I am the quintessential introvert There was a time I had my social spurts But all that seems like a lifetime ago The Corona gave that spacetime a blow
I absolutely love my solitude When I say ‘Leave me be’ I’m not being rude It’s just the way I’m internally wired Too much nodding and smiling just makes me tired
That’s not to say that I spurn the cliche Of the Island that No Man Is I’m just more prone to proverbs that sweep Through Still Waters that tend to Run Deep
And now I’m on the back foot yet again By that adage I didn’t mean I’m a Brain An Einstein, a Galileo or an Edison (Well .. maybe a tad like A. Tennyson)
Dear reader I’m the embodiment of reserve I don’t seek adulation that is undeserved But even as I spin this meter and rhyme I think every enterprising poet doth have her time
In the shining confluence of our universe Of writers, and scribblers, masters of verse But since I’m the quintessential introvert I’ll tell my tales from my quiet corner on earth
Still, if by some providential twist of fate Some of you think that my writing’s first rate Know that I still love my solitude I’ll thank ye kindly and then I’ll respectfully brood.
She bubbles and she froths She spills over on the table cloth She frolics and she plays My steaming mug of latte
Voluminous creamy lace Hiding her caffeinated face Her heart swells in youthful glee On the table in front of me.
I read; wait a while; turn a page In latte time, it’s already middle age The lace is tattered, burnt skin showing through The passionate heat has left the brew
Mindful of its waning charm, I grip My mug of latte to take a sip I grimace, the perfect moment has passed I get a mouthful of tepid coffee, alas! She’d sat before me, in gracious state I ignored the moment, realized too late
And so it is with so much in our lives Rich with serendipity, with do-overs rife But we sit back ignoring the universe Rueing our luck - ‘Our fate is cursed!’ Opportunities come and pass us by ‘It’s just God’s will’ we blame it on high
But here’s the truth, simple and clear The passivity, the stupor is unfounded fear So as each opportubity bubbles and froths Onto your life’s pristine table cloth Know this is your moment to make your own Reach out to receive it before it has flown.
KINDNESS, it’s such a simple thing And yet we speak of it like it was the benevolence of kings DIGNITY, such a basic quality And yet we are in awe of it like it was the Pope’s homily COURAGE, that gritty stuff of warriors! We speak of it like it was an unmasterable barrier HONESTY, its whiteness, and its shades of grey Always so elusive, like catching the sun’s rays Being SELF-AWARE, that dialogue with one’s core Only Maharishis* can ever open up that door
Depleting self-suggestion tells us How unconquerable are the odds Of mastering these exalted traits; This stuff of Allamahs* and gods. Look within yourself and tell me That you don’t see the shimmer Of all these “divine” elements Some bright, some a little dimmer
It’s time to wrap yourself in your kindness and dignity To feel the potent warmth of your courage and honesty That is you, that’s how you were built to be Take your inertia and your self doubt And finally throw them out to sea.
* Maharishi: A great Hindu sage or spiritual leader
* Allamah: An honorary and prestigious title carried by only the very highest scholars of Islamic thought, jurisprudence, and philosophy. It is used as an honorific in Sunni Islam as well as in Shia Islam. Allamah is a leader for the Islamic faith.
This is for Noor, Qurat-ul-Ain, Saima and the countless nameless others that we never get to hear of, that have lost their lives to the shameless, lawless brutality of the men in their lives.
I am a man I was born the only son of the family I was born in the arms of plenty even when scarcity surrounded me I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth even while my sisters shared the dregs of their copper bowls I was born with the mantle of privilege and opportunity cloaking my lusty body.
I am a man I grew up learning that I was better than my sisters. I grew up knowing I was special. I grew up expecting the world to be my oyster. I grew up demanding that every whim and every fancy be fulfilled as naturally as I breathed.
I am a man I know I am one of the special Male Fraternity I know I have a world of unique advantages in my patriarchal homeland I know that I can let my unbridled desires carry me on strong, brawny wings I know that I can have anything I want.
