Skip to main content

In the darkness of a shamed night



In the darkness of a shamed night,
When bastard diseases patrolled Kashmir 
Poetry was stolen from the dead 
Verses erased from gravestones 
Dates reversed, Irises trampled
Histories robbed 

The old desolate widow houses of Jhelum -
Whose rooms were plotted by the
doomed architects of fate, were broken into 
Their Gothic windows broken, 
Their Mughal arches crooked, 
Their doors empty frames bordered 
only the most intricate woodwork from 
Ishfan

The Pacicdhars* who used to
Live in attics, were all been exiled by
The thunderous impotence of mad men 
Who set fire to autumn skies till 
everyone was a 
Refugee from Forgotten memories of 
An ancient nation, their identities crushed under 
one-ton military trucks




---


Pacicdhars: Mythical guardians, which were believed to live in the attics of Kashmiri houses, and used to descend in the middle of night wearing wooden clogs, protecting the homes from spiritual ills.  


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

For posterity

--- The following is for public record  for posterity and history  Let them know you were here  etch your names on these walls   Die in the name of revolution, Industrial, or  Agricultural,   Political or, Sexual,  Just find a cause  Don't decline this invitation to your private doom,  It is a limited-time offer,  For all sales must end     What utter madness is this? Why are you running away from this? On what list is your name on?  Who did you meet?  What did you talk about? Was it about me?  Am I sounding too paranoid?  A little insane  Ignore the glint in my eye, I take no pleasure in this  All I say is accept this love  After all,   whose love isn't a little tainted?  Whose name,  a little tarnished?  Spill out your silences now, I have shown enough love  Others here are much worse, Brotherhood and fealty mean nothing here I am here as your fri...

Zulaikha’s Lament

Blotted and Stained Like blood on apples, My reputation remains in tatters After these years But what was a woman to do? -- He had the face of An angel His shoulders, A sculptors dream His eyes, spoke a million languages his lips, like daggers driven apart -- I grew outside of Cairo Unloving father and sad mother Sold me for a goat and   A bag of gold To the first merchant who They came across -- My Husband, Kind, Generous man Made me his wife And put me along with Thirteen others -- My Husband, Kind Generous man Kept me happy Visited me twice a month Blessing me with His drunken kisses and Impotent rage -- I was never sad What more could A woman want? Lots of wealth and An impotent husband Sex was a chore The price of being so glad -- Then he came Chained and covered with dust Another man from the Slave traders den He stood at the gate Neither sad nor in jest Even at a distance...

The Empty Apartment

I draw a deep breath, An empty chair sits in the corner Hastily scribbled notes scattered Around the desk, abandoned Like lilacs in battle filed Wandering eyes rest among the Clumped clothes, a black sequined Scarf pokes pathetically from Among the ruins of our lives, Staring at me, accusing me A half-eaten apple still Sits on the top the fridge, next To the owl totems from the time We visited the dead shaman, You used believe in -- The movers are here, Walking up the narrow stairs Stomping feet leaving shoe marks, You so hate, across the Floor, Our floor The empty boxes laid in front of me Forcing decisions I never wanted To make, what to keep and what To ditch, how much luggage to leave For the insidious new occupants -- Tz