The Itch

by Zaina Anwar

At last, the wind,
winding its way,
through the restless leaves
of sap-encrusted trees
has reached me now,
at this hour,
so I can breathe
something other than the stench
of obscenely clinging malarial heat.

The sky is gray dark deep invaded,
by an army of gestating clouds.
They shall now,
have the last word-
the sun's autocracy
would be shifted:
he shall be imprisoned for a few restful days.
Such is the way of monsoon summer.

And so I sit becalmed
by the cool, shimmering breeze
but for an itch,
beneath the plane
where we employ, our finer sensibilities.
So as I reach out,
towards a pale blue packet,
I wonder whether I should have
another cigarette or
delay my death
by a few more gasping breaths.

July 2010

Poem- A Tryst At The Cimmerian Hour

by Zaina Anwar

At night when silence slowly creeps

Into the very crevices of rocks and tree-roots,

When the wolves and crickets join the cacophony,

Of night creatures howling grievances to the moon,

As he leaves his darkly silent womb-

I die a sweet, aching death.

At night when mottled fungi awake

To the empyreal dome arching above,

When dewy-eyed flowers luxuriate

By the swiftly streaming brook,

As he picks up the lurking scent and prowls-

I wait for him with bated breath.

At night when an errant moon coerces the sea waves

And they wax and wane in a fury of confusion;

When sea men pray in vain for deliverance

From the vengeful wrath of mighty Neptune,

As I open the door to his urgent embrace-

I drape my desire, over my yearning breast.

(In memory of D.H Lawrence)

July 2010

Shiny Sequins and motley Laces....

This is a bed spread I am working on. Using a 'tie and dye' bed sheet as my canvas, I am stitching all the laces and sequins along the borders by hand. Hard work but deliciously satisfying!

Finally, some much needed respite from the terrible summer heat. It rained for two days straight and I could breathe again...

Poem- 'Ruby Lips'

Ruby Lips

by Zaina Anwar

I hang on to your gleaming words

And watch them fall like soft, creamy pearls

Into a void in agile whorls-

But I can retrieve them later,

In my mind's nocturnal wanderings.

I try to catch your restless thoughts

Flitting like butterflies everywhere and nowhere

In a net which cradles my blistering heart,

And my breath lies still for fear,

That a winged one might in secret depart.

My being is potent while I listen to you-

No untimely distractions would tempt me away.

The mightiest wind could not in fury sway

My ardent devotion to your ruby lips

As they emit, sparks timeless, and motley hued.

(The image above is a painting entitled, 'La Donna della Frammia', by Dante Gabriel Rossetti)

July 2o1o

Dedicated to Her...

Her words slice through me like a sword,

impaling my brittle heart on its poisoned tip,

draining it brutally to the last vital dreg

of anemic blood- my wavering lifeline.

The fire from her caustic tongue has burnt

the solitary kernel of my cloistered being,

give me a brush so I can sweep the ashes,

give me a rag so I can wipe the slate clean.

(One of my favorite Native American proverbs says: It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in the hand)

July 2010

Poem

Partition

by Zaina Anwar

Close to seven decades it has been

since my country was born,

out of rivers sizzling

with blood

and deep ravines spewing

rotten flesh

and criss-crossing trains oozing

corpses of all sizes burning

the earth

like scalding

candle wax on my finger.

Seven decades or thereabout,

it has been since they stared,

myriad anonymous faces

squinting

with vacant eyes

blinded

by the scorching destiny

awaiting

the common man

scurrying

like a rat desperately

evading

the deathly plague.

Close to seven decades ago,

it was that he fell,

his heart

stopped beating,

crushed under the weight

of lead burning

a hole in his mother's soul

and she spent the night

mourning

as the leaders continued

cheering

the sacrificial horde.

Alas, the birth

of my country is marked

by the pall bearer's

ominous shriek

of pain and irreparable loss

and reality distorted

to conform,

to a misinterpreted dream.

(The image above is a lithograph by Kathe Kollwitz)

July 2010

Poem

The Smile

by Zaina Anwar

The storm has passed,

there is no wind in the trees,

the leaves are lethargic

and bowed with gratitude

preparing themselves, abstracted,

for a bit of a trance.

