Life is like a box of chocolates Someone once said Sometimes you get The caramel-drenched centres That melt in the mouth Like liquid satin, swishing on your tongue In silky, sweet tones Caressing your taste buds until Languidly, unhurriedly They lavish one last nectarous kiss Before disappearing In ambrosial bliss Down the tunnel of your throat
At others it’s the bitterness of a centre That’s dark - 90% cacao That unleashes on your tongue Spearing, laughing, spearing again Inflicting a bitter-sweet pain Just enough for you to stop and think To wonder if this is good A revelation Of taste, an experience That’s bold, distinct To recall, to remember when You’re short on inspiration Or whether in fact It is an assault no less On the mundaneness The safeness On your everydayness Plodding on your tongue Like a thug that’s sold His essence, his soul To the gods of gastronomic Absurdity and virulence
I look back, the rhyme is longer For the bitterness that lingers In the mouth; but I have also realized That my taste buds have conspired With my mind to bind Most of the time To memories that are wholesome Sugared, caramelised So even when I pick A chocolate from life’s mix I hope for the sweetness The toffiness, the bliss But I also sit in readiness For the wave of bitterness That sometimes takes me in its grip But always itinerant Shifting, moving on And so I too go on Savouring Every piece, never wavering From the cholocate box of life.
The blue-purple sky today Has spent its moisture-ladenness It is now cloaked in quietness Its sadness it has put away In some clouded corner that Will hold it, hide it tenderly For now it wears a lighter heart Star-smeared, it now gleams Wetly with nostalgia A tender melancholia I look at it as it glimmers Stalwart in its eternalness Its timelessness, its ceaselessness I yearn for that serenity That noiselessness, that peacefulness I take in a ragged breath All my grief sits in my chest Heaving, cleaving achingly Endlessly, relentlessly I look at the resolute sky At its crush of dewy stars Valiantly twinkling at me And I look away Tonight I don’t feel brave enough To let the shimmering cloak of night Take me into its embrace Away, away from my sad place. It moved its glutted grief today The sorrowing, water-laden sky And I have in my wretchedness Made it my own this starry night.
If I could live another life with you I’d talk of a few more things More palpably, more honestly with you Of things that gnawed At my mind; at the way my gut wrenched Balling up inside, or even when The pit of my belly dissolved In a fluttering crush of butterflies I’d speak of love light-footed and pure The kind that knocks you to the floor And the next instant pins shimmering wings On your tingling spine so you can fly High high, breath-catchingly high!
I’d talk of heartbreaks too That shred the organs into little bits Where the pain ripples in screaming peals My thoughts marking time with the cacophony Where I stumble on my own feet Where I want to just lie down and feel Nothing for a while I’d share secrets that I have held deep inside Now frozen, frigid, petrified Mute scars of speechless agonies Never named, never identified
I’d also tell you that I loved My quiet, my solitude When it was just me in my room Or just you and me Sipping tea In the lounge, watching tv And then I’d tell you about the things That would make my tone-deaf heart sing A constant humming underneath Beneath the sheath of my skin Of peace that was soothing, softening Of flame-bright hope and quiet joy
I’d talk to you Of beginnings and of endings too Some tragic some tender Of sometimes going under But always re-surfacing, I would Talk of spirituality, the ethereal kind That makes the hair stand on end The kind that quickens your breath That makes life and even death A fleeting, splendorous enterprise A mystical trip with no finish line
And when your time here or mine Was drawing to a close Together we would Strum those notes One last time Of all the things that we’d talked about And all the times that we had spent And then I’d have held your hand in mine We would have laughed and we would have cried And we would have laughed again Because nothing would have been left Unsaid, unfelt at the end.
