Indigenous Dialogues

Fragment XXVIII

2011-10-15T10:18:00.003+05:00

She lives in color,
wears roses and a Rilke poem
to keep the heaviness
of life at bay.

Zaina Anwar, October 2011

Poem- Fragment XXVII

2011-10-13T12:06:00.003+05:00

Egon Schiele

Stripped of all rationality
are these words
that hang about in the air for me.

It's like peeling
a lemon to the core,
struggling with one's own thoughts
to put them to sleep.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Fragment XXVI: Let's Not Forget..

2011-09-21T12:33:00.004+05:00

Scaling the magnificent Nanga Parbat in Pakistan.
Photograph by: Tommy Heinrich, National Geographic Magazine, January 2008

Every time I travel to the North, to the magnificent cradle of earth giants, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of utter powerlessness. Living in cities, and having built skyscrapers and manipulated genes, man deceives himself with delusions of grandeur. And the city nurtures these delusions. It takes away the immediacy of nature, and by extension existence, replacing it with a fabricated sense of being. But up there in the mountains, we are engaged in a direct confrontation with the awesome power of nature. She needs to be respected and left alone, for she has the capacity of annihilating mankind, and whatever we hold dear, within seconds. This fact should never be forgotten, and for this reason alone, it is important to get away from cities- which are after all, artificial human constructions- to get a sense of perspective on what is ultimately, real.

Zaina Anwar, September 2011

Fragment XXV

2011-09-15T15:41:00.004+05:00

Subversion
Miriam Sweeney

It is impossible for a poet not to think. The very nature of his craft implies a profound, conscientious exploration of the innumerable strata of life's encounters and experiences. The poet is a lifter of veils; he dissects at the very core of being to reveal that which is hidden.

The poet is ultimately, an instrument of the unknown.

Zaina Anwar, September 2011

Fragment XXIV

2011-09-10T01:21:00.003+05:00

The forest has always been a hiding place, a place where no rules apply. Where no conventions exist to mar the possibilities of silence.

Zaina Anwar (September 2011)

Poem- End of a Chapter

2011-09-09T11:35:00.002+05:00

Silence.
Night's glory's stretched
Across a star speckled sky.

Remember how we heard
Tender sounds of a waterfall
Somewhere in the wild?
You cupped a bird
With wounded wings in your hands.

That day you read my conscience.
That day we dug
A solitary grave for our love.

Zaina Anwar (September 2011)

Poem- Fragment XXIII

2011-09-08T18:31:00.002+05:00

In these reckless times, each one us
is trying to map a speculative chart
of precarious possibilities.

Zaina Anwar (September 2011)

Poem- In the Moon's Absence

2011-07-31T15:20:00.004+05:00

For many nights now, the moon
has been searching for an opening
through the thick, black curtain
of monsoon clouds.

Resenting the moon's absence,
the sea lies listless
while in her sorrow the wind
is hollow and mute.

The nightingale too,
in a state of confusion
has almost forgotten
her primeval song.

And I, who have bowed
to the solemn beauty of the orb,
find myself flinching
in the shadow of perpetual gloom.

Zaina Anwar, July 2011

Poem- The Wreck

2011-07-30T00:43:00.003+05:00

Odd Nerdrum. Love Divided, 2005

Once you spoke to me of love.
Those were passionate days.
Not a moment to lose,
so we sped through time,

orbiting the earth.
But then, imperceptibly,
a little gap, followed by
minor disasters, strange misapprehensions.

Until a veritable chasm
has opened itself between us.
My limbs can't stretch themselves enough.
And worst of all, I don't even have

the requisite will to move.
So, let us suffer in silence.
I won't even raise a finger.
Not anymore, I won't.

Zaina Anwar, July 2011

Poem- The Tunnel

2011-07-29T11:34:00.003+05:00

Sleeping Beauties by artist Terri Windling

Sneak me in, why don't you?
Then we can travel
through the long, dark tunnel
of endless night and myriad
guilt-encrusted dreams.

Besides, who can say?
We may emerge at the other end
shaken but cleansed
of the horrors in a lifetime's
hoarding of grief.

Zaina Anwar, July 2011

Poem- Fragment XXII

2011-07-28T04:03:00.004+05:00

She, an anonymous woman, glided past
leaving a purple trail of lavender scent.
He, an afflicted man, clutched his heart,
retrieving suddenly
the memory of a long-lost love.

Zaina Anwar, July 2011

Fragment XXI

2011-07-25T17:39:00.005+05:00

A poet is someone who captures ephemeral moments of beauty we have failed to see. A poet specializes in the truthful dramaturgy of life, at times holding a dangerous mirror to our conscience and repressed memories.

Zaina Anwar, July 2011

Poem- A Memory of Love

2011-07-23T02:14:00.006+05:00

I have a riddle,
a riddle for you, my love:
why did the tree
of our childhood stop growing?
Or the wind carrying the scent
of apple blossoms stop blowing?

Now as I stand
close to our afflicted tree,
I remember the creases of your skin,
my heart against your heart
beating a strange prophetic rhythm.

And it is in anguish that I hear
the strains of a music we made
so very long ago
floating over to me now
as I sit in the leafless shade
of our beloved childhood tree.

Zaina Anwar, July 2011

Fragment XX

2011-07-21T15:20:00.002+05:00

What constitutes a meaningful encounter? Is it something as momentary as a glance? Or a gesture or a solitary spoken word that stands out among all the rest? Is time at all relevant during such an encounter or does it acquire significance only afterwards, once the experience of the other turns into memory?

Zaina Anwar, July 2011

Poem- Some Moments

2011-07-07T15:19:00.003+05:00

London by Yaroslav Gerzhedovich

Your body recedes
in pale decibels of mirth.
Splintered in half,
the lone twig falls to earth.
How could I forget
that lonely autumn day?

I remember how the setting sun
lulled our senses to sleep
and the bonfire drew
light out of the darkening sky,
avariciously,
flames reaching high.

Some moments always remain,
seeping through time's mystic prism.
Like pre-historic minerals these,
asking to be mined
over and over again.