I am a man I take what I want every time I want it I seize what my heart desires whenever it feels thus inclined I possess by true means or false, whatever I covet I destroy by any means I can that which I cannot have.
I am the man I am the man who wanted a woman who did not want me I am the man who was insulted, offended, livid at this dismissal of my desires I am the man who then ignited the flame of his honour and masculinity I am the man who avenged the unrequited heat of his loins
I am the man I was born with the mantle of privilege and opportunity cloaking my lusty body. I grew up knowing I was special. I knew that I could have anything I wanted. I destroyed by any means that which I could not have. I am the man who ended her.
Glumbus Bean was a sad little cloud All day he’d cry his little eyes out While his other friends played fun games in the sky Glumbus would sit by himself and cry
One day while he was howling away And sneezing out cold sleet Mr Gale-Force-Wind came rushing in On speedy, nimble feet
He looked at Glumbus’s wet face And tumbled around with laughter I’ve never seen a nimbus cloud Who did a great job and sobbed after!
You are the rainy season cloud And naturally you cry But these are not unhappy tears That’s just the way you fly!
You’re the best little Cloud School student That I have ever seen So keep your rainy rivers flowing You’re an ace, Glumbus Bean!
Glumbus Bean smiled happily All over his cloudy face It pitter-pattered rain that day As he skipped about the place.
This started out as a children’s poem and ended on a not so PG-13 note. (Or maybe I’m being overly protective of our 21st century babes who are not so much in the woods as we were!). Anyway, reproducing it here for my readers. Let me know what you think. Cheers.
There was once a teabag The orange pekoe kind More shy and timid little leaves Would be hard to find
She sat in her little bowl With all her other tea friends Raspberry and watermelon And Lemon tea with mint
They tried to talk to O. Pekoe But she would turn away Wrapping her little string around Her cream coloured sachet
Then one day the tea bags saw The handsome Earl grey gent He sat in his silver foil Scented and Elegant
They looked at him whispering And twirling their little strings While O. Pekoe sat primly there Now and then peeking at him
Then came the lady of the house And put the kettle on The teabags rustled in suspense Who’d Earl Grey have along?!
Earl Grey sat gracefully Inside the china cup Wearing his special perfume Waiting for his tea time love
And then out of the blue Orange pekoe was lifted up And placed alongside Earl Grey In the pretty China cup
They smiled at one another Their strings twirling in love The perfect pair to ever make The nicest tea in a cup.
To those who are blissfully wed, may no ones words or odes tear you asunder; to those who are still unshackled, forewarned is forearmed; to those who are in blissless contractual unions, here’s more food to ruminate, ponder and fret over 🤓
Someone asked me why we love, the way we love; Someone asked me, self-consciously, hesitantly of Traditional bonds of loving; of contracts galore, Of inviting in the government to tamper and explore That which is so personal; the workings of the heart; Of sanctioned forces barging in and prying it all apart.
I listened with a quickening of my own protesting heart I too had felt these candid rumblings from the very start; I had also walked down the same traditionalistic aisle; I too had been a part of its teeming rank and file; I too had signed on dotted lines, confirming legalese, That made a mockery of the love, respect and dignity.
It’s almost like Humanity is bound to slip and fall; To devolve into barbarity; to sputter and to stall. The only way to save us is to firmly bind us down In sacrosanct bondage; in virginal robes and gowns. Genuine love, self respect, honesty and choice Are not the sounds of virtue; nor the devotional Voice Of all the great faiths that in their wisdom divine Have instructed us exactly on how to walk the blessed line.
Someone asked me why we love the way in which we do So bound in ceremony; counter-intuitive to the truth. Someone asked me why we could not just trust Our own sense of right and wrong; our own moral compass. Marriage - I too wondered about this absurd and quirky norm That duly institutionalises us before we can be with someone. Is it well intentioned business that has sadly gone awry? Or is it another patriarchal construct; a powerful, pervasive lie? I’m still trying to discern its gameplan; its true wherefore and why But the enigma continues to survive; and we continue to comply.
