Live in the moment, write a verse Sing a song for better or worse For those that are still around Still aground, that still abound Purrs New Zen in dulcet tones Cease to scruple, seize this time This time, say it out To the ones whose breath still vaults On quickening wings still topside Of the cosmic vault up high
But En-meshed and-mashed in So many things still intertwine Seethe and sizzle, yours and mine In gleaming lips and blistered minds O’er crowds of marigolds and mines In perfect storms come rain or shine In eggshell treads, blessings and all Around the holes within our whole Where things leak out, eke out, grow cold
Love poems can’t fit in, flit in To spaces filled with oxygen Rushing in and then out In bouts, in routs, in-halations Love in poetry is pos-thu-mous Past-the-mists of life’s bliss
Waiting pages like watching sages Stay pristine, unscripted. Cleaned By life-sodden exhalations While lungs and wrists and hearts replete With forgotten dyes wait to spill Nostalgic ink in clots and things In what-if meanderings, when No more breath is left to draw Shrinking wraiths on windowpanes When the dearth of death is overcome They sink their teeth into the sheets That flutter for their odes of love.
Dirk: A bayonet or a knife. A generally cut-throaty thing.
She can either be an axe-wielding shrew Or a damsel in distress The rainbow between The two states of being Is ephemeral, the stuff of delusions Mirages and wild fantasy She can only be one of those things That nebulous, pearlescent intervening realm Rests in the shadows, forgotten Un-remembered, un-loved It sits in between The shrinking violet and she who staggers Hands full of daggers In the precipitous crags Of no-man’s land
The woman, that grande dame Living in the iridiscent silver sweep Of grace, softness and strength Connecting to the very cosmos itself Reposing in the upraised hand Of Mother Nature, she has a plan She’s not distressed and she’s not a man She’s all woman, passionate, warm She can move mountains She can whip up storms She’s also gentle and wise She’s the one who ties Fathers and daughters and sons In shimmering forever bonds She defines The very ethos of humankind
But she is a fairy, she’s unreal She lives in this other realm So close yet out of reach, and in this Our world she can either be A timorous tea rose or a mannish gal And so she has picked a side The flinty hoyden resides In her everyday garb She charges into streets She advances down corridors of corporate intrigue She launches strategic assaults Against her womanhood, her essence Her femininity To keep her wellbeing even-keeled
Sometimes … sometimes When the primordial instinct kicks in She yearns For her softness, her bliss For the profoundness Of being a woman But that fleeting notion Scatters with the burgeoning of the day Burdening her day She severs the thread, casts it aside She becomes, for the thousandth time A spiny, dirking porcupine And that is how she will stay.
This is my Alice in Wonderland type of journey through my bowl of salad. Some trials (including of the dietary variety) are best undertaken up close and personal! Also thrown in some existential angst for good measure. The title of the piece is a play on the phrase “Caught red-handed”.
I pick my way through little bits Of bright green, the shade Of fresh cut grass I then pass A scarlet flower the size of my head It sits on the ground like it’s dead Or perhaps waiting Anticipating Food? Me? Like the Venus flytrap? I shudder and go on It agitates me that I’m alone
I look up There propped On a frilly green tree I see A brown green dome Velvety on the outside Is it a temple? A den? A ploy to lull the senses Full of pretenses Of warmth and safety Waiting slyly for unsuspecting prey? I shiver and go on
I’m borne on fogs Of peppery wet air I stop and stare At uneven bricks of black and white Stacked haphazardly Here and there Are these stairs to heaven? alien art? remains of ritual sacrifice? I can’t tell … but oh the smell! As I step through a hole Soft and pliable, the pong Makes my eyes water I falter for a bit It it a giant fungus? A virus? A disease? I step through gingerly —
“Good afternoon ma’am. How’s the salad” I’m startled, awakened from my reverie I look down at my bowl Where I had been traipsing Thumb-nail small In a fearsome fantasy That my despairing mind had woven In garden salad tapestry
Lettuce, tomatoes, olives and cheese Untouched, unloved, salt-pepper doused Waiting for a forkful raised to my mouth Sit patronisingly, self righteously In the bowl, staring back at me.
I look at the book Have I read it before? It’s a throng of short stories My favourite genre I took it from the shelf In my own home So it has to be one of the For-sure-read tomes Still, as I glanced At the back cover blurb Nothing jumped out Not a line, not a word I looked at its front Multi shades of grey The image glimmered In its dusky array
I opened the book I had to recall A story, a plot twist A mystery resolved In the 267 pages I held in my hand So I started reading Page one, it began: That day Alisha Looked up at the sky The purples and blues Looked terribly awry … The rest of the story Unwrapped itself As I glanced through page two Of the book from my shelf Yes I had read it The memory crept in Of ETs and UFOs And otherworldly things
Of skittering creatures That had huge heads Full of insidious plans To make us all dead Or not! Even in fiction They were polite Giving us choices Being forthright Choices! Forthrightness! Now those are things That are as alien now as Well … human beings! Laughing, I put The Sci-Fi away Our own lives were stranger Than fiction these days
… Only because more and more it seems like the apple doesn’t fall far from its rotting, pestilential tree. But being the eternal optimist that I am, I’m hoping that a handful of the sons and daughters are at least questioning the political and entrepreneurial legacy they are inheriting from their thieving, deceiving, mobster parents and grandparents. But then I also think, who am I kidding! Still, here’s a verse which is probably farce by its very idealism.