Zaina Anwar, July 2011

Poem- Fragment XIX

2011-06-27T18:07:00.003+05:00

Photograph entitled, 'Birds in Flight', 14 x 10 in. by Chinese photographer, Don Hong-Oai

Who is it that speaks
at dawn when the birds sing
the ancient chorus of Love?

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem: Soaked

2011-05-27T21:43:00.002+05:00

If you suck hard enough, skillfully
manipulating tongue and lips,
you just might taste blood.
If you manage to break
my stubborn leather skin,
the damage would not be reversed.

We can never (don't push, it hurts)
mutate into a single entity.
That has never been a rule
in the deviant game of love.

(Should I preen my thoughts
to suit your macabre view of the world?)

You have mapped your empire
on my body's waxen expanse.
You have amassed ruby-rich spoils,
what more could you possibly want?

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragmented

2011-05-21T00:26:00.006+05:00

Allure
of the mystic lily
but you broke it in halves,
my great enthusiasm-
you wanted your carnal rose.

Now the smile
on your mouth reflects
a violent dismantling
of old consolations,
tears of a lifetime laid
away in a sordid tomb.

-- Zaina Anwar 2011

Link

2011-05-19T11:54:00.002+05:00

Read a brilliant short story by Afghan writer and poet, Zalmay Babakhoi here.

Poem- Torn

2011-04-09T22:04:00.003+05:00

'Fixing Your Heart' by Spanish Graffiti artist Skount (Raul Garcia Pereira)
via Zoe in Wonderland

The following poem was originally published in Gawaahi.com, a website documenting stories of abuse and survival across Pakistan.

How could she have explained
the black agony of repulsion,
the morbid dialectic
of oppression, or the heavy, sinking feeling
like a hot stone expanding and scorching
the wrinkled flesh
of her weakened heart?

With her innocence crushed,
cringing with fear
like a drooping lily robbed of the sun,
she had tasted beyond her years,
the murky depths
of a malefic mind.

Nauseous and empty,
the girl-child hounded by his lust,
had felt her entire life condensed
in a single,
tremulous tear.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Who knows where Cupid's arrow...

2011-04-04T11:56:00.003+05:00

Forest of Dragonflies by Iraqi artist, Hayv Kahraman

Who knows where Cupid's arrow
shall come to rest in a lonesome heart?
Who knows when Fate would weave
a glint of hope for the lover's dream?

Though love be precious, it may yet disappoint
those who consecrate, and those who idolize;
For the man who severs love's roots from life
is seldom blessed with a happy wife.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Two black birds...

2011-03-17T13:50:00.003+05:00

Purple Vine and Spring Swallow, c.2000 by Chen Jun

Two black birds,
tiny, with pointed tails,
silky,
with just a hint
of white, pure as snow and touched
only by the wind,
were hopping along amid tufts
of emerald green.
The one who lead the way
seemed to be struggling,
anxious,
he poked about hunting
for worms and snails.
Despite his agitation,
his appearance was impressive,
he had a strong
sense of purpose-
he was the head
of no small brood!
So he puffed out his breast
and held up his head
and pranced around displaying
his strength and agility.
But then, acting
purely on instinct,
he turned around and of a sudden,
became very still; his chest
deflated and his wings
sagged all the way
to the ground.
For there stood his lady,
young and glowing,
looking very satiated,
with a big, fat worm
wriggling
in her beak.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Last Illusion

2011-03-13T20:34:00.004+05:00

Trees Shadows on the Park Walls, Roundhay Park, Leeds by John Grimshaw Atkinson

It is easy
to fall into disuse,
to let the plants grow wild,
to let weeds stifle the roots.

It is easy to dismiss
the beauty of the sun,
to miss the clouds floating by
and their shadows shifting over the heath,
or your child's smile as he runs,
in reckless joy,
across a sun-dappled field.

It is perilously easy
to slide into squalor,
into a comfortable ignorance,
to secure oneself in the evasion
of life's painful
ambiguities.

(inspired by the movie 'Grey Gardens', 2009)

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- On the Death of Love

2011-03-10T10:07:00.005+05:00

Ophelia by Sir John Everett Millais

(While reading Keats and blinded by the sheer brilliance of his verse, I penned the following):

All I remember from that day-
The day before she died-
Is in her hands she held a nosegay
Of pretty peonies with a silver ribbon tied.

Though many a summer's hour I spent with her,
Reposing by the languid stream;
Always abandoned by Courage, I could never confess
My love for the bride of my dreams.

Oh! if only I had known, if only I had grasped
The treachery of Fate spreading her arms to thee,
I would have taken my heart, in golden trimmings wrapped,
And presented it, as an offering to thee.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment XVIII

2011-03-08T21:56:00.004+05:00

Photo taken and edited by Alexandre Fundone
via tumblr

Your love has stirred my heart
Like the warm spring breeze
Caressing reeds to life
In stagnant pools.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Curse of the Wanderer

2011-03-08T01:54:00.005+05:00

The Wanderer above the Mists, c.1817-18 by Caspar David Friedrich

Where do you go, O Wanderer?
Do you not have a place
to rest your head
or a loving embrace
to soothe your soul?

Here you lie by the dying brook,
your eyes feverishly devouring
the burning summer sky.

Have you no craving for a kindred spirit,
to open your heart and rid your mind
of the curse of black
discontent?

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Fall

2011-03-05T14:36:00.004+05:00

Boreas by John William Waterhouse

The sea laps up your desires
but you, bronze-skinned beauty, you
float in the scarlet ether of oblivion.

The sky soaks your innocent pleasures
but you, nymph-like enchantress, you
drink the scarlet wine of oblivion.

The beast is howling in the woods tonight.

Take heed for he is coming for you,
seeming to charm but only to ravish
the star of Venus about to fall,
and her ancient kingdom, forever vanquished.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment XVII

2011-02-25T14:52:00.006+05:00

There is a question mark
in my mind.
Why has the leaf
decided to fall in the wrong place?
The ocean is turbulent tonight,
I can see a raven through my window.
Why have words suddenly become
so grim,
and so utterly useless?

