There are some people whose /
impact is undeniable /
tangible, even when they are gone.
~
What you’ve left behind is /
what brings smiles /
to peoples’ faces.
They will pick up /
what you have left behind /
and carry it forward /
for generations.
quite frankly the reality is you don’t know anything about me
you won’t either, as i have no interest in telling you
and i’ve come to realize you have no interest in hearing or absorbing it
nor the capability to integrate any knowledge gained about me into anything inside your brain or your heart
i don’t fault you; i am the same
never have i cared less to know about the daily trivialities of my fellow person
never have i expected any less of anyone
i know, i know, it looks like we are all returning to former spaces in collective harmony
but the reality is we’re riding solo in bumper cars
doing our best to carry on using the fumes of our own depleting volition,
only acknowledging the existence of others when they
literally ram into us, or we into them,
despite our very best efforts to avoid one another
we zoom away with the understanding that any damage is
two ways and inescapable in any such encounter,
and that our minds will have a lot to consider about what just happened or didn’t,
for as long as we continue to idle around the enclosure
you see, things are opening up out there
at a pace not matched by our minds,
at once worn out and comforted by
our
new
normal.
I can’t say that I want to grab life by the horns.
I think I would rather watch it come together
with time like the soft creases of a baby’s smile.
I would rather lay life out like a sheet,
smoothing the wrinkles with my palms
and tugging here and there to make it fit.
I don’t care to iron first.
~
I want to watch a plastic beach ball rise and fall in the waves,
being carried here and there, appearing not to move
until some hours later when only a speck is visible in the distance.
I just want to see what will happen if I let go of the reins.
Do I believe that life’s horse will find its way home?
Have you ever wanted to feel differently without changing who you are?
~
I am no artist.
I take what is known and repurpose it,
I take what can be deduced and write long sentences explaining how to get there
I justify my existence because I am asked to
because that is the way the world works.
~
When I was caught up in it all, I saw a glimpse of the core of the core of a diamond
Where a single particle of light entered and became a wave, reflecting ever internally without end.
I stopped breathing, then
My eyes were open, but unnecessary
And I heard the music.
~
When I was tired I lay down and slept like there was nothing else
When fed, I lamented having eaten
When I was cold I longed for summer sun
When warm, I threw open my cloak to embrace harsh air
When I was rich I was no different than when I was poor
When I worked out of fear, I came so far
When I overcame fear, I stalled, thinking where to go next
The push from the outside, the crack of a whip has always been stronger than
This inner master
~
I can do anything, if asked
I can make anything, if told to
I can warm your heart talking to you for a few moments, in a place where we can feel,
under the stars with coffee in hand
I can help you but I can’t help me.
Thank you for giving me the chance
to be the kind of person that I would like to think I am.
~
For some time we’ve known that our path would be unlike some others.
At times, we would look outwardly un-alive,
while our counterparts pledged to make the most of their precious time,
far away, on other continents.
There is a difference, between patience and complacence;
between passivity, and compassion.
If the difference is not apparent, an explanation will not help you.
We are, here and now, living for a day we cannot see
but we know is there.
We too, have a destiny,
and ours is one we trust was chosen for us, long ago.
If our days are spent moving even a grain of uncertainty off the pile
then over time, surely we will find what is buried underneath.
If our days are spent walking a single step at a time,
then we trust the destination will meet us halfway.
It is inevitable that we will go somewhere from here
and that we will know where we have been, when we leave.
To know ourselves,
we sought out the most difficult paths
that we might gain something from walking them
climbed mountains, not to climb them,
but for a glimpse of the sparkling sky
travelled the world, not to see it,
but to meet the companion within.
~
This is not the world, but the whole of a mirror in front of me;
what a world, that was made simply for me!
In the whole world i have tried to see myself,
yet the whole world seems not enough.
Tell me, where should i seek that mirror,
the most beautiful of all
that mirror, which reflects me with such truth,
that i myself become it?
Tell me, who is that most familiar companion,
the one who can tell me
everything
about myself?
