hold at deep centre
quivers.
Something has reason to exist:
even if the jury disagrees -
the morning will still announce its destiny.
The world has set foot inside the deep
playground today.
It runs, dribbles, jumps and throws
javelins at the sun. No reason can outrun.
Yet something between the seconds demands
your unreserved, unparalleled
surrender.
Colour of Silence
On an average
no one can decipher the colour of silence.
When summer trickles with the sweat
of heated debates —
the breeze deftly throws in a challenge.
But, as it is usually said:
No one noticed such a thing.
Yet, when the day crashes into turbulence
turning away
intensifies the delirium —
Till the dank wall of nothingness shakes.
Only a strong inner fire, quiet, faultless
returns the morning to its celebration —
to the feast of everyday flowers, to its reign of
rainbow silence.
Tourist Town
I stand by the sea, eyes plunging in your camera.
You ask my name and think you know who I am.
I hesitate on this sandy stretch
there’s a dog curled by my feet, sleeping,
despite the waves crashing on the rocks.
From your cafe you judge my clothes
the look in my eyes
and decide you know what I am thinking.
The candy floss man cycles up
with small, flying bags of pink fluff.
Today he comes in a clean, washed shirt
and waves to the boy selling peanuts.
The dog jumps and rushes up, tail dancing —
you click just then, your earrings dangling.
Your friend claps her hands with a small, shrill laugh
and crunches away at her donut.
You will show this picture to your friends back home —
they will see what you see,
the gulls on the stalls, the blue afternoon breeze,
and make plans to come here, to look at the same things.
But they won’t find me, nor the candy floss man —
we will have disappeared into the burnt edge of day
that you have never known —
and this picture will vanish from the frame.
Waiting
I had been waiting outside for long
hoping to pay my respects.
Only now I know
that you don’t believe in kneeling.
Instead, you let me wander
through your heart,
into your shining laughter
demolishing the dark.
Such a wide tenderness perches inside.
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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