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Fragment XVI

2011-02-14T18:09:00.005+05:00

Emil Nolde, The Prophet, woodcut circa 1912

Sometimes, melancholy
like a great black-winged bird
descends, in a vicious arc
trailing terrible echoes
through my mind's stagnant mist.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Lament of the Coconut Tree

2011-02-10T12:15:00.008+05:00

Aubrey Beardsley inspired illustration by Howard Tangye

I remember her street
always teeming with traffic-
miles of twisted metal holding
the heat of a scorching summer.
At my grandmother's house
bleached by eternal sun
with encrusted stucco falling off
like peels of broken skin,
there was a coconut tree,
terribly ancient and bending
under the weight
of wind-scarred years.

Its spiky leaves
always covered with sand
from a sea languishing somewhere
along the horizon beyond
hung low as if barely able
to breathe.
The tree was familiar
as my own two hands.
I played in its crooked shade,
meditating on strange shadows
shifting with fire.

Once, on a night of idle dreams
laced with stale breaths and dung smoke
when the moon felt the shiver
of the first touch of winter,
the tree spoke to me
softly whispering its lament,
strange and indecipherable
and floating upon the virgin breeze
to my grandmother's heart where
it was buried,
yet again,
never to be revealed nor understood
by those who have forgotten
the sad refrain of the coconut tree
as it mourns the loss,
the irrevocable loss,
of the earth's wondrous glory.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Guilty Pleasure

2011-02-08T19:08:00.005+05:00

Egon Schiele, Two Girls lying Entwined.

nipples, redheads
orgasms on screen-
the boy plays
at sex in his mind
already, a dichotomy
has taken shape between
visual scenes
of plastic fornication
and the taste
of real
live
flesh.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Vigil

2011-02-07T00:05:00.008+05:00

Sadequain, Circa 1970

The moon hangs low tonight.
In my house,

candles burning
everywhere.

A devout vigil
is being kept.

The women look
like nuns bleary-eyed

and dressed
in immaculate

shrouds of death.
Gradually, the wailing

grows louder,
until the voices

pierce the night sky
and break the composure

of distant stars.
I lie

in a brittle coffin.
I scream

(masked) but no one can hear.
Eventually, the voices

fade away,
until the moon

becomes my ghost's
haunting mirror.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment XV

2011-01-27T13:00:00.001+05:00

In his eyes

reconstructed,

brought back to life-

my mind is moving

again.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment XIV

2011-01-26T19:47:00.003+05:00

Sadness creeps further

as winter slowly recedes.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment XIII

2011-01-26T13:34:00.005+05:00

Cold wind-

on the mulberry tree,

buds still tender.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment XII

2011-01-24T19:55:00.004+05:00

All my things

in snug anonymity

packed in boxes.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment XI

2011-01-23T11:14:00.004+05:00

All walls are empty

except for the shadows

where my paintings used to hang.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Eternity of an Ocean

2011-01-20T22:04:00.002+05:00

Wassily Kandinsky, Transverse Line, 1923

I waded through mud

and brambles to reach the shore.

But once I felt the water

and cold twilight foam,

my bruises faded like the last

specks of light

across a sky vanquished

by the moon.

I screamed.

And the voice came from deep within.

I heard echoes trailing down

deep crevasses in the immense

rock formations dotting

the coast.

I called out to him over and over again. Nothing

but the ceaseless sounds

of waves lapping away the sand

inch by inch

into the nameless depths

of eternity.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Dreamscape IV, 'The Wolf and I'

2011-01-19T22:27:00.003+05:00

My friend the wolf has an eye that can see beyond human existence. I have flung the putrefying melange that gave morbid strength to my reason against an empty sky. I have reversed my heart's atrophy due to anxiety and cruel expectations. I am no longer bound to my own laws.

My instinct, spurned to a deep recess all these years, has been revived. I have dragged it out into the open, preened silvery feathers, and taken a long biding oath.

Yellow leaves, dry and thin as paper, quiver against a turquoise sky. His icy breath has crept into my bones. He has walked away from me to die alone, deep in the forest in company of strange birds. I do not entertain hope. He will be snowed under soon... his blood will stain the roots of my favorite tree.

My wolf and I sit beneath a winter sky. When I shiver, his body gives me warmth. As memories begin to flow, he howls at the moon.

He is chasing stars in swirling constellations while I mourn.

We have decided to follow the river to the end of time. I will collect rocks and study- not without envy- beautiful salmon burning with a purpose that cannot be explained and yet is reason enough for them to survive. The wolf will suck the life-juice out of cacti and point the way in the shadow of the North star.

And so I shall travel until the blisters on my feet erupt and heal again. I am on a journey without a destination, open to all possibilities of change and painful tangents. I shall walk until I have gleaned the ancient secret that glows in the eye of my wolf like the dying embers of a mystic fire.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragmentation

2011-01-14T10:03:00.001+05:00

He came to me

with hot caresses

and lilies and solemn

promises.

By the time he left,

my heart

was a broken mirror.

(First published in Poets Democracy)

News

2011-01-13T13:11:00.002+05:00

My poems, After the Carnival and Fragment III have been published in Carcinogenic Poetry. Check them out and the site as well, it has some amazing poetry. Thanks.

News

2011-01-13T09:35:00.005+05:00

My poem, The Rain has appeared on The Camel Saloon. Do drop by. It's a great magazine where you'll find lots of interesting, mature poems. Thanks.

Poem- On the Porch, a Death

2011-01-12T17:28:00.002+05:00

A wind chime

and the first drops

of rain

pattering

on a tin roof.

The cat,

huddled in a corner,

moans to the wind

in protest

against the cold.

My grandmother

in a rocking chair,

her cigarette

falls to the floor.

"At last, her heart

is still, " whispers sadly,

the wind

to the moon.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Insomnia

2011-01-10T13:55:00.005+05:00

Through my window,

I can see

Venus flaunting herself

across the deep blue scroll

of the night sky.

I see the moon

perched nervously

on its throne

like a queen

newly crowned.

With every gust of wind,

the cat pricks her ears,

ready to spring.

She is aware

of my heart's sluggish beats.

In the silence of snow

and leaves turning brown,

we ponder,

my cat and I,

like little Buddhas

upon the night's

mystic

shadows.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Not a poem but a thought..

