Poem- The Sufis

Where did they come from?

Those men in white garb

or black hooded shrouds,

silent prowlers

through velvet nights.

They talked of taverns,

innkeepers and wine

flowing thick

and ruby red

into cups of gold encrusted,

with emeralds and milky pearls.

In love with music they whirled

ecstatically,

to the strains of the lute

and the trembling rubab,

in sacred circles burning,

all consciousness to the ground.

They delved in poetry,

composing verses divine

about the legends of old

and the mysteries of Fanaa,

beyond the comprehension

of ordinary men.

They preferred their seclusion,

seldom appearing

before the motley crowd,

or wandered the earth

like Emre intoxicated

in perpetual Baqaa.

Devotees of beauty

with hearts as pure

as the pristine drops

of early morning dew,

they preached love-

an all consuming love-

toward the One

whose sweet Breath infuses

our earthly spirits.

Zaina Anwar 2010

(The image above is a photograph entitled, 'Whirling Dervishes', Istanbul by Tinou Bao)

Poetic Passages- Autumn is on its Way

There is a chill in the air. I can feel bits of autumn seeping through. The leaves have been clinging passionately to callous branches. But with each passing day, their hold is becoming increasingly tenuous. Soon, they will fall quietly, in patient acquiescence to their fate.

I cannot wait for the heat to subside. The indefatigable army of ants that has plagued me all summer, wreaking havoc in my little kitchen, would finally withdraw. I would not have to worry about the food not being confined to the refrigerator. I wouldn't sweat so much. There would be no more sluggish showers throughout the day. Life would stand respectfully still, allowing nature to shed its skin, in a process of ritual rejuvenation. In the silence I shall immerse myself, enjoying every moment of my frigid solitude.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poetic Passages- Memories

I have managed to block most of my memories. It has been easy. All that was required was my ego, hurling itself in an effortless strike, like a vengeful army of sword wielders, against an enemy already cowering with terror.

The memories which remain, have weakened over time through deliberate neglect. The past has no use for me. My eyes are forever searching for the murky horizon beyond, obscured by a vast, palpitating sea. I traverse the agitated waves in a boat so small and narrow, it cannot afford to carry, volume upon volume, of cumbersome recollections.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- While passing through Kohistan

How indifferent are these mountains,

and the river slowly winding

through the narrow valley

embedded with rocks

of all sizes and shapes,

splintering into myriad shades

of grey and blue.

I could not bring myself

to close my eyes even

for a second lest I miss

this desolate splendour,

as far away from murky progress

as I could have imagined.

Where was the jeep heading?

And where did the destination lie?

The moon, solitary globe,

magnified itself with each passing mile,

and brought me closer to infinity.

Suddenly, I was lost

in an enchanting chorus raised

by the mountains, the river

and the wind whistling through the trees.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Literary Quote

"A poem is never finished, only abandoned"

- Paul Valery

Aquamarine

Chefchaouen, Old City, Morocco

Only in Morocco!

Moulay Ismail Shrine, Morocco
Photo by Bjoern Obst
via National Geographic Magazine

The Last Betrayal

My love flew out of the window
like the green-feathered bird I had held
so lovingly close to my adolescent breast
who escaped one day from its golden cage,
pining for everlasting freedom
in the vast, azure skies of my youth.

I was forgiving then but now,
consumed by the last bitter flames
of a fire raging long in my heart,
this final betrayal-
so shocking in its reverberations-
I cannot bring myself to condone.

Memories of intimacy clutter
my mind I beg the moon
for deliverance, over and over again.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Literary Quote

"I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty"
- Edgar Allen Poe

Photography

photo source

Africa

by Ferdinand Reus

(photo source)

Poem- Rose Scented Illusion

by Zaina Anwar


The moon tugs angry at my heart,
drawing black blood in an ebb and flow
of the sea that crashes and roars
against the rocks beneath this monstrous cliff.

The mist hangs in patches dissolving shadows:
no wonder I cannot see who I am,
give me a candle so I can satiate myself-
are these really my raw, soap-frothing hands?

