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Wednesday 30 July 2014

A Deviant Protest

Our sources report
That
In the middle of the protest
Against government security forces
The angry protestors
Looked all up
And
Started pelting stones
Towards the grand sky.

The protest
It is reported
Violently took a spiritual turn
With most of them dying on spot.

The local residents
However claim
That later
God
Was heavily fired upon
And dispersed 
By using some expired tear gas shells.

Confession of a Wealthy Mind

Had it been nothing
But a curable disease
I would've embraced both gladly:
Love and its all pharmaceutical expenses.

Wednesday 23 July 2014

Love is a Genre

You loved me
Deeply
Understood me completely
And I wrote literary
Love poems for You.

Our own 
Little innocent
Genre specific Love.

Now 
You say
You don't 
Love me anymore
And feel sorry for me
Even guilty.

It's alright
I understand completely.

Your own 
Little creative
Genre transgressing Love. 

Domestic Violence

Usually late
He comes to his house

Habitually
Watches News 
Continuously
In more than six languages
And reads newspapers
Old or new
With unusual curiosity.

I wait for him
Look at him
Stare him
Talk
In more than six expressions
Without him uttering a single word back.

Will my death,
Or those who die continuously,
be mourned in your Media?

No!!!
No my life partner.

Don't be too optimistic.

Thursday 17 July 2014

Verbal Abyss

I ask
“Our Love, it seems, is falling apart”

After a moment’s wait
Deep somewhere in her thoughts
In a gloomy voice
She replies
“Sorry, what were you saying?”

I smile
So does She.


PS: Love is no question answer session.

Sunday 13 July 2014

Alibi

Today
He too
With all his spiritual trousseau
Left Gaza in a hurry.

God 
After all is an atheist.

Monday 7 July 2014

Scoop

It may 
Or may not be true
But
I wreckingly believe
Love is a suicide bomber
Working anonymously for you.

Wednesday 2 July 2014

I’m Not Interested in Crossing the Boundaries

An English translation of Muzaffar Karim's urdu poem Mujhe Sarhadein Paar Karne Ka Shouq Nahi 


I’m not interested in crossing the boundaries
But still
At times
Sometimes
I wish
Us to be birds

Crossing a handful of sky
Feather by feather

We’d come to our tree-house.

And in autumn
If reminded of our remembrances
Would go 
And

House-in that lamppost of the university
Under which, somebody, still today
With some books

Is waiting for someone.