2011-01-08T15:11:00.003+05:00

An artist has no other choice but to live in his art. All other avenues are barren and steeped in the menacing shadow of despair.

-Zaina

Poem- Recuperation

2011-01-08T02:38:00.010+05:00

Anger flares red
in her womb, every time
she thinks of them.
She, wrapped in a violet
night, had opened tin cans
full of dead frogs floating
in turbid

formaldehyde.

She envisions white coats
fluttering around cadavers
splayed undignified
across steel tables.
And in an arched hallway,
an old woman pointing
with a crooked finger warned,
"You must leave this place."

She walked barefoot
across burning slabs of stone
to reach out to the world
for once.

She inhales fresh air and freedom.

She has banished
years of whiskey breath
from her memories
forever.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment X

2011-01-07T13:00:00.007+05:00

Through the trees,

a sonorous wind

has picked up the scent

of pine cones

and crimson berries

soaked in the sun.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Glass House

2011-01-06T13:23:00.007+05:00

Remedios Varo, Papilla Estelar, 1958

High up in the trees,

the wind can sway

an eagle's nest.

At night, the gentlest

dew drop

can tear

a lonely petal away.

At a crucial moment,

one wrong move

by the hunter

can scare

a rabbit into the bush.

Did you know

that the human heart

is made of glass?

The house has

shaky walls.

It can be shattered

by a single,

black

word.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Mind's Eye

2011-01-06T09:41:00.004+05:00

The idea is to see

with the mind's eye.

A holy eye

right in the middle

of the forehead.

(Moonbeams seep through

the window blinds. They

have come to pay

reverence.)

Magnificent eye!

Sacred eye!

Power of the mystic.

And the holy hour, since

the earth

is eclipsing

a weakened sun.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- The Musician

2011-01-05T10:13:00.011+05:00

(To Damon Albarn)

His voice

gently carries

(glimpse of a trembling flame)

silver notes of woe

and a deep longing

for what is not,

for what might have been.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment IX

2011-01-04T12:25:00.001+05:00

He idealizes me.

I am

his velvet abstraction.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment VIII

2011-01-03T22:44:00.002+05:00

He steps into the room

brandishing his ego

like a mighty sword,

ready for an attack.

He talks, I listen.

All the while,

there are mountains

and rainbows in my mind.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- White Roses

2011-01-02T15:21:00.011+05:00

Joan Miro, Ciphers and Constellations, in Love with a Woman, 1941

She has gathered her dreams and colored them

into paintings with gold and lapis strokes;

she has torn stars from the sky to pin them

like flowers to her sinuous braid.

Her path is strewn with petals of sweet jasmine

gleaming like pearls fresh from the ocean;

she holds her desire in a gold cup fringed

with shimmering crystals and fiery rubies.

His blood eddies into a passionate heart

drenched in rose water sweeter than honey,

unfolding itself like a sleeping lily

slowly waking to the light of a new dawn.

Together they lie beneath the ancient oak,

fanned by the warmth of butterflies' wings.

He holds her breath captive as he bends

to kiss her softly, by the white roses dancing

to the beat of the summer breeze.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- An Encounter in Love

2011-01-01T22:16:00.004+05:00

Egon Schiele, Embrace Aka Lovers II

Love has a way

of seeking you out.

Amid trembling chandeliers

and lips in a florid mist

of red wine and roses,

he found her.

He felt himself

in her eyes

as she walked away

with his shuddering heart.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment VII

2011-01-01T17:29:00.001+05:00

Could it be that she deems it wise

to return my heart

in a state of utter disrepair?

The moon has shut its eyes

to my predicament.

The cat returns a thick,

blank stare.

Zaina Anwar 2011

Poem- Fragment VI (Symptomatic of Freezing nights and Snow-drifts)

2010-12-31T17:08:00.008+05:00

Egon Schiele, Winter Trees

The trees stand naked and shivering against a pristine sky. She is lying on half-frozen grass, staring into a mesh of branches ruthlessly exposed. The leaves- or whatever is left of them- uncurl like ancient scrolls: thin, desiccated and easily torn. The air reeks of silence and untold secrets...

Her mind is a wilderness of memories planted long ago. Images of numerous faces known but not needed, hover in the air above like stubborn, cold-blooded flies. Time weighs heavily upon her. With each passing day, the dreary winter tightens its hold. And at night, past an early sunset, as darkness gathers its misty folds, she finds herself clinging desperately to sanity, like a dying man fiercely retaining, his last fugitive breath.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Fragment V

2010-12-31T11:50:00.002+05:00

Love leads inevitably

to a burning tenderness

in the flesh of my heart where

mosquitoes breed and blood

circulates in strange,

infected whorls.

A vision of hell has leaked

through my tranquil dreams.

From the deep of the night sky,

black melancholy has descended

to rape the flesh

of my trembling soul.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Fragment IV

2010-12-30T17:33:00.004+05:00

In quiet anonymity, the cactus

has overseen the whole affair.

Myriad thorns have pricked

hot words and deep sighs

into the early hours

of a gray, winter's morning.

The cactus is now meditating

upon human cruelty

and silvery snares.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Fragment III

2010-12-29T00:29:00.003+05:00

The rose faint with fragrance

has slowly begun to wilt

in the chaotic quietude

of deep, starless nights.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Fragment II

2010-12-28T16:39:00.004+05:00

Lorca, breathe your pain into me

so I can fly on the white wing

of your bittersweet song.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Fragment I

2010-12-28T13:12:00.009+05:00

The sun refuses to shine today.

I am a blue moth incensed

in the shadow of viscous clouds.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Circles and Threads

2010-12-20T00:19:00.002+05:00

A cushion I recently embroidered and stitched myself.

Poem- Love Song

2010-11-19T08:36:00.003+05:00

Pablo Picasso, The Fan

Love came to me one summer

out of the deep of the night.

Spun from the velvet fabric

of darkness it settled itself in my hair,

my skin and my thighs.

From the dark he came.

I lit the old lantern-

bright light, divine light.

I opened myself to receive

his warmth in a liquid embrace.

From then on, I fell to unimaginable depths.

Since then, I have soared to startling heights.

He opened a hidden door.

Every image was inverted

as if in a mirror.