~
This first part of this piece emphasizes worldly obstacles and challenges as opportunities to increase self-knowledge.
The second part can be understood as alluding to Islamic understandings of the relationship between creation and the Creator.
Said the lover to the beloved, who was consumed by fear of stagnating, of not fulfilling her potential, of wasting her precious time in life:
At times it becomes apparent to me,
that I occupy quite a lot of space.
I may start out of medium size,
with longish limbs and a short torso,
and a tendency to keep these wrapped up around each other.
But if you ask me to speak, to say, to perform,
then slowly, I begin to unfold,
one gesture at a time, into a circling kind of dance;
my range of movement evolving into one higher.
Slowly, I start to take up more space,
my limbs, stretching,
my hands, talking,
my posture, lengthening,
my eyes, brightening,
my voice, burgeoning.
I start to feel what I am saying,
I start to become those words.
I start to live these concepts I describe;
I see myself unfolding as a story told.
Tell me, when I unfold this way,
do you see me; do you feel my enhanced frame?
Does my size make you want to unfold too, to join me,
or do I make you want to shrink back into your space?
~
What kind of presence do you have, and how does that presence become enhanced when you are doing things you enjoy?
Do you ever feel that someone is “in your space”, or that you need more space in order to really be you?
Do you worry that your presence could unintentionally encroach on that of others, preventing them from fully expressing themselves?
when i think of her, i remember that:
my happiness, was her happiness
that she never wanted to stagnate,
but she tried not to control things too much
when inspiration came, she flowed with it,
and allowed it to flow into her
and when it didn’t appear,
she didn’t worry about chasing it
she tried her best to have faith in the little things,
and the big,
and to remember that her life,
was not the end.
~
How often do we think about how we want to be remembered once we are gone? What kind of people do we aspire to be, and who are we, when all is said and done? This is an unedited response to a “create your eulogy” exercise that I was fortunate enough to participate in, presented by a colleague and friend.
~
This piece was inspired after attending a musical performance.
~
taking in small sips all the time
most days we trudge along, faces sunken,
the light behind our eyes, unlit
and then what comes along on the wings of a sweet melody
but the calling of something with which to cure our extinguishment
we strap ourselves in for the ride
what a thing it is to simply sit and be taken
to a place that exists only once in a while
~
fully saturated however,
we take up where we left off,
heavy and hardened, in pain
we were so close to becoming beautiful
but we surpassed ourselves in our glut
~
there can be a such thing as too much
heaven, too much light;
the flame rapidly fuelled is quick to die away
to stay free we must bend and turn,
dust off our delicate soul-wings,
and sleep;
eat only a little of the light,
and drink what has been given,
taking in small sips all the time.
The process by which we have
come to resolve ourselves,
is truth. There was nothing quite
so peculiar about the manner
in which we came to be.
It would seem only natural
that where one horizon ends,
another should appear.
Now, whether our realities
are stitched together with
seams, or whether they
are made of the same fabric,
we cannot say.
What matters, is what
we have chosen to give effect to,
out of all of the unseen.
What we have believed in,
has come back to seek us out.
What we want to be true,
never had two ways about it.
If we can influence the
making of the world with
our choices, then our choices
are the stuff of the world,
and ourselves, something
apart from it.
~
This piece was written shortly after watching Interstellar, a 2014 film directed by Christopher Nolan.
For those who know the language, Tere Ishq Mein, recorded on Season II of Nescafe Basement, is to my mind another way, of many ways, of accessing similar ideas.
© Saara Punjani 2013.
each time we turned
to rise above this illusion of the finite,
we were met with a ceiling – not yet, not yet
we made steady ablutions
and we kept a hopeful heart
and still, we were not crowned to go on
~
a kite without a string
would be blown every which way on the ground;
a kite with a string
rises high in finite direction
yet, without the string
we could not have come
as far as we already have
how far must we rise before the string can be cut;
before we are unbound from the direction of our path?
how far must we rise before we are taken into the skies,
mere specks, dissolving further all the time?
