Loneliness - a Prose Poem

Loneliness is not an act of hunting. Loneliness is not a case to be solved. It is not an activity that one needs to overcome.

Loneliness is not Socrates going to the Oracle, it is him holding the hemlock amongst all. Loneliness is Galileo gazing at tiny specks of Moon for the first time through an apparatus. Loneliness is a horse with extra hooves limping with load on its back. Loneliness is not someone sitting alone on a bench, it is, in the first place, the very bench holding onto land, land holding onto earth, the earth, thereby, holding onto the galaxy - a galaxy that, if one listens to it carefully, sounds like the noise of water flushing out from an empty cistern. Loneliness is the sound of brushing one's teeth every day. Loneliness is also the monotonous movement of the thumb changing reels, on Instagram, without break.

Even if Loneliness can be resolved - at all, the effect always seems momentary. 

One poet* arrests an object to rationalize the attention he wants when he writes:

Bahut Shadeed Tavajjoh Ka Saamna Tha Mujhe

So Ik Glass Ko Paani Se Bhar Liya mein Ne

Does it suffice? 

Should it suffice?

By drawing an individual, an object into the vicinity of your Self, in order to exorcise loneliness, all one does is smear more loneliness onto them.

Despite all this, it is what it is - in us, around us, surrounding us. We are afflicted with it. It is our original condition. Gregariousness - a facade, maybe, how we try to ignore it. Some do it consciously, some out of habit, some unconsciously. But when the poet exposes himself to anyone else, he finds something else:

Apne Khala Mein Laa K Ye Tumko Dikha Raha Hoon Mein

Woh Jo Khala-naward Hain Unke Liye Khala Hoon Mein

Interestingly, the khala-naward cannot be separated, subtracted from the khala that encompasses all. It is what defines him/her.

or,

as the poet° would put it:

You get so alone at times that it just makes sense.

- a sense that would not make any sense if explained.

When one is alone in the house even the gurgling of one's own body seems strange. One seems, in those moments, more alert to the things happening, outside/inside, and gradually, the distinctions fade away. Probably that is how one pays obeisance to the inherent lonely nature of things. It is like mixing food that may lead to a brand new delicious variety. This, however, should not come at the cost of not being able to eat the original food items separately ever. Mixing food is Loneliness. To misquote Wordsworth:

I wandered lonely as a crowd

that roams amid the cities on pills

then all at once I saw a shroud

a ghost of putrid dunghills...

Loneliness is, also, someone retching on the winding roads to reach a particular spot (beautiful or otherwise), high among the mountains.

One’s loneliness could also be somebody else’s succulent gossip.

We don't reek of loneliness, we smell of it.

 

* Faizan Hashmi

° Charles Bukowski

Newspapered

A few days back,

I laughed so much

they began calling me

the front page of a booming newspaper

run by a far-right party.

Yesterday,

I wept word after word after word 

and heard

the publication stands ceased.

Today,

Just lying there

I could see 

some news-items designed

among flashy advertisements.

Clearly -

this newspapered Life is paperish,

so ephemeral 

that it reminds one of rumours.

A Poem about Grief

They say,

the sand beneath the rock

suffers from nostalgia of the mountain -

the sand, 

when it succumbs to grief,

rolls along the rock with its

suicidal tendency to go down

and down and down

till it reaches, encounters

more sufferers.

What then are we,

I imagine,

afflicted with

beneath these hefty relationships?

We, the stone throwers.

Parents

Like toys on car dashboard -

they look today,

cornered in a room -

frail, emaciated, tired, 

ailing, drained:

my Parents.

Together they are

but half a people now.

Are they, 

I ruminate,

who raised

these robust bodies?

...

Clearly, Life doesn't add up.

Until everything crashes us all -

we, the bobbleheads.

What I will do

What I will do instead,

here, in this poem, is

to gently rub words on your face

like your late-night lotion ritual -

and then

leave you stealthily,

imagining the Earth,

spining forever 

on the left side of the galaxy.

I will edit the world,

afterwards, stanza wise,

early morning,

while you are sleeping and

dreaming about a love poem.

Teachers

One taught indifferently,

as if she was hiding herself 

from the school of Life,

taking asylum in our classroom,

and smirked at our ignorance.

Another taught like Life itself,

uplifting and terrifying us 

subtly, at intervals,

usually asking me to sing 

in front of the whole class -

as if rhythm was the only thing

amiss in her way of teaching.

Yet another, while teaching, 

one day wept, as if 

we were dead at the word,

and wiped tears, not with any napkin

but with a paper, as if 

the ink had solidified enough.

