The Pessimist Talking

The Pessimist Talking

Still you’d say, death would not have been better
than this life of looking the other way,
of silent compromise with the devil
and perchance even worse! “But tomorrow…”
Yes, what this afternoon was yesterday;
that is how tomorrows will ever be
a past hope, an illusion in the end!

       

Still you’d root for friends over solitude,
as if our company and partners say
more of us than what we are underneath
and perchance even lie! “But a real friend…”
A wolf, hidden behind the face of man;
that is how all friends will turn out to be,
a promise, that was shattered in the end!

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She Greets The Sun

She Greets The Sun
Written for and Dedicated to my good Friend, Kholood Azz.

 

Neck down an Imazighen sculpture, aware of her head,
where the fire burns an intense shade of blue, not hectic red!
One feet straddling the azure Mediterranean, she puts
the other on the glittering sands of cruel Sahara,
where the crickets never sing and the grains, both fine and crude
do not know the bliss of rain in hearts, made of Silica!

 

“You,”, she cried, casting her fiery eyes to the east, “unruly sun,
wake up from your weary sleep”, she insisted, “and pierce the horizon
with light from the fire that burns inside you, as it does in my head,
fusing lighter elements into the core building blocks of life,
so I can welcome those numerous blinding flashes of brightness
and know if the fire burns equally within my heart, limbs and strides!”

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Falling

Falling

Falling is almost always painful, be it in love or in the tumult of a whirlpool. Even when the fall is spontaneously reciprocated by the other side, love’s sad satiety imbues the union with a sour taste of emptiness. How mundanely blessed our lives would be, had falling been all there is to love. But hell no, it is not even the beginning of love, let alone the end. Then, what is love – surely neither the possession of a pretty face or the right of petting, nor the means of convenience to run in the rats’ scuttle. Zeus had no love for Hera, nor did Aphrodite for limping Hephaestus. Rather, true love is nothing but a complete and absolute annihilation of one’s ego, desires and prejudice. That is why I have always been in love with the goddess of the hunt, my dear Artemis!

 

Yesterday, a friend asked me, how many times I have been in love. What could I have said in return? Usually one expects to hear a number after asking a question like that. Once upon a time I too tallied but since 2012 I have lost the count. After betting on the wrong side and earning bankruptcy at the gambling deck of life in that year, I have been living on love. Life became covertly simple. Each day began with a fervent hope that at night I would not come back to my bed, alive. Disappointingly, every day I did. Then at nights, before losing consciousness I prayed to make this night my last one, being too tired to witness another rising sun and shoulder the shackles that dogged life’s territorial woes. That pining too was done in vain.

 

However, in between the end and beginning of those daily doses of unconsciousness, love kept digging pits for me at every twist and turn. I too responded gaily, falling in each of them without any second thoughts, that too at the first sight. In most of the cases despite the fall I survived with just a few cuts and bruises. In more than a few though, I bled to death before crawling up to the ground with my teeth and nails. I had to. Afterwards, only a few words, perhaps a complete line or two if luck happened to be with me that day, remained. A few of such fall culminated in a poem. Honestly, each of those sagas felt like a marriage to me where I, the wife, after conceiving, had been forced to live on my own with a child, the poem, growing inside my heart and soul.

 

Five years later, now, the pages of my life are teeming with more than a thousand such children, sired by love and borne by me. Yet I shall boldly claim that there is and has always been only one Krishna in my dreams. It is I whose perceptions, like Radha, have evolved and changed with time. So, human beings truly can fall in love once and once only, no matter how many faces might push them over the edge in life!


 

Satan’s Lamentation

Satan’s Lamentation
Watch and Listen to a Reading of the Poem.

 

“I give up,” – said Beelzebub, vexed with frustration,
his face, more livid than the fire, burning
in numerous corridors leading to
the great hall, where he sat, flushed, on his lavish throne!

A wary whisper of bewilderment
rose and ebbed through the ranks of his puzzled lieutenants,
as they looked on their lord, who hid his face
behind the licking flames of his hairy palms.

They wondered what ailed their master so vividly
but were too afraid to ask, lest his wrath
send the questioner with a corrupt scheme to earth,
‘O boy, O boy, doomed would be he on whom
such a curse might fall’, they all thought in unison,
for their schemes of late had grown less and less
sinister for human taste, almost angelic
compared to the latter’s own, almost fair!

Soon the tension inside that fiery hall
became palpable, as the assembly grew restless
for the reason behind their lord’s distress
and the orange flames on their backs turned a trepid blue.

At long last Beelzebub raised his horned head and spoke,
“When God created me, long before human beings,
I was a lowly child but rose up through my remembrance
until God anointed me as His head seraphim
but woe unto me, then God breathed His Light
into the souls of Adam and his partner, Eve!
The rest you know, I was undone by jealousy
and pride. I was expelled but not before
I could ask from God the power to penetrate
the human souls, He said, “Except the believers’!”

And that was the deal since the dawn of man on earth;
that they would come and seek their origin, as I
shall try to lead them astray from the path
and you know the last century has truly been
a golden age of success for our kind,
so much mayhem, bloodshed and anarchy
but now with our trade’s dynamics in their able hands,
they have grown more violent than we could ever hope to be!

Once was enough but now wretched humankind
has beaten me twice, once before the dawn
with their grandeur and now at the onset of dusk
with their internal crookedness!”, he paused and heaved a sigh
then rambled on, “What an irony, despite my name
human evil keeps beating mine, time and again!”

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Missing Poetry

Missing Poetry
Watch and Listen to a Reading of the Poem.
[Forewords]: Regretfully, since starting the channel @ The Lone Wolf Creations, I have not been able to write poems at all. Here are some words I just wrote while brooding over the fact. After all, as a poet, no act of creation makes me feel more complete than the act of writing a poem.

Am I officially single now, a celibate?
Where are the words, the sole love of my life?
O my dear syllables, how I miss your throbbing gaits
on our bed, discolored pages, once white!

And I miss playing with your minute phonemes as well,
through my fingertips, throbbing even more
at the sheer bliss of heaven while being in a hell,
that is what creation feels like to my core!

So, please show me your countenance, my dear poetry,
for I have sought you like the whirling waters seek
the comfort of an ocean in their destiny
as they keep falling down from a blue mountain’s peak!

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© Amit Rahman, 27 August 2016