~
on this day, listen, to the quiet,
as clearly, some things are being said
whether we move,
upward,
inward,
outward or forward,
we cannot begin to say
the tides pull us away,
that we forget you;
the tides push us so far
that we fall right in
here we have always been, unmoving in the movement,
immersed in the truth of your most impressive signs
let us dig deeper, look farther, stay awake longer;
let us continue searching for you
let us be so obviously engrossed,
mere specks, dissolving further all the time
© Asif Virani, 2014.
the crispness of this season
asks to know both who we were
and who we are
~
the maple, the oak, watch over themselves with silent grace
as the leaves they laboured to produce,
and that kept them alive,
dry out and fall steadily away
what remains of our victories and defeats,
of our convictions and our epiphanies?
we have been able to keep nothing
material from our endeavours
who can say whether we leave the past
or if it leaves us;
whether we ourselves walked paths
or if they grew up beneath our feet?
we have had nothing
and nothing has been ours
and yet, we are not who we remember.
we love only that which is our own
a man, with his wife and son:
who do you think he truly loves?
~
it rains and rains
you approach, drenched and desolate,
a shelter for me, if only i would accept you
~
i wish we could say,
we are always happy with what we know about ourselves
i wish we could say,
we come with noble intention,
that we have been saving our last loaf
for the hunger of another
i wish we could say
we fall to our knees and kiss the ground,
thankful each day
for the fact that we can feel
~
sometimes when it rains
a gray runs down our face too
and sometimes,
we wish we could deny that we enjoy it
else, why would we drink the drink of self,
that warming wine of separation?
why would we continue being what we are?
~
we are, men in all of our abasement;
men, in all of our greatness
we bend lower
so that others might be jealous of our righteousness
we paint peace on our face
that they might admire our beauty as we pray
~
when everything is gray
go ask for it to be better
for someone else;
what you would have happen to you,
have it happen to someone else
oh dearest, you’ve never really been
hungry; never really been sad
you’ve never really needed anything you didn’t already have
come, smooth over the wrinkles on someone else’s face
make them yours,
and love them too.
they say time waits for no one
~
never has there been enough time
to cultivate a sense of fearlessness;
always too much time
to make idols of inspiration
we have remained too young
to say that we live our lives with any grace;
too old to say, this is the end of our allotment
~
after all the hands have been shaken,
all the pages turned, the bellies filled
after all the smiles are spent
and all the comforts acquired,
we sit by the window to watch the colours of our progression
~
some things live out their course
and pass on and away in the height of their glory
but some of us are always green
we wait our turn;
we wait, to turn,
to mature into our very own shade of sienna
~
they say, time waits for no one
but for some, it never comes at all
some things hurt us more than all the others
~
sometimes, time dredges up the pain of our old selves;
memories of poisons we’ve drunk and those we’ve made
the beauty of our face is made unpleasant by our re-livings;
the heart burns and sobs, a prisoner to the scorching coals inside
we must remain perfectly still
lest we further fuel the fire that consumes us
everything we see, we have seen before,
and before that,
and now it flickers in our eye once again.
today, i am not writing;
i am hearing a language
that i do not quite understand
the vocabulary, given in flashes,
where veils, so to speak,
part to reveal a grander intention
than the one displayed
by you, or you,
or you
there is something else,
out there,
in there
~
one sense blends into another
and my heart becomes the crown of them all
i give myself over, one kernel at a time;
i deconstruct myself, one brick at a time
to see what is in the spaces between
there is something else out there,
in there
~
there is no reason
why i shouldn’t be able
to taste the freshness
of a moment
why
i shouldn’t be able
to hear everything
that was ever said as truth
why i shouldn’t be able
to see through
to what remains
after the last of the bricks is removed
~
i don’t write these words
because i know any more than you know
i write them because
like you, i knew something once,
but i’ve forgotten
~
ask, to speak to you,
every moment, every breath,
every embrace
you are,
you are,
you are
what you have always been
and what you will always be
© Saara Punjani 2014.
what can we bring back
home from the places we’ve been?