This one, however,

keeps ticking everyone off

as if no one existed, as if

nobody uttered any sounds,

no one wrote anything down - 

as if, even this poem wrote itself off.

Macadamisation

- a tarred road 

is a white noise

of the other world.

- a leaf on it

is a random signal

of ours.

Somewhere,

between all this,

thick smoke like Genie,

unable to fulfill any wish, upsurges -

stranding the concrete road behind...

The Poem

She met me,

accidentally,

after a gap of years -

thirteen to be precise 

                   and

it was evident 

how Time had her

skin dampened,

teeth splintered,

nails smudged,

hair des​ic​cated.

She, however

courageously, did not

make any effort

to hide all this and said

"Yes, I'm living a Life! You see?

What about you?"

(I wanted to reply 

but withheld:

maybe there will be a poem about all this -

reminding you how grief 

gatecrashes over us all,

stanza-wise -

without rhymes,

in loneliness)

You will understand it without a summary.

Sole

That night,

I slept with a shoe

in my heart.

In fact,

anything to hold on to

could have sufficed.

The body just yearned for

some semblance of something 

that sounded 

or at least possessed 

a soul.

Nothing much.

Overtime

They say

a poem on Overtime

should always possess

excessive words.

It should, simply, be overabundant.

The poem should overflow

It should overwhelm.

Overexert.

Overpopulate.

Overburden.

In other words,

it should unrestrainedly strive

to overthrow 

the overarching meaning of the genre.

Or,

it should be content 

to be sold cheap in a word factory;

on some picture perfect social networking site,

like any ordinary worker

drenching in sweat,

eating by the roadside and, 

on phone, talking to his far-off family -

working on the construction of a mall 

he would never dare to enter.

In the labour of breathing everyday,

Life's an overtime.

Strangers

The least,

he thought, he could do,

(after listening intently

to the old woman's chronicle

of losing sight at an alarming level 

while keeping his own unemployment ratio

in the current scenario,

clearly in sight as well),

                                            was to

take those grimy, heavy,

thick glasses gently from her and

rub and clean them diligently 

with the hem of his shirt

that had lost its sheen due to overuse.

Meanwhile,

the other person went on blabbering -

failing to

witness 

the tears.

Untitled

The sky fell to the floor:

its ultramarine reduced to dust.

As if it would now pour:

crude crusts of benevolent rust.

Scripts

"Which tense do you want to live in?"

- Osip Mandelstam 

There was a Poet,

quite prophetic and noble,

who hovered over this greened earth.

"Faith is a bird that migrates . . .", he wrote.

There will come a Poet,

experimental yet eloquent,

who will bless us 

with verses of the apocalypse.

There is a poet,

however

condescending and narcissistic,

living -

somewhere in gutters -

exactly where he belongs.

The Scream 2.0

How would Edvard Munch paint us this time?

At first,

he won't.

Then an HD photograph.

In the background,

a shopping complex -

advertising the importance of trees.

On it,

a gigantic screen

displaying some benefit concert.

Towards the middle,

a figure emerging -

arms open (motion blur)

almost weepy, reacting

as if surprised...

Fitted with a well practised,

clinical fake smile.

Maritime Scenes

Flotsam

(goods that float on the surface of the water as the result of a wreck or accident)

Like oil spill,

my crude Love

affecting the marine life

of your indifference.

Jetsam

(goods thrown overboard to lighten the load of the ship if it is in danger of sinking)

Like this material body,

discarded

to tide along

your moonlit face.

Lagan

(goods cast overboard and heavy enough to sink to the ocean floor, but linked to a floating marker so that they can be found again)

Like soulmates,

struggling separately to float

over the sea of people,

but One, deep inside.

Derelict

(goods that have sunk to the ocean floor, relinquished willingly or forcefully)

Like Truth,

drooling fom the pile 

of dead bodies

under well-planned institutions.

21st Century

(I)

Truth is weak sartorially and lost in thought.

 

Lies multiply,

argue with precision

and steal the thunder.

 

(II)

In this tiny

Matchbox of History,

 

Living in the

matchsticks of nationalities,

 

we wait to be burned

and burn –

 

the polluted air is on our side. 

The Game

 When I was a child,

my grandmother owned

a brace of ducks.

I used to make the tiny creatures run

as fast as I wanted them to and

at times

turn them into birds,

coerce them into flying,

if only momentarily,

as high as they could.

 

Meanwhile,

I laughed, screamed, giggled

until tired of the game.