He showed me how the stars

that shine so bright

on a rare clear night,

are secure in the knowledge

of the great unknown.

He made me a gift of ecstasy.

I have built my life on his love.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Sadness

2010-11-15T14:09:00.005+05:00

Edward Munch, The Day After

It comes and goes.

It swirls like a dense fog

through my blood

suffocating veins, choking my throat.

My heart beats without rhythm,

concentrated in muscled agony

far in advance

of intense anxiety approaching-

it kills happiness.

He suffers with me.

Brings me roses and lilies,

adorning my cracked skin

with his hopes and broken dreams.

And I die of guilt.

Oh How I perish with guilt!

There is no hope for a mind collapsing

beneath the weight of an old sorrow,

unresolved, demanding conclusion,

like a ghost haunting

its last dwelling

on earth.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Last Prayer of a Dying Lover

2010-11-13T14:09:00.005+05:00

Letter written by John Keats to Fanny Brawne

In memory of John Keats

If I could hold your hand and never let it go,

We would walk for hours across the moors

Beneath a star speckled sky and the glow

Of the night maiden's silvery allure.

Softly we would tread hand in hand

Through leafy lanes crowned by gleaming arches

Of trees heaving 'neath a foliage grand

To ferry you back to your beloved Marshes.

On the wings of memory we would enraptured fly

To the misty lands that gave us birth;

The lute's trembling strains would make you cry

And for a moment deny, your innocent mirth.

By the softly humming brook we shall lie

And I would clasp you tightly to my breast.

In your love's sweet ecstasy I would die

To be born anew, to my eternal rest.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Single Factory Mother

2010-11-10T12:39:00.005+05:00

Fernand Leger, Woman with a Cat, 1921

Quiet bashful Delia

who works for ten straight hours

over at a paper factory

where they sift mechanically

through standardized rag

paraphernalia.

And when she comes home,

all worn out and body blown

apart,

she finds her teen aged son

glued to the television,

his glassy eyes reflecting

the aimless visual drone.

She has just four hours

to undo the disorder

before her varicose legs,

like overused wooden pegs,

would no longer be able

to justly sustain her.

She rushes about,

wiping the baby's mouth

with a dust-laden flannel cloth

and picking up yesterday's laundry

still languishing anonymously

in the rusted dryer.

Suddenly a sharp, crashing sound

and shards of glass are scattered about,

she must keep the baby away

from the pieces of the broken

tumbler,

given to her in inheritance

by her domineering long dead mother.

A nervous laugh escapes her lips,

'If only the matron could see her now',

down on her knees cautiously retrieving

remnants of a memory fast receding

into the annals of a bitter past.

A playful slap by the boy

and the baby's howl in reaction

brings her back to the present

where matters more pressing

are always claiming

her faltering, weary attention.

But as she gets off her cracking knees

and unbends her frozen back,

the room begins to spin round and round,

her heart begins to sink deep down

to the pit of her stomach where she knows

that she hasn't had a proper meal,

a wholesome nourishing meal,

for weeks.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Indifference

2010-11-09T23:50:00.006+05:00

Max Ernst, The Forest, 1927

On every tree I hang-
as if in a Christmas ritual-
rugged landscapes of dreams
and starless nights.
To every tree I reveal
deep agonies and dark concerns
which the moon annihilates
in a single glance.

Hope unravels dusty scrolls
of ancient memories hovering,
quivering in a mirage
of an existence that seems unreal.
While Nature, indifferent as ever,
echoes nothing other
than a resounding silence.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Lorca's Lament

2010-11-09T11:12:00.009+05:00

Triple portrait of Lorca by Salvador Dali

My love has flown away

on the black wing of an eagle

to pierce the blue mantle

of a Spanish sky.

Words have deserted me,

they have marched away

to the beat of a thousand drums

and the clash of swords.

The gleam of his naked pistol

and the sun's scorching rays

blinded me as I knelt

that sweltering summer's day

on flowering earth-

mother of all mothers

that gave birth to me.

They dragged me to the cemetery

to breathe my last broken sigh.

I am still searching for the mound

where my shattered bones lie.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Land of Filth

2010-11-03T20:03:00.004+05:00

Heironymous Bosch, The Garden of Earthly Delights: Hell (right wing of triptych)

c. 1500

This is a land of filth,

filth that winds itself

like a creeper around every heart

and hides- a poisonous snake,

deep inside where

trees have rotten roots

and apples fall, weak

and forever stained;

where flowers die

since no beauty thrives

and the sky offers no apologies

for mirroring

a corrupted earth.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Earth Persona

2010-11-01T12:28:00.010+05:00

Max Ernst, 'Max Ernst showing a young girl the head of his father'

Crouch, unbend.

Turn the lights out on a wasted day.

Dipping stale bread in copper rum,

leave me here by this river

since your love's agony will never end.

Will the sun condescend

to heal bruised crops

and thin rivulets of blood

pumping iron molecules

in an old myth of Sisyphus?

Prayers, mantras and chants.

Take a knife's blunted years

and unleash them

to the hot, arid winds.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Musings..

2010-11-01T11:13:00.002+05:00

Skull cracks.

Scalp tears.

There is a music drone in my head.

I am slowly fading away

into a fiery ether.

Poem- Gratitude

2010-10-30T13:28:00.007+05:00

I wish I could place the warmth

of the sun in your eyes.

There, behind grey

cataract opaqueness

I would like to place

our brilliant star.

I wish I had the healing touch

so I could smooth out

your crow's feet

and tangled veins.

Tender red buds

groping for light and wind

were healed forever

with a few drops of dew.

You saved me from myself.

I would like to return

the sun to you.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Dreamscape III, 'Love Vision'

2010-10-12T12:43:00.007+05:00

From Miro's Bleu Series

I dream of love. Yes, I have had a vision of love. I recall strong arms and nimble fingers. I remember your rippling shadow in desire's molten river. I am walking through the same forest where we wandered in another age.

The leaves have uncurled in joy. Each blade of grass is alert and quivering to the strain of my love song that is tearing apart the misty membranes of an unquiet heaven. Our nightingale is curiously peeking through the moist foliage of a fertile tree. She wants to know if my love has returned.