Love was a wonder, a cherished hope,
but now I am down on blistering knees,
chasing a potato for the next singeing meal
over a kitchen fire that has burnt my years.

He shall not patch me up with occasional nods
and bland phrases reeking boredom;
he brings me roses on a Sunday forgetting
that there are thorns on the bloodied stems.

August 2010

Henna and prayer beads

photo source

Photography

'Bedouin Woman', Jordan by Annie Griffiths Belt in the National Geographic Magazine

The Woman in the Tree

by Zaina Anwar

As a child I was forever curious and my mind
was full of questions important to none other
than to me; alone I pondered without bothering
to seek the patronage of indifferent adults.

I stopped posing riddles quite early on to save
their exhausted ears and allow them to maintain
their dignity, unsullied by a child's incisive
queries that they couldn't answer anyway.

But I loved stories and heard them everywhere.
My aunt's tongue was always poised in readiness
to unleash a tale of mystery and ghostly lore,
stories I came to adore and anxiously anticipate.

And so, we would snuggle in her antique bed
of dark mahogany and a lumpy, cotton mattress
from where we were launched into a magical world shielded
from the powerful noon sun by curtains hastily drawn.

There was one story I heard over and over
from grandparents, aunts and older cousins,
concerning a tree indigenous to where we lived,
said to be haunted by the ghost of a young woman.

This phantom of a womanhood lost and unconfessed
carried her grief unbearable into the life beyond
and making her home amongst the twisted branches,
moaned and wailed all night long.

Her hair was a black cascade reaching her knees
and the matted strands wound themselves heavily
around the branches camouflaged by broad, thick leaves.
There she waited with menacing eyes bulging out of bony sockets.

To stand beneath the canopy after dark was strictly forbidden
and passersby were warned to avoid the path entirely.
To approach the cursed timber when the moon was high,
was to incur the wrath of the wailing phantom.

Needless to say, the story made a deep impression
so that to this day I scrupulously avoid the tree
which haunted my childhood dreams and dug
its tangled roots deep, into my youthful imagination.

August 2010

Dreamscape

by Zaina Anwar

My dreams are black and only sparsely tinted
with vermilion strokes of furious pride,
swelling like the familiar flood submerging
my nocturnal subconscious mindscape.

The deluge swallows trembling mud-brick houses
and flows toward a horizon that cannot be seen
nor approved since it does not validate
my strivings in a world forever hollow.

I jump across crevices deep, almost Stygian ravines
in a bid to follow the moonlight, a desperate attempt
at escape in a land where darkness reigns supreme-
where shadows are obsolete and there is no sense of time.

Black black blue-black with occasional dabs of orange.
Suspicious red splashes across the sky
like the one in Karachi when the dusk settles in,
fiery rust stroked in violent patches
over the blue-black canvas of my dreams.

August 2010

On turning 30

She is fragmented in the mirror,
a possibility failing over and over
to come to fruition.
How does one put the myriad petals
back into a rose?

August 2010

Drowned Under

The school's grounds have been turned into a temporary shelter. Here they swarm like ants tumbling over each other, lost and helpless. They sift among the tents looking for scraps of food. In particular the children, wide-eyed in confused wonder, rummage and talk in shifting circles trying to understand their situation. No help has arrived from the ones in charge. The men, worn out, their clothes filthy from days of travelling through mud and rain are gathered to shed some light on the matter.
At dawn everyday, all faces are lifted towards the sky and an involuntary plea escapes parched lips, 'Please God, no more rain'. During the day, flies black as death cling to miles and miles of sweating skin while at night, mosquitoes arrive in droves to launch the final attack. Already malaria is spreading here and there in patches. Soon the plague would consume those who have no other roof over their heads but the sky.
Where will they all go I wonder?
They have no food, no drinking water.

They have no hope....