I’ve seen the colours of loneliness I’ve seen their moldering faces I’ve seen them fill the keening voids Of our broken, scattered places It’s the grey of the sky just before it descends In blinding cascades Of granite and slate While waiting for that one special friend of the heart Who’s gone an infinite distance apart Gone forever, not coming back It’s the darkening shades of smoke and ash Stifling and choking, it’s emotional whiplash
It’s the curdled russet and clotted yellow Of dying leaves Still on the trees It’s the hope that once blossomed Now just a vanishing dream Like fading delusions And fractured illusions Like wasting ivy, still clinging tightly To the mottled, purple-bruised spaces within
It’s the decayed red of old blood That has flowed and then congealed From scarred old wounds In the fallow fields Of the innermost corners of your being It’s the throbbing new cuts of remembrance-pain That sear you with their scarlet heat Scorching your insides until there remain Only the rust-dripping embers of defeat
It’s these mottled hues and grainy textures Of mangled hearts and hurting souls Its the piercing, stinging, strangling tightness In the pit of the stomach, in the back of the throat In the end, it is all of this That make up the tinctures of loneliness That fill up all our sad and desolate spaces.
Following from “Creatures of the Park” (link attached below), this piece is inspired by my varied experiences at the 2 or 3 cafes I frequent in Colombo city. As with my regular evening walk, I am also a devout tea and latte aficionado. And as a creature of habit, I do tend to absorb the full gamut of gastronomic, service and atmospheric experiences at the handful of places I go to. So here is my affable ode to the characters who, like me, are also found at the oft-frequented coffee places around town.
Angst, amusement and even downright vexation Are some sentiments that have inspired this particular narration Because when my adrenaline is not racing haphazardly around Yours truly can’t weave verse or prose that is profound So here’s a bit of a congenial ramble About coffee shop folks and their queer, quirky angles
The first of this set that I chanced to espy Was the gaggle of ladies who meet over coffee and pie They are genteel and smiling and conversing lightly Of Ruwani’s boyfriend and Andrew’s new-found sobriety Of weddings and parties and stand-out memorial services Of yoga class affairs and other sexagenarian caprices
Following sharply on the last set’s heels Is the would-be Romeo who’s eternally spinning his wheels While on his regular tarriance through the cafe He’ll go through the motions, happily epitomising the cliche-Sauntering gait, wandering eyes, obnoxiously loud! Because how else would this Adonis be noticed by the crowd? This one evokes both frustration and pity Deluded sense of self; diddly squat in the mental kitty
This next one (my favourite) is quite off the charts The 93 year old with tremendous love in his heart! He’s delicate and fragile and yet undauntingly sure Of his libidinous vigor and marvellous allure He speaks in faint tones, each gossamer vein outlined “I want to make love to you”, he solemnly opines. [True story!]
There is also the resident troop of servers With personas as varied as their gelato flavours There’s the hero who averts a gastronomic disaster And the shrinking violet who couldn’t have disappeared faster You’ll also see “Lurch” on his tropical vacation Waiting tables, no doubt, for some fiscal augmentation (Who’d have believed the fiendish frugality Of the profusely gilded Addams Family!) There’s also Happy and Dopey and Sneezy and Bashful- Each cafe with its own quirky take on the fairytale.
The likes of me, of course, continue to be The nose-in-the-book kind, with the-tail-on-the-seat Looking up only to rest whining muscles Perennially ensnared in the Introvert’s social tussle: Latte on standby, with napkins and spoon I’m in a world of my own in the bustling tea room
The rest of the coffee shop throng is assorted The foodies, the guzzlers, the loners, the courted The suited and booted, the flip-flopped, the Collared* A theatrical cycle of life streaming onward This gamut of movement, that with spirit is rife Is what makes modest coffee shops larger than life And so I continue to frequent tea rooms and cafes To delight in the milieu and lacteous lattes.
* Collared: priests, monks and other caffeine-relishing clergymen.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 