When they light up the flairs
I don’t seem to watch.
I know they will flail in the air
And fall, at some distance.
Metaphors could be seen
But, it’s just a firework
Falling, that could mean
Things metaphysical,
Or it’s just ruined plastic casts
Spent to see in a future
That’s similar to the past.
By Ali.A.Naqvi
I sent you a copy of Hafez,
There was lots of Rumi on the shelf
Something of a confirmation
Of where I thought of myself
Days later, a call, a thank you,
A “thank you but”, and, silence,
Then, how things had changed
And I had not been a presence.
I said, I would reply, so I thought,
But Hafez holds my hands away
He reminds me of your broken times
Where I listened to all you had to say.
I say nothing. But take Hafez once more:
“No one, not even Hafiz, can describe with words the Great Mystery.
No one knows in which shell the priceless pearl does hide.”
By Ali.A.Naqvi
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.
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
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).
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.