 

Now,

paddling in the watery

world of ambition

struggling even to walk

exhausted, beaten

injured –

cornered in the high walls of deceit and trickery –

witness the world’s boisterous laugh

at the run-over puppy of my being.

Gaggle

(for Mary Oliver)

Caught in a gridlock

beside the highway –

like Venn diagrams

overlying each other

in a passenger car

rationing our breaths and

then suddenly a gaggle,

in all their obliviousness,

emerge from the dirty water

waddling across the road

honking, probably, in exultation

thinking themselves to be unsoiled.

 

Meanwhile,

we smirk –

                together

in a cage.

What is Grief?

Of what age is grief?

Does it have parents and siblings?

Does it celebrate its birthdays?

Or is it a bore?

Can it be found lying

between a therapist and a patient?

Or between a voter and a politician?

Does it ramble to God?

Is it religious, dogmatic or follows a cult?

Does it cry along with the fragile?

Or go looking for another client?

Does it shred

Or completely annihilates one?

Is it satisfied with its achievements?

Does it reside in eyes, dark circles

Or the whole body?

 

Or,

Is it also,

Like us,

Looking for answers

Everywhere?

Origami

That’s why,

probably,

the poet declared

the world to be full of paper.

 

He understood to well

how origami(esque)

we all are.

 

How,

for example,

at each moment

we are shaped, moulded

Even writ upon.

Running gag

There are days

and nights

so lonely

that something

as weird as coughing

seems like laughing.

A sort

of some stand-up comedy

of the organs

with certain internal jokes

doing rounds.

Jokes one can’t resist

but guffaw – or retch

at times.

 

Rest of the days,

one feels lost, dazed

in the maze

of offices, people, things –

waiting for people . . .

No …

 

One wishes for the jokes to continue.

Nimbus

 Lying in the corner of

your tiny decrepit balcony

catatonic to flutter

in a coarse mud pot

with frail thorns –

like the weary cactus plant

that doesn’t even desire water –

let me wilt

wither away –

silently, overlooked

even forgotten

but near, adjacent –

close to you.

 

Because

out here,

in this fiendish world

beautiful and useful

adored and caressed –

I am a fucking Rose!

Being There

 Also published in Inverse Journal https://www.inversejournal.com/2022/01/27/being-there-a-poem-by-mubashir-karim/

As the year went by

hastily—

excited to reach

anywhere—

probably

the end of the year—

Somewhere.

I too—

with (almost) everything

within my reach

(except Time)

found the festive fair within me

but the child lost—

Lost—

within the maddening crowd—

weeping, talking, reading, texting,

teaching, watching, proving, arguing...

 

This year

I hope,

I could just

Stay.

Linger.

Just be.

 

Like a tree

Hung with a hoarding

Saying

Nothing of any use

But essential

Nonetheless.

What You were born to do

I imagine you – picking

one-after-one-after-one

the scattered matchsticks

from the greasy floor,

crying over your luck

in a suburb

in some tiny apartment.

For this

was not meant to be your fate.

These were

not the activities

you thought you were born to do.

You were

meant for something colossal.

Something mighty.

 

Something like,

Lighting a matchstick

when everything else has dissipated

and endeavouring to light

somebody’s pitch-dark ignorance and

keeping up the rhythm of lightning

one more and more and more

whilst your fingers begin to singe.

 

Look around!

There’s light

(even if only a speck).

Death Foretold

Lightning,

in those days, was

God’s unmetered stanzas about rain –

rebirth, fruition, fertility –

with some of us

delicately holding out

the parched hands to

touch the poems,

wherein,

metaphors sailed like similes.

 

These days,

there’s

an over-abundance of poetry

(if it is so)

the images inundate us.

We fail to decipher anything

at all –

the way things held too close

seel blurred.

We struggle to hold

the sewerage under our noses.

 

Lightning in the sky is death foretold.

Some (un)poetic Contiguities

 

Also published in The Bombay Literary Magazine https://bombaylitmag.com/?p=1192

The tea cup has broken

in the shape of your lip –

the way people break

when nudged by grief.

 

The ink has spilled near the pocket

in the shape of a territory –

the stain stays –

the way an occupier does.

 

The paperback has dog eared

around the edges –

the way Time arrives

as a wave.

 

The mirror has splintered

into fragments –

the way autumnal leaves crunch

when stepped over.

 

The door has been smeared

around the handle –

the way dark circles encamp

under the eyes.

 

The face has cultivated

pimples overnight –

the way poems arrive

in the midst of a crowd –

unrhymed.