I cradle white daffodils in my arms. I talk to bees and borrow myriad seeds from the wandering wind. I salute a hazy sun. The benevolent king extends his arms in a gesture of goodwill and mutual understanding.

I have watched numerous trains speeding feverishly through this wilderness. Strange faces in rattling windows counting weary miles and endless cups of tea, have seen me balanced precariously against a falling sky. They must have wondered at my tenacity...they have not seen my vision of love.

I have dipped my fingers in sweet honey and consulted owls beneath the moon's watchful eye. I have collected their wisdom like a flower gathering snowy pearls of dew. I am now immune to the mundane trials of life.

A wandering tribe of gazelles has entered the forest. The wind carries the intoxicating scent of musk and sunlit fur. We have formed an alliance. We have studied intricate designs of the universe.

In solidarity with nymphs and nomads of old cultivating primordial desire, we stand on the cusp of a new era and sing an ancient hymn to love.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Bedouin women

2010-10-11T13:14:00.002+05:00

source

Master Photographers

2010-10-10T11:39:00.007+05:00

Arkady Shaikhet

Father and Son in a Village in the Mountains, 1929

Photographer Unknown

Red Army soldiers hide in a trench as a WWII tank drives over, c.1940s

Robert Lebeck

A frozen canal, Leningrad, 1962

Marc Riboud

Moscow, Russia, 1961

Antanas Sutkus

Village Street, Lithuania, 1969

Pentti Sammallahti

Man on Snowy Road, Solovki, White Sea, Russia, 1992

Andre Kertesz

Accordionist, Esztergom, Hungary, October 21, 1916

All images courtesy of Nostalgiya

Poem- Mirage

2010-10-09T11:01:00.024+05:00

Arab Woman by Nasrollah Kasraian

Higher and higher it echoes

his voice against giant

rock formations

in an Arab desert.

A bit of jest,

a playful touch

to a long journey

through a lonely stretch

of earth

since the flask is full of water...

On and on they go

on camels lovingly adorned

with ornate rugs, such

a splash of brilliant colors

and tiny gleaming mirrors

in the harsh light

of a desert sun.

Where is the oasis?

-There, just beyond the horizon...

But where is the horizon?

-The horizon is a mirage.

His heart is beating

to hallucinations.

Energy is slowly

flowing out of him

into the hot sand,

hot like burning embers,

burning in the sun's

eternal fire.

In his mind's eye

he sees vast rivers

and waterfalls.

In his dreams,

the earth is green

and fertile.

But the water

is slowly

running out

the flask is now almost empty...

His throat

is dry and parched,

like old paper.

So where is the oasis?

he asks, over

and over again,

and why is the horizon

still a mirage?

Zaina Anwar 2010

(The poem doesn't have much to do with the photograph. The only relation highlighted here is the theme of the desert to which this woman also belongs and where everything is ultimately, a mirage. It also appeals to me since I myself was born and raised in the city of Riyadh, in the midst of the fiery Arabian Desert)

Poem- Metal Mouth

2010-10-08T09:04:00.006+05:00

Egon Schiele, 'Agony'

There is a sour taste in my mouth,

the vile taste of metal in my mouth.

Is it a symptom of bitterness

or have I swallowed rusted pipes?

Bad dreams and indigestion

go hand in hand, said Freud.

Last night, I saw a face with rotting flesh

melting off bones and a mouth

gaping wide to engulf me-

a subterranean nightmare of decay

and putrefying breaths.

There is no light in such places,

just a heart rending isolation,

and a slow consumption of being.

What is Time anyway? Is a moment

in dream more lucid than sequence?

And I wake up screaming, always

with a subconscious aftertaste

of metal or the acid juice

of bitter lime in my mouth.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Black henna..

2010-10-07T11:51:00.004+05:00

Photo by Celalettin Tunc from Izmir, Turkey.

Poem- Dreamscape II, 'When I Met the Wanderers'

2010-10-05T18:05:00.006+05:00

Georgio de Chirico, 'Comedy and Tragedy'

When you ask them their names, they shrug their shoulders and howl. The moon cowers in fear among constellations. The desert wind is harsh, they say. It does not sustain life. The sun colludes with the elements and destroys. Water is scarce and refuses to flow.

They have never seen a flower. What about their dreams, I wonder. Do they dream of nothing but water? There must be a clock hovering somewhere, recording time in reverse.

They scratch their bodies and unplug orifices choked with sand. Sometimes, they gouge eyes. The wind does not know surrender. The wind does not relent. It has been shifting sand and skin, since the beginning of time.

They took me to their caves steeped in darkness and arid death. They revealed a moon landscape, desiccated and infested with rabid worms, uncurling menacing hooks that attach themselves to flesh and feed on sluggish veins.

They have no stories. They have been deserted by memories. They have carved themselves into the earth.

They swallow broken teeth and rock themselves to fitful sleep, while the sun- unforgiving as ever- blazes on...

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Dreamscape I, 'Negation'

2010-10-04T10:28:00.009+05:00

Georgio de Chirico, 'The Soothsayer's Recompense'

Shelves of concrete cluttered

with exoskeleton remains

of mystic ants and endless columns

of steel tarnished with acid rain-

these are the landmarks

in one of my many

dreamscapes.

One door leads to the next,

from thought to thought I flit

with tiny wings as a butterfly,

mournful as I see how the world has aged.

On a hot evening we walked

hand in sweaty hand to the sea,

where waves rose like greedy spectres

to devour land's freedom

with the will to ceaseless negation.

The moon is not bruised enough to hear

the lament of those that haunt the earth

with their grief bundled up in a knob

of flesh we call the heart-

the pulsing crux

of life as we live it.

The dream never ends.

It always picks up

from where it left off, leaving tiny crumbs

for me to nibble when I wake to the sun;

when I wake to a new interpretation

of night's heady winds.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Echoes of An Evening

2010-10-03T13:44:00.009+05:00

Pink sequins and an emerald wrist

in a mirror marred by violence.

Look behind you, there is a spider clinging

to a flimsy web that cannot be held

together by mere words alone.

In a green silk blouse shimmering

like sunshine on a crystal tear,

you look for distraction in a mirror;

you stroke old wounds with fingers

yellowed by cheap cigarettes and years

of bitter acceptance.