It’s so soakingly humid That I swim on the pavements I glide Through the waves of moisture Like an eel, No, like a duck in water Submerged, breathing through new-fangled gills A chimerical, mystical thing The stuff of science fiction and ETs In a universe of visions and dreams Morphing, dissolving, changing Even as I wade on
When I bring a glass to my lips To quench a thirst that sits Uneasily, timorously in my throat There, but not really there More habit-driven than the need To drench a parched desert inside my skin I swim into the water Like a goldfish, lips turgid Gut kicking against the liquid intrusion But the impulse of living Compels me to sip, sip, sip Until I think I’ve had enough
When I dress in the morning Each garment feels like cellophane Stuck tightly to me, I’m cling-wrapped Even though each begins its day airily Lightly. I look at myself in the mirror My forehead is already wet In the heat of protest Against the layers I must don Linen - lying-in wait to suffocate Cotton - caught-on my liquified bones Fabric, propriety, a proper-riot Of ceaseless stickiness More fabric, more properness I ignore the tangled wrangle within I now wear also my morning smile Even as my upper lip glistens With the sweat of struggle Ageless now, muscle-memorized I step onto the pavement To swim, swim, swim In my designated line.
Today I woke up to clouds Sitting in the morning sky They’d been there a while They looked cozy-comfortable Their greyness was all shades From the smoky pearl of sparrows eggs To the steeliness of granite They were contented in just being There was no bloated turgidity To their form, no urgency To spend themselves To waterously end themselves To cut their rain-sodden wrists To release the essence from their seams In a tryst with vanity Of azure blue visions and dreams
These clouds they rolled in differently Serenely, so quietly They lay claim upon the sky Wiping out all the sunlight But there were no thunderous sighs No jagged lightning in their eyes No weeping sheeting pouring rain No genesis, no annihilation
These clouds they swept in differently Stirring up a little breeze Cool, it brushed against my skin There was no banshee trapped within Wailing of storms and other things The darkness lingered for a while It left a whisper in the breeze A silver rustle in the trees Then gently, gently it went by.
For all the times when writer’s block has dammed the flow of words. Like a beaver it plugs the essence, but like a force of nature, the floods of creativity bring those dams crashing down. Again and again, hope shimmers at the end of every one of those bottlenecks.
I feel out of touch A tad bit rusty Cranky and creaky Tinny and such The words clump together With a grind and a grate I wonder if a month away Has dulled my tapestry of verse Shimmering skeins that advance and traverse Embroidering and stitching Notions and qualms Into billowing storms Into rippling, sashaying ribbons of calm Bewildering phrases that make me guffaw Festering sentences painful and raw In bobbing waves with lacy edges In crashing, lashing, tearing deluges In twinkling stardust upon my page My blinking cursor running away With the train of my thoughts to the drum of my heart Laughing, singing, assuaging an ache Grieving, weeping, caught in the wake I wonder if my keyboard, unstirred, unscathed For two score nights and forty days Has borne my quickening string away.
I get out of bed, slowly, numbly The morning dopamine has not kicked in In fact, I have no sense of it I sigh … that’s never a good sign It’s going to be one of those days again
I turn off the AC The gentle hum that had filled the spaces Where my happy hormone should have been racing Stops. I blink slowly I look at my bedroom slippers Their shadowy forms Like yesterday’s leaves Plucked off by the breeze Lie on the ground
I get up and look at my curtains Drawn together like knitted brows Beige-blonde brows in a frown Censorial, dragging down I can’t bring myself to touch Those sulking folds To draw them back In the ritual Of morning time
I sit on the stool in front of my dressing table I look at the woman Staring back at me Barely visible, her outline perseveres Reminding me that I am still here I watch her for a while Feeling nothing - vacuous space And then I see something glimmer At the back in the mirror
The prism that I had hung up A vestigial piece of love From a chandelier that has long since Ceased to grace the space above Had caught the first ray of light That had tried to flow Into my chamber of shadows Teasing, romancing it Holding, embracing it In all its radiant rainbow hues
I turn around towards this scene Of sudden brightness I get up, pull back the curtain Just a little bit. The colours Fall in shimmering streams Across my feet I lift one up and then the other I slowly dance with the rainbow of colour My blood gushes warm, I have to smile It doesn’t seem like another dog day after all.
