by Syed, Afzal Ahmed; Farooqi, Musharraf Ali; Syed, Afzal Ahmed
under a white blouse
Tell me a story
other than who the mirror pronounced the loveliest
other than that all reflection in the mirror is beautiful
other than how the princesses’ mirrors
slipped from the slave-girls’ hands
other than how the princesses’ fetuses aborted
other than how the cities fell
and the ramparts
and the standards
and men in combat
Tell me a story
other than that you did not sleep in the Captain’s cabin
sailing over the dateline
other than that you never set eyes on the sea
other than that of the drowned
some names never make the list
Tell me a story
other than how in a brothel separated twin sisters met
other than what flower grew from whose tears
other than that from a burning oven nobody steals bread
Tell me a story
other than how from the museum
the witness table of the peace pact disappeared
other than that a continent is called by the wrong name
Tell me a story
other than that you do not like to kiss lips
other than that I was not the first man in your life
other than that it was not raining that day
Soldiers Seize Virgil’s Lands
Soldiers seize Virgil’s lands
whose restoration lies
a journey to Rome and two poems
farther on
The length of his stay there
and how long the civil war detained him
from writing poetry
remains unrecorded
From his Spanish campaign
Emperor Augustus
sends for
the manuscript of the Aeneid
which was read to him four years later
on his deathbed
Virgil repeatedly sent for the manuscript of the Aeneid —
to destroy it —
it was not provided him
The Ultimate Profession
It is common knowledge that the ultimate profession is to earn one’s bread through plying the pen. Recently cradle-makers and fossilologists have also shown an inclination towards this calling, and in this line of work every deposed general has attained an enviable rank. Ousted bureaucrats and murderers condemned for life are the authors of best-selling books. We make the sad observation that in the opinion of her contemporaries, Aphra Behn—the first woman who sought recourse to penmanship to earn bread—earned her living, principally, from selling her flesh.
from
DEATH
SENTENCE
in Two Languages
If My Voice Is Not Reaching You
If my voice is not reaching you
add to it the echo —
echo of ancient epics
And to that —
a princess
And to the princess—your beauty
And to your beauty —
a lover’s heart
And in the lover’s heart
a dagger
The Last Date of Existence
Our breathing follows
no distinct tune
And our blood
could easily be washed with liquid soap
Without prior sanction we could change the color
of our raincoat or footwear
We are not admonished
presenting a girl with a taper-holder —
or a schooner —
in our dream
On the empty steps of the winding staircase
we are allowed the privilege
to await a kiss
The last date of our existence is expired
You Live in Lovely Orbs
You live in lovely orbs
A sphericality
conscientiously
holds your hair
An ornate necklace
truckles your neck
The unfaltering watch
is attached to your wrist
A dainty belt
embraces your waist
Your feet are girdled
in lace-up
shoes to tread our earth
I shall not mention the hidden orbs
that might have you in their hold
Allow them the advantage
that is theirs
In my mind in play
I never disarrayed you
You live in lovely orbs
And I in tortuous lines
How may I possibly serve you
except
fetch you in my mouth the ball
you kicked
Poem
You arrive
daily decked out in a new outfit
to teach your alluring eyes
a new language
Between your lowered neck
and your shoulder
I find a new clasp
for my heart
Looking out the window
your eyes
rest on my face
Pronouncing the unfamiliar phrase
my tongue is caught
between your teeth
Through the window
perhaps
we could walk far
towards the sea
ignoring the throng of scrap mongers
scrapping a ship
Perhaps we could cross over the bridge
that has been condemned
Sit in benches
where the paint has not dried
Zarmeena