Through evenings smelling of stale smoke

and plants dying in Moroccan terracotta,

you comb your hair in a window lit

by moonbeams frail and tarnished with time.

You sleep to the lonely sound of chimes,

and engulf yourself in the folds

of a long and scathing solitude.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poetic Passages- Nostalgia

2010-10-02T15:05:00.008+05:00

A white dawn and the clash of aluminium pans while a rooster crows. She has risen, the last pleat of her sari has fallen into place, she stands to face another hot, summer morning. Children with tender knees buckling, under the weight of bulky backpacks, howl their way to school as mothers breathe a sigh of relief- they are rid of niggling demands for the rest of the day.

Slowly, the world comes to life. Leaves uncurl and petals shrug off night's glistening dew. The sun blushes its way out of oblivion through scattered wisps of cloud. On the terrace, she calls out to the birds in mystic code, scattering fistfuls of seed and watering her plants in wet terracotta pots. Again she scolds the milkman over his product diluted with water while he stands, grinning and cursing at the same time, his sorry fate. She collects the day's newspaper and puts out the trash for the sweeper.

At last, she comes to rest with a hot cup of tea, hunched alone, with a spine deformed with age, over a table tottering on weak legs. Inky headlines in the paper begin to blur and gradually lose all definition as she rocks again her cradle of precious memories. Once again, she hears the voices of her children playing, quibbling, falling over each other. Her daughter is in tears because her brother has yanked her braid. Her youngest, a boy of five with an incredible store of willful energy is screaming for a missing shoe or a book tossed carelessly under the bed the night before. She sees herself as she must have been then- lithe, agile and full of life.

Presently, her husband's voice, frail and trembling in an echo reaches across, as if through a long, dark tunnel to shatter her dream. He is asking for the newspaper; she has forgotten his tea. He is irritated and restless. She swivels her chair around. She is ready to spring when suddenly, a wave of terror ripples across her face. She drops her cup. It explodes into tiny china fragments.

She covers her eyes.

She falls off the chair in tears.

Every muscle and every bone in her body aches with nostalgia as reality sinks in, for she has just realized that the flat is empty. She remembers now that her husband has been dead and gone for ten long years.

She screams.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Gaza

2010-10-01T17:55:00.005+05:00

A white lily

beneath an orange peel,

is crushed to tears when a drunken boot

slips and falls

into a gutter

which will overflow

tomorrow, when it rains.

Tomorrow, the sun will not object

as the wind steals the lily's dreams

of sunshine and wild blossom,

and carries them to the river-

in the heart of the dead city-

where no seed and no flower

has ever been allowed

to bloom.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Shame

2010-09-29T20:40:00.005+05:00

A violet turned inside out,

the petals are wasting away.

Even the wind refuses to discard

the remains of a wounded heart.

A tin peddler came late last night.

He offered me a replacement-

I broke down.

I turned him away.

There is paper everywhere,

little pieces with strange scribbles

from strangers I've seen on thousands of miles

of a lonely train journey that began

somewhere outside time.

Lemons, cream and tears...

Come to me, I call out

to no one I know.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poem- Red

2010-09-28T20:41:00.009+05:00

A history of love,

of lust?

What a mirage!

A distorted mirror.

Throw red paint

on walls newly white,

I shall swim

to the end of earth.

The magician's trick

has worked-

the heart is now

ugly and steel.

Keep it away, far away

from me,

I shall ask

the night owl for wisdom.

But will he listen?

Or will he just return

an empty stare?

Zaina Anwar 2010

Literary (and hilarious) Quote

2010-09-28T14:18:00.005+05:00

"I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again"

-Oscar Wilde

'Shashkin' by the celebrated Turkish virtuoso flautist, Omar Faruk Tekbilek

2010-09-28T12:16:00.007+05:00

Poem- A Walk in the Rain

2010-09-27T14:57:00.009+05:00

A walk in the rain.

I am lost in the moment,

enjoying the earth-scented breeze

spraying tiny liquid pearls,

light as snowflakes against my skin.

She shuffles along,

frenzied gaze to the ground

and lips slightly parted,

caught in a desperate struggle

against a muddled mind.

She cannot feel the silence

nor the tension,

of birds perched still

as stones on slippery branches,

hidden behind thick curtains of leaves,

endlessly dripping moisture.

She cannot see the clouds

hanging low

over undulating hills,

moving ever so slowly

since heavily pregnant

with monsoon vapor.

She cannot see or hear

anything other

than the violence

of her own thoughts.

I know she wants to talk.

Eventually, her words

like a pack of greedy hounds

force themselves

upon my consciousness.

I try to resist but they win,

as they always do.

And so, another cycle

of complaints dragged out

from her bottomless well

of petty grievances,

opens itself

to swallow me.

And my meditation is interrupted,

yet again.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Living history...

2010-09-25T14:55:00.011+05:00

Last night I met a wonderful woman who carried the aura of a bygone age. Her grey hair was gracefully coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck while a single gold bangle glittered on her fragile wrist. Draped in an elegant cotton sari, she told me stories about her childhood in Calcutta. A sheen of nostalgia glimmered in her eyes as she unveiled a monsoon memory, of how she and her cousins used to gather around the family table, playing an improvised tabla and singing until their voices were hoarse. After the drumming session, they would send someone down to the nearby khoka* for some hot, steaming tea and delicious jalebis* soaked in syrup sweeter than honey. "Those were the good times", she said. I marveled at their capacity for 'having fun' in an age when indispensable modern entertainers such as television and computers were absent. And then the realization hit me- we were the ones who had forgotten.

We are the ones who are lost in a digital world, drowning in meaningless images arrested in random motion, pointless, going nowhere. Just a part of a society of spectacles, as Debord prophesied.

She talked about the bloody partition of India and the ideological paradox in her own family. Her grandfather was strongly opposed to it whereas her father was in favor of an independent Pakistan. It personifies the dichotomy which has taken root in the minds of thousands of people as they watch this country being swallowed by corruption and poverty. Her voice was strained with a deep sadness as she talked about present day Pakistan. She wondered whether all the slaughter and mass migration in 1947 was worth it. She was mourning the death of dreams so artfully erased that they are not even a part of my generation's memory.