Slowly they emerge,

the cock and his brood

from the little wooden shack

with brown feathers unruffled,

the cock is quiet and dignified-

he has braved the storm.

The cows with sweaty hides

and wet, shiny nostrils

disperse and make their way

towards the high piled stack

of sweet smelling hay,

now damp and muddy in patches.

The pink and white flowers

obscured in the chaos

make their presence felt

again waiting for the breeze

to shake off the dust and rain

clinging to the creamy petals.

At last the master appears, big and muscular,

with the glow of youth on his face,

he speaks to the animals

in a strange vernacular

and his eyes roam restless

across the afflicted land.

Meanwhile upon the threshold

dragging her afternoon shadow

emerges a bent old frame

of a toothless woman gaping

at the homestead in turmoil

and her son in mud encrusted boots.

Upon a wooden stump he seats himself

and unconsciously crumples

his soft, dirty cap

in massive calloused hands,

his sober mind is encumbered

with various remedial plans.

Slowly the frown on the high brow deepens

and a glint of sadness embraces the eyes,

he will have to retrieve his precious savings

and hire an extra pair of hands.

But then his glance meets that of his mother,

still fluttering like an apparition in the doorway,

she betrays her barren jaw in a soft, loving smile

reassuring him in the ancient matronly way.

His heart goes out to the frail shivering woman

and he wipes the tears from his eyes,

as he walks towards her, his step is energetic-

he knows that somehow they will survive.

(The image above, 'The Autumn Sun' is a painting by one of my favorite artists, Egon Schiele)

Poem- A Tribute to Sylvia Plath

The Truth has Spoken to Me

by Zaina Anwar

Beware, for there

is fire beneath my nails

and I can scratch

your slippery surface

to swiftly reveal

your masked secrets.

In a box I have lived

full of moist

blackness

and tiny holes punctured

to watch you floating unperturbed

in your fabricated microcosm.

You have always come to me

enshrouded in a thick swelling screen

of smoke and the smell

of burning charcoal as we ignite,

already exhausted,

our embittered passion.

But the heart that has fed,

since time immemorial,

joyous interludes

to our silent ordeal,

has now come to rest

and left us to willingly die

or to pick up the ashes-

it is for me to decide.

From the disciple of Love and Beauty

When I have Fears

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,

Before high piled books, in charact'ry,

Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love!- then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

Posthumous and Fugitive Poems

by John Keats

No one is immune to the ravages of war

The following photographs are from the galleries of war photographer James Nachtwey. James grew up in Massachusetts and graduated from Dartmouth College, where he studied Art History and Political Science (1966-1970). He was strongly influenced by the powerful images documenting the Vietnam War and the American Civil Rights Movement and decided to become a photographer. He taught himself photography and eventually ended up working as a freelance magazine photographer. His first foreign assignment was the coverage of civil strife in Northern Ireland in 1981. Since then, Nachtwey has devoted himself to documenting wars, conflicts and other social issues. He has been a contract photographer with Time Magazine since 1984 and has won numerous awards and honours over the years for his outstanding, daring imagery.

This post is a way of expressing my hatred for wars...

Afghanistan, 1996- Land mine victims learned to walk on prosthetic legs at ICRC clinic.

Kosovo, 1999- Imprint of a man killed by Serbs.

Bosnia, 1993- Wounded soldier.

Bosnia, 1993- Mourning a soldier killed by Serbs and buried in what was once a football field.

Rwanda, 1994- Survivor of Hutu death camp.

Somalia, 1992- Child starved by famine, a man-made weapon of mass extermination.

Sudan, 1993- Famine victim in a feeding center.

(For more of his work, visit his website at: www.jamesnachtwey.com)

Inspiration- Simone de Beauvoir

Brush strokes and Laughing Buddhas

'Islamabad Blues'

Acrylic on canvas

My little collection of Laughing Buddhas and hand painted little bowls which I use as candle holders...

For the love of Vardos...

Paintings

Painting

Untitled

Acrylic on canvas

I donated this painting to a school where I worked as a career advisor for some months.

Inspiration- Frida Kahlo

Painting

'Stream of Consciousness'

Acrylic on paper