Honorific

There was a pause as they called,

The “S” held a little longer,

The “aaa” somehow stretched

The “hib” left to linger.

This is the fifth year, since then.

It racks the back with added heft,

Though, it’s not "if" I embrace but when,

Still the title sits skulking like theft.

By Ali.A.Naqvi

Note: "Sahib" is a term used in urdu/hindi as Mr. Usually it's addressed to the older/oldest male in the family, or the head of the family. In my case it was exclusively for my father - so "Naqvi Sahib". Since he passed away - people now address me the same way.

Towers. Tumbling.

Do you feel like tumbling, still?

Like two towers refusing your will,

Turning head over toe over tear,

Over things we held together,

Over kinked aspirations,

Lachrymose, in rotation.



By Ali. A. Naqvi

Holding My Breath

I’m breathing/not-breathing again

Into our wires seeps the mark of Cain

Even though I’ve seen this before,

The fury, the bodies on the floor

The fist and the flick of flame

Leaching colour then jumping the frame.

I’m still lung sore, knuckles stiff,

Flooding with what-about and what-if;

This is the age of rage, where Youth is cast

Ruined into fjords, with skylines glassed

And well-reasoned loosing of the feral free

While we sit like a skein of sinew coiled to flee.

But I’m holding, lock jawed, asking for counsel

How long, Saqi, before I bang the Earth’s shell?

By Ali. A.Naqvi

Notes:

This was in response to my friend, Yasmeen Fatima, and comment “anyone else holding their breath?” when the Norwegian killer Brievik was on his rampage as initially people were assuming it was Islam related. This struck me a constant condition for most people these days. The events in London have added to this tension.

The last two lines are based on Psalm 13:2 which I came across when meditating on this and also Al Quran Surah 99:3 which is also referred to as Al Zalzalah (The Earthquake).

Saudade

Sometimes I ask you to batter my heart,

Hammer your synergy like brass song,

Like robes whirling and voice rising apart,

Like the breath drawn and shadow long.

This, Mouldmaker, confuses me more;

You make me write riffs on your door

Answer me with a cup, but won’t pour

Gift me Fado but not what I keen for.

By Ali. A. Naqvi


Note: There's a rumour that Fado, the Portugese musical style, came from the Moors. Fado singers sing about longing, or Suadade. I thought it might be interesting to combine that with the Seeker's longing for his Creator. "Batter my heart.." is from John Donne's Holy Sonnet XIV.

Twelve Moments

I have just completed this cycle of poems:

• Peeri/Mureedi
• The Voice
• The Griever
• Synchronicity
• In the ward
• The Market Stall
• Calling
• Moved
• Walking
• The Present
• The Return
• The Room

They all are about my relationship with my father, especially his passing. They are posted as if they go backwards in time. The idea is that one travels from the current landscape of emotion to the earliest memories. Some of these poems were written at the time of his passing, some a long time before but most were written in after 2007. I have indicated this when relevant.

The intention is for the reader to follow one poem to another, and thus build up layers of understanding as one time travels,. However, should you choose to skip from one to the other. It is entirely up to you.

Comments are always welcome.

Peeri/Mureedi

(twelfth moment)


Your mureeds come to me and say

“Your father was in my dream”

So you revert to your mystic ways

Tied to your golden thread.

You’re writing yourself into me.

Adaptation and reversion

Into things you wanted me to be

And things you could never foresee.

But you stay away from my dreams

For some reason we can’t talk,

Though that may be more than it seems

And your sufi soul needs expression, still.


By Ali. A. Naqvi

(Peeri/Mureedi is the South Asian tradition of holy men ( peer) who have devotees ( mureeds)


NOTE This is the beginning of a cycle of twelve poems written that explore the relationship I had with my father. I call this cycle the Twelve Moments. This may be personal but please comment. Also, the order is going to be chronologically backwards on the blog. So the last poem to the first. The aim is to walk back through my life to the first moment from the most recent. If you're reading this, you're at the beginning of the cycle.

The Voice

(eleventh moment)

I hear his voice no more.

Forty days since I shook him in the earth

I hear his voice no more,

Save snippets and sighs in the wood

Save echoes in the action of the day

I hear his voice no more

That arching voice

That planet splitting

Quantum clarity

Of a soul singing for its constructor

I hear his voice no more

Sat here, cross legged and calling.



By Ali A. Naqvi



Note: this was written forty days after the funeral, read at the ceremony for the fortieth day.