Categories
Poetry (English)

The Street Light

The street light flickers,
Yellow black yellow black …
The still pattern moves on
And with it, around it,
Flies and insects
Battering again and again against
The flickering lamp.
The glass; they curse it,
For it is a hurdle, a screen.

A little girl watches
From her window,
The flickering light,
Yellow black yellow black …

A young woman takes timid steps,
Afraid of the dark and night,
Gets more frightened
When someone passes by.
A dog is barking.
She tries to revise in mind
All in defence class, she had learnt,
But the tongue instead, prays.
She finds some relief in
The dog’s bark.
She smiles, he wags his tail.
The light flickers, flickers …
The dog suddenly howls,
Perhaps, is kicked.

The little girl shuts the window
And runs to her mother
Crying

© Muntazir
Picture Credit

Categories
Poetry (English)

I Saw Love

I saw love sprouting in
The ocean of red fishes
Blue lilies, white wishes

Roots hiding in the water
Green leaves little, little drops
Sun casted shadow moves, never stops

Dust and dew on cliff trials
Two sets of footprints
Songs whisper slowly, echo sprints

Flowers at the graves of jasmine
Gun powder marches through air
Fear served on each plate fair

© Muntazir
Picture Credit

Categories
Short Prose

Traces

She moved ahead slowly, taking a step or two carefully, lest she would frighten the squirrels and they will run away. Only if she could get a little closer, but the path was covered with dry leaves. She liked it not to crush them under her feet. That voice! How can she inflict such pain on the little leaves. Dry leaves, they always attract her. While strolling here and there, in the morning, noon and evenings or even while going to or returning from somewhere, she has this habit of picking up fallen dry leaves. She would pick them up, move her fingers slowly over the patterns on the lamina, feeling it, absorbing it and then put it down carefully at the foot of some big tree. Dry leaves. Fallen dry leaves. How beautiful they are. Once lush green, they danced with the winds, rustling, swaying. Sequined with pearls, adorned with flowers, they floated high, like a queen, in the air. Now, on the ground, slimed with mud, dried and withered, they are crushed, while someone negligently steps on them to praise some newly formed bud. She hunched down, sat in the little clearing and picked up a red leaf. Her fingers were tossing it over, making random lines and circles on it, while she herself was drowning in the deep circles of memories, dark impressions which had wilted her, withered her.

She hunched down, sat in the little clearing and picked up a red leaf. She could hear them, calling her, searching her. And here she was hiding in this little clearing in the mid of these thorny bushes. She sat quietly trying to suppress her giggles, when anyone of them passed from there. There were many leaves and little wild flowers. She started playing with them, forgetting entirely that she was playing something else, while the rest of the children too forgot her, young as they were, as soon as some movie began. Her little fingers carefully picked up the yellow and red flowers from the ground and tried to fix them in the braid. She would adorn herself and would surprise everyone. With the red and yellow flowers against her swarthy skin and olive green frock she looked heavenly. Carefully she emerged out from the hiding, running zealously towards the home, excited as she was, to surprise them all. The afternoon road was quiet and sun had enveloped everything in a lazy heat. As a ripple breaks out in silent waters, she ran with little steps. Redness sprouted its branches on her angelic visage. She was a bud, half opened, about to bloom into a full flower. But suddenly the sun drowned in the darkest of waters, the yellow and red flowers fumed into black ashes, the gleam of her eyes got lost in some ghoulish hollow. The petals shattered, the bud would never bloom. Covered in olive green tatters, she crawled to reach her home, blood dripping down from between her thighs, leaving behind traces, traces of …

A tear drop fell on the little red leaf, and settled on the dry surface like a glistening pearl. A squirrel which had came very slowly near her, finding her perfectly still and lost, and was about to snatch the leaf from her hands, at the fall of the tear, got really frightened and in no time ran away from there. The hasty movements of the squirrel forced her to laugh, but the laughter only deepened her pain. The fear of the squirrel reminded her more intensely of the black day and a sudden outburst of tears wrapped her. She sobbed and cried, tears flowed freely, endlessly, but at the same time she felt a strange lightness. Something which she had not felt since. The tears had washed the little red leaf, it was dry still, but was dazzling brightly under the sun.

© Muntazir
Picture Credit

Categories
Poetry (English)

Saffron Masks

Your masks are falling down.
The paint is peeling off.
The saffron colour you used to hide
Your hideous inhuman desires
Behold is turning red,
Revealing your sick grim face
Smeared stained bespattered
With millions’ innocent blood.

Babies wrapped in white cloth
Beneath the palm trees,
Under your feet you crush them
Oh so mercilessly.
You swim in pools of blood.
How will you rinse it off your hands?
Oh butcherers of humanity
What is your vaulting ambition?

Smoke has filled the gardens,
Bodies float in black streams.
Random lines on a piece of paper
Daily change our identities.
Who are the purple hands to
Decide our name our place our fate?
Don’t you try to suppress us,
We stand together against you oh hypocrites.

© Muntazzir
Picture Credit

Categories
Poetry (English)

They Are Called Rose

They are called rose
And are treated like a rose.

Plucked from the gardens,
Shoved forcefully into pockets.
(Thorns are there,
but the hands are not human.)

Their smell is devoured on insanely,
Sucked out of all sweetness.
The petals stripped out one by one,
Only to be crushed by the
Lovers’s fist and
Blown away to be trampled.

The dry sepals shamefully try
To cover the bare receptacle.
Helpless yellow hairs cry out
For help, they waver.
Many eyes see, lips smile,
“Aww lovely Rose,
You are planted to be plucked.”
Mercilessly the hands play
With the pure pristine parts.

With a refreshed happy whistle,
Thrown neglectly on roads.
The well-cultured dispose them
Nicely in bin carts.

© Muntazir
Picture Credit