(Pakistan has been struck by the worst floods in its history. A recent estimate by the United Nations states that the total number of people affected exceeds 20 million which is more than the combined total of the 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami, the 2005 Kashmir earthquake as well as the 2010 Haiti earthquake)

A Protest

by Zaina Anwar

Listen to them barking at the door,
the bearded ones pounding at the door
like rabid dogs salivating
in foam with swollen nostrils breathing fire,
searing the wood with bitter vengeance.

Listen to them scratching, splintering, cracking
in mindless fury fast obliterating
the line dividing for centuries
sanity from wrathful will to destroy
what you hold dear and I,
my precious freedom.

August 2010

The Passion of the Ancients: Etruscan Pottery

Antique African Beads

The Vibrancy of Turkish Ceramics

The Colors of Morocco

Brilliant, sun-speckled Morocco basking luxuriantly by the Mediterranean, catering to the sensual needs of hungry, time worn travellers, an earthly paradise that delights in color....

The magnificence of Mata Ortiz

Humberto Ponce

Damian Quezada

Cesar Dominguez

Veronica Melendez

Martin Olivas Quintana

"Mata Ortiz pottery, or Casas Grandes, is one of the finest and most innovative ceramics in the world.
Led by Juan Quezada, the entire pueblo of Mata Ortiz creates outstanding handmade coiled pots or ollas following centuries old methods.
With an olla as their canvas, the potters of Mata Ortiz have imprinted on them not only re-creations of ancestral symbols, but they have searched within their own spirit and creativity and have been able to conceive, a unique artistic language. They have gone through the imitation of pre-Hispanic ceramics, and have moved on to the sophisticated creation of contemporary art"
-Mata Ortiz Pottery

From my sketch book...

I call this 'Horse driven to Abstraction' :)

Flood

by Zaina Anwar

It flows, the water,
with a fierce energy,
get out of its path.
Gaining momentum daily
with tree trunks and mud chunks
blending, pushing forward relentless,
frail boundaries cannot stand
immediate pressure,
run as fast as you can.

Dirt colored, bringing scourge
of cholera in its wake
it would not tolerate
menial obstructions-
dams have burst-
concrete melting
into giant whorls,
the earth drain is uncorked.
Run before colonies
of bacteria arrive
for putrid infestation.

Woman cradling frightened child,
another an old blanket
hugging to chest, necks craned
skyward a helicopter hovering,
cries for help drowned
in the beat of rain.
They told him she's gone,
another victim swallowed
but still he looks, refuses to move,
they are waiting while on his face,
rain or tears no one can tell.

August 2010

Poem- Uncertainties

by Zaina Anwar

With my window flung open wide
Joyously, to embrace the descending eve,
And a cup of saffron tea by my side
I rest in my cushioned seat revelling
In the dusky twilight breeze
And the soft, soothing drizzle seducing
Emerald summer leaves.

I close my eyes and deeply inhale
The scent of wet fecund earth
While the native birds return to their roosts
In swift and circular arcs of flight
To prepare themselves, for the moonless night.

A child screaming in jest down the lane
Being chased by an older sister;
How familiar this playful pursuit, the wild
Beating of my heart as I ran
Into the arms of the night,
Into its velvet folds I cried,
Time and time again when my soul
Could not hold all my sorrows alone
And awed by the riddles of life as I threw
Open, the gates of womanhood.

August 2010

Poem

Wake up!
by Zaina Anwar

Wake up!
Wipe the sleep-motes from your eyes!
Can't you see that the dawn,
has in earnest arrived?
See how quietly
it has crept upon us
tiptoeing softly
so as not to disturb
our much needed slumber.
Silently it lurks in the trees
peeking through the leaves
rustling, as the birds embark
on their aerial adventures.
The night's Stygian shadows
are receding
and the burning vermilion
is flinging itself
in splashes against the sky.
Can you not smell the flowers
carefully tending,
to the morning dew?
See how they shudder
in the early breeze
spraying unselfishly
wave upon wave
of powdery perfume
so we can dance
in esctasy,
and forget ourselves,
for just a blissful moment.

July 2010

Deep green and thriving..

I am very proud of my plants-they have been so consistent in their growth :)