Zarmeena whom it was given me to discover with the compass and the astrolabe, addressed me in three languages, and also in an aquatic language yet to be contrived. At the Promulgation of the Canon of Nature’s Mimicry prohibiting food and drink, the schedules of manufactories and lyceums had been revised, and Zarmeena, who would not have cared much for the discrepancies on the terrestrial domain, loyal to the old calendar, reached the lyceum at a time when the books and the walls had all been locked. I had not left the lyceum that day. I was on the verge of being locked inside when I saw her and she returned me my collection of poems. Oblivious of myself, when handing her the book, I could not, in either language, present it to her. Even so, she relied on my pledge of the Aquatic God and kept it in her custody: she unfolded several poems and chanced to learn from history that poets were not loved; and that it was still difficult for one whose heart and star were made with water. But her eyes, which require no preface, could not desist from the question that if her boat would best others on the First Morn, would I dedicate to her my new collection of verse, keeping in view that she had disclosed to me the place from which the sea looked its most beautiful and where after bribing the guards I had spent a whole day. Zarmeena was not there that day. She did not wish my love of the sea apportioned. She was not there another day when I went to look her up in the holds of boats, and where the seamen eat. Even so, when she was turned out innocent from the bibliothèque, to console her I was there; within the walls of the painting exhibit I was locked with her and freed. The last time I walked away from her, she came with her carriage and found it most improper not to see me home. But she knew nothing of the garden of caged beasts and the heart of the city, adjacent. So she could have dropped me at will, anywhere. Before we could cross the bridge that separates mirth from sorrow in my city, she asked me a few questions, which everyone sooner or later asks, who would enter or break a relationship. Deciding not to take her too deep into the recesses of sorrow, without caring to ask when or where I next might see her, I asked to be dropped at the foot of the bridge. I never saw her again. Incessantly I searched for her at the steps of the Admiralty, near shops that sell sails, and in auberges near the sea. The blue ink that smeared her wrist one day during the lesson would keep reminding me I could have gathered her in a poem.
Zarmeena, if she is too near t
he sea, must needs feel obligated to me—for I could well have distanced her from the sea with the magnet’s help.
The Genres of Poetry
Without knowing that nomadism is a creed of life and among poetry’s more difficult genres, he found his way to a tattered amphitheatre and began to dream of tightrope walkers; but his ropes were not yet woven when a non-nomad girl appeared before him who took him many light-years away from nomadism. This encounter exposed him to the shadow of light and blood and in a bird shop he priced the dream of a fledgling of exquisite plumage in maiden flight, until the spool of his voice flew away from his hands. The custodian of the bird shop pasted him to the wall of an edifice and from there, in exchange for cartage and a time-and-a-half allowance, he was taken to a cell where someone addressed him. The liveliest drop of blood in his body which sometimes disrobes in his eyes, is the voice of the girl he heard, and found out that the paper blossoms, the glass vase, the brick wall, the wooden door, and even he himself, could speak, in the accent and language of his choice. He did not see the girl but like the lighthouse which the waves perhaps never reach, he saw how the sea lay, and the parts where it was turbulent. The live drop of blood which once answered to his fingers disappeared in his body of a sudden. From that moment he turned bitter, and now searched for an adversary. Ages later it dawned on him that both friend and foe are terms for a lost blessing. But for now he had no patience and set forth the charges against his father in his verses. This self-instilled enmity which solidified one day, allowed him to search in his father’s eyes for the face of the girl he could pronounce mother, or not pronounce it. Around that time he was granted bail from the prison that was his home. Those who bailed him out introduced him to the pack of fifty-two fairies. The training in self-denial and his suicidal tendency brought out in him a gambler’s keenness. He gambled excessively but could not forfeit himself. Then he played a strange trick, becoming partners with a preceptress in life. The drop of blood that disrobed in his eyes was absorbed in the preceptress’s white chalk. After some time, one day when she drew a fledgling in maiden flight, the picture flew away from the blackboard. When he learnt of the incident, he began to dream of nomad girls who can walk on air without tightropes—without knowing that this variety of nomadism is poetry’s most complex genre.
