(tenth moment)
He was spitting tears as he held jars of jasmine
The water was ready for the rite
But he couldn’t do it and he handed it to me
He could see I was ready for the rite
He whispered guidance to me
And we bathed my father
But he cried, like a brother, he cried like a son
Because my father would always help him
After the cars had gone
The duties done
I showered, prayed, then sat
Wondering when I would cry like a son.
By Ali A. Naqvi
(ninth moment)
It was midnight and I was looking at my hands
They were empty, nothing to hold, indolent
It was midnight and life was hanging
And someone was about to call
It was 3am. The peace came.
The sudden spike of relief
The solid stable certainty of right
And someone was about to call
It was 5am. The next day.
The two engines on each side were drumming
And though I had not let myself say it
I raised my hands and called
From Him we come and to Him we return.
By Ali A.Naqvi
(eight moment)
He sat slack hat,
Rumpled back,
Jacket I bought him,
Doodling on the card,
Drip in left arm.
He swept names of God
Down on every gap
Built the centre boss
And then the buckler,
Firewall against the
Wrong cells inside.
I left him fighting
On his shield or with it
and awaited the homecoming.
By Ali A. Naqvi
Note: This was written in 2005, during my father's treatment.
(seventh moment)
He looked over the junk table,
Expert eyes that built towns,
Expert eyes that marked buttress and gable
Not seeing just looking over.
He shifted his feet, picked a device
"How much?"
"Why ask ? You can’t pay the price."
He looks over the table still.
In the old days he was a picture
Black haired hazel eyed wonder
That soothed the ears of many hopes
Pride of breeding and virtue.
The tatty wind warmer hides
The spine bend of the man once here
The great weir worn from the tides
In the spit drizzle of the October sheer.
On reflection.
I'm sorry father, that when you were alone
I could not be there to stop the joy slipping
Like your seemingly solid soul
That winter took away from me
I'm sorry I did not forget my anger
And you fell, without your hands
Without your purpose
Aimless to yourself, useless to others.
I'm sorry father, come back to me,
Let me hear your laughter again
Fuzzy and bright in African grasses
Let me pass some warmth into your bones.
By Ali. A. Naqvi
Note: This was originally written a long time ago which would place it around the turn of the millennium as far as i can remember. This means it's about 7 years to 8 years earlier than the rest of the work in the cycle.
The second part which starts "on reflection" feels like a key change in the poem. I did that simply becuase, at the time, my father was ill and it was how I felt. I have noticed some of the sentiments could have been repeated after he passed away. This duality made me include the whole poem in the Twelve Moments cycle.