I enjoyed listening to her. It was as if I had stepped into a different world. I like learning history as it was actually lived by people who were right there, caught in the midst of great events that have decided our course for us. Because, you see, having been influenced by the powerful legacy of Edward Said, I do not trust the oriental narratives laid out in intimidating tomes compiled thousands of miles away from a given culture. To me, they are just so many anemic words marked by a long list of credentials and a lifetime spent sniffing dust in the hallways of colonial academia.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Khoka: a road side stand selling tea and snacks

Jalebi: a type of sweetmeat popular in South Asia.

Where did they go?

2010-09-24T19:05:00.003+05:00

source

Poem- Courage

2010-09-22T00:31:00.003+05:00

The women are sitting in a circle.

They are beating their breasts

with hennaed fists.

They are chanting and wailing for her.

"She is mourning the birth

of a stillborn child.

Her womb emptied too soon...

The child could not last,

the child had to die."

Over and over again they cry.

Their frightful refrain pierces the night air

until the sky itself recoils

in absolute fear.

"Leave her be!" her mother screams,

"My daughter has an iron soul.

Her heart beats to the clash

of her ancestors' mighty swords."

"She will wrap herself in the folds

of a long and weary night,

she will plead her case in the court

of a just and noble moon."

Hearing this the daughter,

as if jolted out of a long stupor,

looks towards her mother

and smiles.

Thereupon, with her head held high,

she turns and walks away

into the dark forest beyond.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Poetic passage- Unable to Connect

2010-09-20T16:05:00.007+05:00

Sometimes, the silence between us is so thick I could slice it easily with a knife. All these years, the crow at my window has taught me wiser things. Her head is always buried in print; words are flesh and blood to her. They are firmly rooted in history, she says. They are inscribed in immortal ink upon the constantly unfolding scroll of existence. She makes it sound poetic. People on the other hand, are transient, almost vaporous beings. Their gestures are illusory, their eyes deceptive and their tongues controlled by dreams, hidden behind a vast, impenetrable screen of unbearable darkness. So she sits back and observes. She watches them from a safe, guilt free distance, like an inquisitive neighbour peeking through a door half open, never daring to walk through..

She cannot make the connection between words and the people who utter them.

Zaina Anwar 2010

What the Moors left behind...

2010-09-19T07:32:00.006+05:00

source

(all images are from Sevilla, Spain)

Poem- It Makes No Sense

2010-09-17T17:49:00.004+05:00

Don't tell me it's not a crazy world

When women stringed in heavy pearls

And priceless furs to which the dead smell

Of flayed animal heat still clings,

Slide out of hotels huge and foreign spiced

With glittering floors and cucumbers sliced

In odd shapes, labor of sweat and blood,

To sell through hot, steaming kitchens and lure

Exquisite taste buds nurtured by leafing

Through the right magazines, cameras flashing

To capture a beautiful morsel entering

A costly mouth, red-lipped in layers hiding

Tiny winter cracks and expelling

Fumes from breath freshener bottles displaying

The heraldic arms of a corporation labeled

In loud golden letters.

Don't tell me it's not a crazy world

When across the street from one such hotel,

A wrinkled man lies by the side of the road

Missing a leg in a land mine carrying a load

Of cooking oil and flour for the family's bread.

His clothes are filthy with the peculiar smell

Of need and endlessly streaming sweat

With boots rugged and barely hanging together,

Hammered in places with rusty nails.

By the road he lies come heaven or hail,

Begging for food his body daily craves

While frenzied lice crawling through his matted hair

Enact a circus to keep the people away,

Who recoil on instinct as they pass him by,

Wishing that the council would have him displaced-

He is spoiling their perfect landscape.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Quote

2010-09-17T09:09:00.004+05:00

"Every empire, however, tells itself and the world that it is unlike all other empires, that its mission is not to plunder and control but to educate and liberate."
-Edward Said

Tunisian blue..

2010-09-16T14:53:00.004+05:00

All photographs are from Trek Earth

Poem- Remembrance

2010-09-15T05:24:00.009+05:00

The moon is feeling generous tonight,

I don't need a lamp.

Even the wind stands still in awe

of the orb's nocturnal radiance.

I am in the grip of his memory tonight,

give me your cup of fragrant wine.

This is the night I shall dance

to love's sweet refrain,

this is the night I shall mourn

my beloved's rose-scented tears.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Who is she, I wonder..

2010-09-14T22:12:00.004+05:00

I haven't been able to figure out where this girl is from (I strongly suspect Morocco). She's beautiful isn't she! Look at those eyes..

(photo source)

The Voice of Yemen

2010-09-13T13:45:00.006+05:00

One of my favorite bands: Al Yaman

Based in Prague with Yemeni lead singer, Ashwaq Abdulla Kulaib (pictured above) who has an incredible voice. The Yemeni dialect is heavier than other dialects in Arabic and I think that makes her songs more powerful. They have just released their latest album, Insanniya (meaning: humanity).

Poem- The Attendant

2010-09-12T09:46:00.008+05:00

In a room with antiseptic walls,

amid wires like tangled roots

of her heart keeping time

with his pulse, she sits

like a queen bee dethroned.

Leaning her head

against the window pane,

a chance lifting of her gaze reveals

a pigeon with a glistening ring

of feathers pink and azure hued

around its regal neck.

This moment brings a gleam

of tender hope to a spirit subdued

by the sombre air of a hospital ward

and eerie signals from machines

measuring her love in digital beats

of a barely functioning heart.

For days she has dealt

with men in scrubs,

and starched bedsheets too:

snow white and smelling

strongly of disinfectant

smoothed over a mattress designed

to prevent bed sores.

She has tried to understand

medical aliases of volumes of fluids

pushed into the mesh of languid veins

pulsing quietly beneath

his broken skin:

a magenta map of myriad bruises.

Day and night she has kept

a silent vigil by his bed,

uttering prayers she is shocked

to recall after so many years

of placid intimacy with her man,

now lying unconscious

and timidly breathing

into a plastic oxygen mask.

Zaina Anwar 2010