To Live Is a Mechanistic Torture
To live is a mechanistic torture
We can realize why
girls who commit suicide
cutting open their vaginas
leave no farewell note
And how
the bones of children flex
Like a tree’s green bough
This tree is native to Pakistan
We know
on which banquet table
our national colors are polishing apples
However,
of witnesses there are four categories
and the verdict is always legibly penned
We cannot be likened to the girl
who does not know what it means to give consent
And is loath to kiss
the queen’s black brassieres
and her three thousand shoes
The poison administered us
shall not be expelled from our body through tears
Looking through the venetian blind
we could see
how the sea wolves
are impregnating our women
and where
our equations are being solved
Still it lies on us
to inform
the man
trying to pull out with his finger tips
the invisible thread
that to live is also a phantasmal torture
I Was Taken with an Indigo Flower
I was taken with an indigo flower. By that I allude to the girl I loved. I could also say her name but the world is crowded with people. I had met her on the twin bridges far away from my home that were inadvertently built side by side over a lake. Sometimes we would walk over a bridge together and sometimes over our separate bridges hold each other’s hands. With my first wages I bought nails and between fixing the loosened planks of the bridge and composing a verse for her eyes, hammered a nail into the palm of my hand and realized I was not made of wood. In an internecine war perhaps that bridge was torched. I could never buy nails for another bridge again.
Whom One Loves
Whom one loves
must be conducted
out
of a fading city
on the last boat
With the beloved
one must cross over
a bridge
condemned to be razed
The syllables in a beloved name must always be softened
The beloved must be shown around
an isle
abounding in live volcanoes
The beloved
must be first kissed
inside
a torture cell
in a salt mine
With the beloved
one must type
a memorandum
against all inequities in the world
whose pages
one must fling
out the hotel window
towards the swimming pool
come morning
The Last Contention
Your love
demands greater justice than before
It showered in the morning
which saddens you
This sight had the right to be immortalized
The memory of a besieged heart did not trouble you
opening this window on the verdant expanse
Over a nameless bridge
you told yourself in a firm voice
I shall keep alone
You did not consider love
a startling fortune
My luck was not made in a shipyard
yet I forded the lengths of sea
kept mysteriously alive
and relentlessly wrote poetry
I profess to have all the faults
of a lover
and the last contention
Has Love Been Mislaid
Was your dress
never lowered for love
or your heart
never raised into air with doves
from bedecked balconies?
I watched the dance from a distance
and the danseuse up close
worn-out she could have sought my arms to sleep in
but she could not outpace her heart
For a long while
I felt your presence in the seat adjacent
Is my heart an empty seat
whose ticket you have mislaid?
Has love been mislaid?
We built an ornamental fireplace
in our room
and met each other
like strangers
On the day of the flower exhibit
you walked away
without a parting kiss
It was raining outside
An umbrella remained furled up in my heart
Had We Not Sung the Song
We know
how meaningful
is the life
we live
We know
the mass of stones
that from our neglect
turned into things
whose beauty
our lives did not advance
That moment
we felt
our hearts
among the flowers put on the altar
as we walked in the parade
of wounded horses
Defeat is our God
We shall worship him in our deaths
We shall die the death
of a man in agony
Life would never have reckoned
what we sought of it
had we not sung the song
Poem
Every day
I fall in love
with you anew
The capital was in the grip of autumn
And in the frozen boulevard I was wandering
holding your hand
kissing you at every turn
In the hotel suite
under the apple-green blanket
you were together with me
It was altogether you
to whom I was reading
the poems of my favorite poet
when the shades of night were falling
Love
To your feet
my heart
is as the bridge
whose walk was inundated
I fell from favor
like the dog
who could not tell his name to the new owner
and his previous master has died in some accident
I failed myself
in securing me a miserable death
and in composing an obscene lay
that instead of the white kerchief
you could have used to dry a teardrop
Ashes fill up my shoes
and my feet are missing
Love is not a standard
nor arms nor an oath
to be lightly assumed
Ashes fill up my heart
and a foreign toxin
Love is a snare
filled up with ashes
and my two hands
I wasted myself
in wait of showers
that would wash away
my feet, my heart and my hands
that you might make of them a memorial
and call it love
A Parable
He had a firm hold on this sensation that it was daybreak. He turned in bed. This movement was in itself very gentle as his feelings were never devoid of the regard for the planks of the bed that could not withstand negligence and would dislocate from the frame. The rays of sunlight were piercing him, as if the sun, which belongs to nomads and charioteers all, and which for sundry considerations no one now calls God, was about to raise him on the lances of its rays. The same rays were also smarting his eyes, and for this very reason he had a firm hold on the event of the break of day, and for the selfsame reason he could not let go of the sensation of the loss of his sight. He could not see a thing, and it was morning.