I look at the statement That I have received At the burgeoning wealth In my off-shore company I revel in the fact That I’ve paid zero tax To the exchequer of my home country. “Remember your legacy and your roots” I always say to my progeny They will of course some day Fill my stompingly ample boots
I see the smirk On my son’s face It always gets to me In some weird way “I’m involved in this Complex enterprise Always walking On the edge of a knife! For your sister and you So get on the same page! Boy, this churlishness Is not a good look! Show some gratitude!” I thunder and rage
“You’re stealing from people In thieving hoardes Tradition and Legacy Are just hollow words If this is my ethos, Why does it reek Of insult, deception Of sly treachery I don’t want these roots No, no thank you These gnarled and twisted Tendrils of greed!” He looks at me With storms in his eyes Intimidating me Cutting me down to size
He looks at the statement That he has received Of the plundered millions In his off-shore company He holds it gently Almost reverently Even as he upbraids And tongue-lashes me He now stares me down I have to look away But at least I found the courage To finally have my say
I thought I’d write a poem today For a change, a cheerful one It seems like my prolific poetry Is making me the Queen of Glum
It’s not that I don’t see the beauty The hope and joy that abound In big and small spaces In young and old faces Oh i see it all around!
But I also see life’s glimmer Fade away, get slowly dimmer In close and distant places In fresh and weathered faces And my own feelings grow grimmer
The angst nudges the bard in me Unlike any rush of triumph or glee The words spill out agonised, enraged In wounded quatrains upon the page (And I have to say!) I feel lighter for the venting spree
So I thought I’d write a poem to tell Whether in fact I am capable Of verse that won’t assault your tear ducts Or indeed get your adrenaline up (What can I say!) These are the quirks of waxing lyrical
A fond and fun tribute to all those who live in close quarters with Money Deols. May the universe keep sending you little kindnesses to make up for the relentlessness of your days 😄
I had this absolutely delicious dream Of floating amid pocketbooks laced with cream Dollar bills and five thousand notes Were sending their special bouquet up my nose
Morning came and I had to resign Those exquisite dreams to the tides of time But ever the optimist that I am I know I’ll dream of riches again
Today after breakfast I meditated On my bank balance in the United State-es My heart skipped a beat, I had to be cautious But oohhh! All that dough! So Expialidocious!
For lunch I had a sandwich and a coke My mind wandered into another nook Yes it was lined up and down with money bags I was so overcome I almost gagged
Tea was a peaceful affair as the day waned As I dipped in a biscuit my thoughts roamed again My prime real estate and other things like it Made each sip sweeter, each bite iconic
By dinner time the perfection of my day Was marred only by the distance that lay Between all my riches and my two hands That lovely bond only wealth connoisseurs understand
My prayers were modest as they always are: God please don’t ever take me far From my beloved’s legally tender embrace I bow to you, I request your benevolent grace
I then lay me down for another night Of gilded dreams and green backed sights I slowly drift off on precious wings Made of savings certificates and treasury bills
I’m in the throes of such exhaustion At all of this deception This shameless commandeering Of the resources of our nation This unbridalled corruption This lewd and shameless arrogance This swagger, this ostentation Like a monstrous pile of steaming Shit!
I feel so much frustration Such griping exasperation At this propaganda, misinformation At our barefaced prostration To the lords of subjugation. At our global commoditisation At all this brazen exploitation Like the hapless one who’s used to hearing Checkmate!
I carry this thing, it sits on my shoulder Some call it a chip; I call it my boulder It gnaws at my insides, it makes for low blows When I’m swirling around in its treacherous throes
I am sometimes deceitful when I feel its weight Dignity and grace I cavalierly leave at the gate If it tells me I’m worth nothing, that I’m wretchedly small I’ll lash out blindly at one and all
I grew up believing this weight that I hold Of inflated egos and machismo bold Is an age old legacy that’s been bestowed From father to son and from son down below.
With time, it has morphed into an ugly avatar Sometimes the pricks of conscience are stark But driven by habit and custom and time I let my massive chip drag me into the grime
I’m weaving this rhyme when I’m feeling lucid And can see the chip: festering and putrid Most times though it pokes me with its manly muscle: I could murder that person who honked at my Honda Vezel!
And so I go blundering and blustering through life Ego in one hand; in the other an invisible knife When my shoulder can’t bear the weight of the chip I unburden, I plot and I rage. I’m insidious.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 