Nothing like a Viral Meme

Write Kashmiris

In some catchy font

Over 

Kanye West

In the picture

Drooling inside the

Mandala of sneakers around him.

The way we wail 

In the graveyards of our dead.

In this age

Nothing moves us humans

(momentarily)

Like a viral meme.

Two Poets and a Crowd

(for Jaun Elia and Charles Bukowski)

This one doesn't cuss.

The other one does.

This one rambles names

Chanting them as verses 

Like conjuring a spell

One after the other

Snapping around

Urging people to recognize him

as a failure.

While slapping himself.

The other one maunders.

Sipping beer

Imploring for more

Warning people to behave.

Develop a taste for his ordinary words or

He will kick their ass.

This one is more interested

In anecdotes than Poetry.

The other one smokes, mumbles

Burps in the middle of his poem.

This one depreciates himself as a poet.

The other one gloats himself as the last one.

They differ

But not the crowd.

On both sides of the continent

They all laugh at these jokers

Baring their artistic souls.

Like people do in sitcom shows.

Surely

'The words have not been heard'

Surely

'The world has failed them both.'

The Unwritten

I like it

When your voice breaks

Over the phone.

In those moments

You could be saying anything.

I can make you say anything.

"I've found a God in you"

"Everything, other than love, is wrong in the world"

"No poetry can capture the sanctity of certain relationships"

It is like when one is writing and

The ink dries out.

And the pen mocks writing.

Instead

One can scribble anything with it now

Write the unwritten.

Compose personal epics.

I decide to call you again

Bad signal, I say

Only to find out

Your honeyed voice

Back again

Rambling about

The constant barking of dogs.

The insects in the sultry heat.

The colour of the toothbrushes.

Sometimes,

Clarity is not what one wishes for -

Voice-breaks are needed to overwrite 

The beginnings of love affairs

The-strangers-yet-to-meet kind of narratives

Over the everyday details.

But, somehow

The voice always comes back -

A thud

A resurrection

An awakening

Pointing us to appreciate

The beauty of the mundane -

The tired dogs.

The dead insects.

The sparkling yellow toothbrush.

Death of an Individual (English translation of Nida Fazli's urdu nazm 'Fard ki Maut')

Birds are counted

They have no names

All birds are alike

Sheep and goats are counted

They have no names

All sheep and goats are alike

Even Muslims are counted

They have no names

All Muslims are alike

In that Order Specifically

Hiding in my room

Furtively

Appreciating the solitude

While waiting for the guests to leave.

Waiting for some stranger

In a government building

For a piece of paper

Nervously fidgeting my feet.

Looking in the mirror

Downcast

Finding my face besmeared 

With the lust of money.

Life seems like a series of paintings

From Edward Hopper to 

George Tooker to 

Francis Bacon.

and in that order specifically.

Introspection

Like a swarm of insects

We arrived out of nowhere and

Lingered on.

Befouling everything around.

We snatched anything, anywhere.

Rested.

Looked around.

Trampled.

Gathered information of the unknown.

Maligned the rest

To establish ourselves as superiors.

Bombed places randomly.

Couped lands and bodies.

Built earthquake resistant egos.

Tore humanity like a rag.

Walked on the moon for a mere flag.

Later we contemplated on Aesthetics

Adamantly knowing the answers somehow

Nominated and received awards

As we wrote:

Who sows clouds in the sky?

Is sky earth?

Is God a farmer?

A Tale of two Homes

Our old home suffered from hyperhidrosis.

No matter how much

You ventilated it, perfumed it

It would still smell like cement.

The walls looked like discarded paintings.

We spent nineteen years there

Learning to bet on life and career

Chasing away storms, rains and floods.

In there: We were sailors 

In search of better coasts.

Until we found one.

With no desire to scratch or

Apply any ointment of love -

Our new home

Suffers from psoriasis.

In here: We are sightseers

In search of new sarais.