TONIGHT

Tonight is no urge left towards a flight,
a time to sink low,
lower than the lowest depth,
and wallow in the voluptuous flow,
lying in peace, or be immersed in the waters all around.
It was a wonderland, the magical reality
so long as I was there,
elephants ambling across watery streets,
deluge where sadness sank and sang
dirges about the dead and the gone,
cats and puppies and human beings,
as the trees grew stronger in their roots and the branches taller in majesty.
And sadness, tears were no embarrassment,
such ease of acceptance,
truly a magical reality!
No sermons, no spiritual harangue is thrown at me
about the need to renounce the human bondage of love
in the name of some imagined glory of walking away from the world of tears and love,
of the despair and frustration coming in the wake
of all the love that comes to me.
I am so glad and sad, blessedly sad,
sad, sad to my very bones,
and yet so glad that I found my soul

I did not own the night
when the waves
broke on the rocks.
The moon fell into the waters
like a crystal ball
and the splinters came floating to me.
I did not own the moon when you  sang,
with no break till the dawn.
I did not own the beach
when with lilting steps the girls danced upon the waves..
The morning waited with patience behind the hill.
I did not own that hill.
You brought a crate of beer
and the stars came down on the floor
drunk on the elixir of love.
I did not own that love.
You saw me distraught
over the unheard melodies
when the universe was singing
right in front of me.
And I was distraught that I did not own the universe.
I wanted to stop the outpouring of the verse
flowing ceaselessly out of the harp.
How could I stop it?
I did not own the harp.
After every pause, you took up the song,
and I followed because I did not own the song.
A snake charmer went on and on with the magical strain,
And I dropped exhausted; I gasped because now you whistled
some unheard melody between the notes of the song.
Before I could pick up the words, the whistling stopped.
I could not own the words.
That night, that moon, that song,
that sea and that crate of beer,
that harp and the whistle and the wind
are still somewhere in the space,
and this eternal thirst in me
that I could own none of those things.

Drowsy Eyes, Peacock Feathers

May 4, 2016

DROWSY EYES AND PEACOCK_ FEATHERS

Peacock feathers,
go after them in the wild.
They will turn you mad.
Every feather
dissociated from the bird
and fallen on the ground
is like a page found from an anonymous diary,
a biography
whose owner like the owner of this fallen feather
is lost, out of sight.
You pick up the feather
and it speaks and sees
with the thousand tongues and eyes
inscribed on the plume.
Once I held
one such feather fallen from a peacock's plume
and wandered without a clue
into the maze of winding ways;
acquired a passion for
collecting books to house each feather in its heart
as a bookmark,
a silly passion,
like building palaces to house small collectibles, museums instead of libraries,
to host feathers, and then books as accessories;
and then on sunny afternoons
an invitation sent to butterflies and bees :
"Come, my sweeties, join me,
in these mad summer excursions
into my museums
of books and peacock feathers.

Thank you for the image +Latif Z

Latif Z originally shared to Art & Culture:

"Be patient with yourself.... Self-growth is tender....

it's holy ground. There is no greater investment......"

♤ Stephen Covey

♧ Beautiful art by Seher Mohammad