of shoppers scurrying,
Fragments of this crazy world
appear in a hazy streetlight,
hovering over a garbage bin,
insects whirring in its focus,
and Pathans in salwars
scratching their crotches.
At least the scent of attar,
spices and suleimani tea
enrich the air like invisible mist.
Illiterates flip through adult magazines,
Others through Ahlan, with creased foreheads.
I laugh. What a world!
In such a place where people find
obscurity in controlled words,
Where so much of truth is hidden,
and reporters, journalists and editors
sit and plan what they will print
over a couple of caffeine beverages,
or maybe a coke,
inconsiderate of what the readers like.
I laugh again and enter a store to sample
and buy pistachios!!!
***
gold beads from palm trees
sweetly fall on august ground
sun turns them to stones
***
Dubai Metro Line and September Nine Eternity
The time has finally come
like a train itself, on tenterhooks.
The city with a new look,
metro lines like mascara tears
running over children’s erased parks
and tracks of fitness freaks.
Men in orange overalls
replaced the flame tree petals
strewn on the lawn like pictures drawn upon
the slates by tearful children,
men, lost all charm, struggling in the scorching sun
weathering winter’s wrath,
cursed and fought sandstorms,
toiling silently and unnoticed
like the work of all the years done underground…
Deadlines met at the cost of weakened bodies
covered in dust and soaked in sweat.
(sigh) they breathe in relief, at last!
09.09.09 - Dubai makes another history
as people rush to catch the first train “all day long”
and experience the first-day-first-show
talking about state-of-the-art stations and conveniences.
The driverless trains may not take us to far away places
like London to Moscow
or Mumbai to Lucknow,
but it will give us a few minutes of thrill
and relief of not getting caught in traffic!
Encyclopedias and calendars will mark this day
- to be remembered for generations
and exalt like the elevated viaducts…
the heroes too.
Pack of Cherries
Cherries would lose their color,
sometimes taste, going to waste,
but they never fell down,
twenty Dirhams
for a pack of few grams,
outrageous price!
he’d frown, I’d frown.
He’d say “they grow in my place
and fall down, going to waste”
eyes turning red on his paling face…
He could barely afford the cherries,
a labourer with low salaries.
The Center told they’re good for him,
and when he bought them,
he’d want to share some with me.
“I don’t like them”, I’d say…
If ever I made it to the supermarket
I’d pick three packs of cherries,
two for him and one for me,
telling him there was a promo
of “buy one and get one free.”
The spring that year was beautiful
I suppose,
when it called him home,
with the cherry trees in blossom
just the way he described it.
Spring turned to summer
with millions of cherries on the trees
all unwilling to take his WBCs down
Imanitib too,
except the red sun fading slowly with him
behind his cherry farm.
Beneath Your Strange Silence (Monchielle)
Beneath your strange silence,
Lies a heart filled with dreams
Words are read but concealed
And your mouth will not speak
Until the wounds are healed.
Beneath your strange silence,
Heart beats without rhythm
Pain grows without concern,
While rage starts to creep in,
‘Cause the reasons discern.
Beneath your strange silence,
Speak many concerned minds
Of a heart once warm, proud,
Betrayed by disguised love,
Covered by torture’s shroud.
Beneath your strange silence,
Remain words you can’t speak
And words you cannot hear,
Beneath your strange silence
Plays a noise, loud and clear.
Cacophonic Torture
Forgive me Father, to mock I know is a sin
but I was suffering insanely, in between
~ two crooners you put on either side
singing aloud, off note and such great pride!
The pew I had chosen near the choir
was to hear the hymns, up close and clear
the crooners lagged behind, not knowing a tune,
like a four wheel drive climbing a dune!
I sang louder, so they could catch up
but they drowned me with no chance to pickup,
singing louder than anybody,
persuading me to listen to their cacophony!
Here was their chance to show they knew it
singing louder and totally out of beat,
my only prayer was “God!!! have mercy on me
save me from these voices, set my nerves free!”
The Other Laundryman
Oh I wish I knew his name ~
that laundryman,
how saddened am I to call him so…
a laundryman.
I see him early morning
vigorous, as if half way through the day,
and when the shops’ shutters are down
he is still…
folding and unfolding clothes and linen,
fresh, as if his day has just begun,
carrying bundles on his petit bicycle,
always cheery,
with a smile of a child
with a look of a child.
Today has been one such day
that I realize, the world around me is so crippled
and God, so unjust to those like this laundryman,
who can speak not his name.
Little children race him on their bicycles
thinking he is one of them,
they race him in every way…
One day,
when they’re older
and have raced through their world,
they’d realize how tall and mature
they have grown and he never did,
and how, he was never one of them.
The Coupon - Seduction Versus Talent
Scattered tables, hypnotic fluorescent theme paintings,
Highlighted by neon lights,
The stage, opaque and lit with the beats
of deafening music.
How I wish I could change the scene of
these Indian nightclubs?
Where the crooner’s stand stands on
one corner of the stage,
Half a dozen dancers dancing to a song,
bellowed by a flashy semi-dancer with countless hairclips.
The one in the centre, supposedly the queen,
doing the most seductive steps,
while men get confused who is the best.
Others sitting behind, wait for their turn,
As the pimp announces their pseudonym
over a cordless microphone,
based on the coupon sold at a startling rate
with a dancer’s name on it,
Who will take and touch her heart in acknowledgement!
It is a competition among themselves,
Between those that shake their body
playing with their eyes to seduce men
and those that amaze others
with their mind blowing dance
There are others that wear arousing costumes
and some that look at the floor while they dance…
These, that do not grab any coupons
get the business down
Like elimination rounds in a beauty pageant,
They’ll be asked to leave their jobs soon,
and be replaced by new ones that earn them more coupons.