I sit with my tea The silence sits with me Deafeningly Piercing my eardrums With its wordless cacophony
It has made its forever home In the lounge where I now sit alone It’s been there a while Years of rooting itself in place The air, the space Is soundless, still Like the world in night’s numbing vigil I look around for something Anything to cut through the dead air Its atoms conspiring With the silence that sits everywhere
And then I see it, a little plume Floating, dancing in the room From my mug As the tea steams up Severing the bond of silence and air The desolate, deflated, joyless pair Their essence once filled With people now gone The moist vapor wafts in Reaching into spaces Where images, reminiscences Lie inert, forsaken Loosening, thawing, warming them
I take a sip of my tea I feel my spine tingle Familiarly As I’m wrapped in the arms Of rekindled memories.
7 books down, and I was told By well meaning friends of the heart Start Writing a novel. Now that would be novel For someone like me A lover of the short story Genre. Honour-ing the demigods Of the craft Like Munshi Premchand and Kurt Vonnegut Poe, Manto, Chughtai and a glut Of others Revered for the grace and form They built into their pithy tomes These brothers And a sister to bring them all home
I also dabbled in poetry A bit of whimsy, some contrariety A ravaged spirit or blithe wings Made my poems weep and sing But the short story And flash fiction Is where my heart lay For 6 of the books Where my pen strayed Where the typed word Lay bare its humming core To hold words of wisdom Emotions galore (Let me disclaim these to be mine Not of the larger space and time)
7 books like an epoch of weeks Must of change rustle and speak But a no-vel, well-no … that’s not for me Or my pen or my sensibility William Faulkner that sage divine Said it best when he wrote his lines I paraphrase, this verse to fit: “A failed short story writer is a novelist And a short story writer is a failed poet”.
The very edge of the building The one of glass So fragile by day and in the cloak of night Catches the last light Of the setting sun Sharp-angled, it thrusts its shoulders Into the fiery horizon Brave, unmoving It makes a stand It will endure even as its heart Of delicate, shattery glass Throbs behind curtains of lace Fluttering against its radiant face Glittering, it plucks at the setting rays Shining swords drawn against The darkening skies And tomorrow’s daylight Until twilight when it will remind The concrete world again That it still stands It still prevails, gleaming, upright.
She puts it down in front of me A bottle of water and a glass With a straw (Not plastic - Greta T. Would probably be somewhat happy) I especially ask for it, I know It reeks of faux gentility To sip one’s water from a glass With a rim, sculpted for your lips To gently settle on it and draw Up The water. But the straw Has replaced that intimacy Between the aqua glass and me It wasn’t always like this This distancing of my lips But unending hopelessness Pandemics of malaise Squatted time and again Upon the rim, insidious and grim Where there should have been Pure bevel, clean, pristine Or at the very least Conclaves of mellow disease That didn’t bleed dry and deplete The very life blood out of me So now you know Why I use uncoupling straws Indifferent, cool, gappy (Paper-made, eco-friendly) An arms-length defense strategy To keep myself malady free.
O Beauteous one This is for you For all the times that you have bloomed When all around have burrowed deep Into the coolness of earth’s breast Hiding away, biding their time Until gentler, lighter climes Bestir them in their loamy beds But you, O Intrepid one You have always overcome You have worn your gem-like garb In ways that made me catch my breath Racing, chasing to my heart Wondering if you’d shimmer on Or if your time here too was done But you wore your jeweled crown Glittering in the scorching sun I looked at you, O Enchanting one As you cavorted with the breeze Those molten gusts upon my skin I gulped in then, the oxygen That sat timorously in the air But I was pulled By the oasis that surrounded you Perfect, paradisiacal Unsundered by the elements There you danced so full of joy I came to you pulled by the spell Of your vividness, O Alluring one You swayed your head Spangled whorls overspread Across the fretwork of your boughs Mesmerized I reached out Into your magic latticed web You pricked me then, O Bewitching one Your thorns were invisible, hidden I knew then that your glittering grace Your wild gumption to face the sun Aren’t just in the softness of your blooms But in the armor you have chiseled from The tempests - stormy and searing I looked at the ruby that had sprung On my fingertip that you had stung It dazzled on my glistening skin Its precious seams filling my lungs My essence and throb, O Wondrous one I found that day in the scorching sun.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 