The Legend of Our Time, Gone Too Soon
(Tribute to Michael Jackson)
Gone too soon to live in hearts of fans, forever,
to replay memories and melodies like no other,
You gave us your all, and more was to be seen,
have I ever been tired listening to your Billie Jean?
Moonwalker! your dance style was so off the wall,
versatility all the way, none could compare at all.
You healed the world with your generous heart,
proving the entire human race is one and not apart.
Icon of my time, I grew with your beat and thrill,
many guys dressed like you and imitate you still,
King of pop, ahead of all, you had it all conquered
like a flash of lightening your end just occurred.
Through your life and music you shall live, Michael,
like wonders of the world, the Taj and the Eiffel,
Burying controversies of the media and publicity
Truly! your life’s always been remarkable history!
Early Morning Office
There’s a place people love to spend time,
We may think it’s a waste and a major crime.
Mornings loaded with heavy schedules,
can now be fixed with least possible hurdles.
Checking emails and fixing appointments
first thing in the morning was a penance.
Thanks to technology, Blackberry and iPhone too
for they can now finish most chores in the loo!
Music played to awaken their slumbering soul,
While they scribble notes on the toilet roll,
amplifying the music to create a background
drowning every possible, unsuitable sound!!!
So in this place you see, they waste no time,
in fact, they strike more deals, earn extra dime.
You’d say it’s a crappy way to make money,
perhaps you’d copy them or just think it’s funny!
Lonely seagull and a million fishes
Just as Maghrib beckons
and the daylight fades
a lonely seagull floats on the creek
while others have left their crazy flying
and gone out of sight.
Under it,
whirls a shoal of finger-sized fishes,
and if I knew to count infinity
I’d know how many swam and shone
and feasted on crumbs
served by enthusiasts and ritualists.
What a sight to behold!
and yet, here I am,
lonely as the seagull,
watching merry passengers
jostle for the abras,
hurrying to be ferried across the shimmering waters,
like the million fishes
enjoying fine joys of life…
The Sculpture
After painting your canvas in broad daylight
Sanguine shadows serenade
tantalizing the tranquil thoughts,
building your existence as they trigger and pulsate.
My passion chiseling you into form
upon the pedestal of my mind.
My hands seemed to have worked overtly
on your tempting sculpture,
revitalizing you with mesmeric gusts,
my hands molding the frailty
of your lustrous body
as you drench with translucent yearning.
I think I am done,
and you’re ready to be worshipped by your sculptor.
Ode to the Elevator
It isn’t the load of anxious craniums bothering her,
Or her navel pressed pointlessly more than required.
Ready for rush hours and the morning pressure,
she works round the clock yet never getting tired.
She watches lovers kiss in private at the quiet hours,
scandalized as groping goes on against her hard wall.
She welcomes the sweaty, those without showers
without any prejudice, even if you bring up your gall!
Watching strangers’ eyes meet, stray and redden,
chics adjust bras being alone and studs, their bulges.
In her silver skin, softer sex fine-tune their reflection,
hair, hairclips, scarves and sashes, belts and badges.
She can attack your nerves as you reach her door
make you buzz your frustration and test your patience
when she “just left” you, going up to the highest floor
Making you miss few seconds, add up days of absence!
Enjoying aromas of food and fragrance of flowers,
she bears the garbage stench too and whiff of cigarettes
Putting up with puking drunks and loaded launderers
Doing all sorts of things under influence of no threats.
Chef Mommy
I feel your songs and sound of tongs,
in every spoon of food,
a lot of cheer, sipping that beer
with shrimps that taste so good.
A pinch of this, that and spices
turn all to perfection.
O mother dear! nothing’s tastier
than love and affection.
I search the coast for perfect roast,
one with flavors of wine,
the taste of home, promised in Rome
sends shivers down my spine,
for what they say, tastes like dry clay
braised by culinary punks,
who learnt from scratch, but they’re no match
to your rich juicy chunks!
You set it all, in a casserole,
in minutes there’s a dish!
You take no time, humming a rhyme
be it squids, clams or fish.
Sometimes I feel, it’d be ideal
if you’d be a head chef,
celebrity, coming on TV
worthy of an autograph!
When the City Sleeps
When the last sip staggers out of the nightclub,
and the city sleeps,
my thoughts awaken the dark night
and dance with its dazzling daylight,
looking into the lives of those
that planned its squares and circles
and planted trees in the parks,
those who raised monuments
we now recognize as landmarks.
those that turn on the streetlights and
utility men (and women) who keep
the public toilets spic-and-span.
Security guards and police officers
keeping the order come what may.
Those with their dreams to make it big
coming into the city from far away,
sitting idly on park benches
watching children skip over the trenches,
Pimps and the prostitutes,
their customers and scorners,
Taxi drivers and beggars,
Scoundrels and swindlers
taking advantage of city dwellers.
Street food vendors and hawkers,
hoarding painters and gardeners,
Skip service men and street cleaners
toiling after midnight,
and pilots taking to flight.
The tourists and hoteliers,
Porters handling the load,
newspaper vendors standing at crossroads,
Teenagers and metrosexuals,
painting the streets with latest styles,
the thousands of shoppers clearing product racks,
restless mice nibbling on passive railway tracks:
without whom the city would lie at rest.
The Face of God
Always seeking,
searching, waiting
to find you,
then one day I see you
in the face of a woman
dressed in tattered clothes,
and matted hair,
devouring green chilies
and stale bread,
appearing unfed.
I watched her,
until my heart wrenched
and until she disappeared
from my sight.
I ran everywhere
to find her,
and give her some pennies,
but she was nowhere
to be seen.
Where could she have gone
Four Decades And A Poem Page 10