~
when we travel, we leave behind
all of those things that have come to define us
the mirrors are different
the air is different
the light is different
and it bends around to show us more,
and less of what we thought we were
~
we come to the seaside
and make ourselves into a fine netting
so that the soul of the place will blow through
the sand grains wander
and still they make up miles of beach
we can’t hold on to anything for long
but we feel it ever so much:
what of any of this can we take home?
~
perhaps, i will bring only myself back to the beloved
perhaps, i, will be enough
a little more weathered,
a little less here, but,
with waves coming to rest on the sands of my heart,
and in my breathing, the winds over the sea
tonight, we are so quiet
that the heavens themselves reach
down to take us up, to take us in
for days we have retreated
into and away from ourselves,
at times ebbing, at times flowing
~
nothing and no one can give us what we already have
my heart’s tapestry is woven with your thread
but i was the patient weaver
i’ve known your melody for a time
but i’ve made my music longer
the gifts you gave were empty boxes
until the moment i opened them
~
tonight, i am the night
and the stars, and the breeze
i deepen
and then i fade
into the morning light
© Saara Punjani 2014.
the water of the stream flows to its end
and i, flow in all planes to the beloved
the beloved calls, and i dissolve into the wind;
the beloved exists, so i go
~
these waters gleam now and again silver,
now and again a colour we cannot name
once,
we think,
we think we glimpsed the beloved’s face reflected there
now we undertake this pilgrimage every day
~
the beloved is, so i am too,
for the moment
the water of the stream flows to its end
and i, on my way to the beloved
to speak of this, is to be silent
~
this night bears witness of the re-emergence of i
who extracts the self from the folds of us all
to take up seat in the presence of the beloved
who can stay locked up when the beloved comes to call;
who can refuse the sweet companionship?
every surface on which the beloved’s gaze falls,
loves, breathes, swings and sways in rapture
~
no one taught me how to find you
but you taught me
by the pen
no one told me i already knew you
but you tell me
over again
inside me, whole seas part
to reveal the way
to your shore
i have come upon myself
in a way
like never before
~
lately we have settled into a rhythm,
the beloved and i
breathing in and out of each other
~
i take you in, deeply;
i follow your sweet musk on the air
you fill my chest and yet you are always
just beyond the deepest breath i can take
~
the time of our rose has passed us,
and we become more bitter by the day
reach out your hand and pluck us, love;
remove us from the misery of these days
~
this is not our season;
this place is not our stage
linger though we might,
we are so much less dazzling
though we recall how beautiful
we’ve once been
the blossom that grew us
from the seed of our names
robed us in a quality,
innate
have we been asleep,
or have we been afraid
to let go, to move on,
come what may?
there is no telling
what we will be
the moment after the one
where we are
what fruit may we bear,
if we trust in ourselves,
if we let ourselves be,
who we are?
~
our bitterness weighs
on the very branch that nurtured us,
and we wilt and we droop in our pain
our poison spreads
we see it,
but we don’t stop it,
and that makes us very afraid.
who can say what should be done?
~
no longer can i breathe without running,
no longer can i eat before moving,
no longer can i speak before listening
no longer can i do
before asking,
what if,
what if all i am furthering
is irrelevance?
~
have you come here to sit,
or have you come to work hard,
so that you may make something
from nothing at all?
~
play without work
makes only a stomach ache
and love without change,
a costly, boring painting!
i care not for the pleasures
unless
you first give me of pain.
take a step back from the frontline
– it is not your place
remove yourself from the head of the table
– it is not your place
step back from the position you’ve given yourself
in the world where you give yourself such prominence
those strings you think you hold,
are an illusion
if we told you to build a mountain,
or if we commanded you to fly,
you could do nothing
faced with the impossible,
you would harbour no illusion
of your own inherent limits
if you were to try, you could only whisper a prayer,
knowing you would have to rely
on Someone
see what you’ve forgotten in your careful preparation;
see what you’ve overlooked in your careful research?
the ant does not concern itself with the possibility of an eclipse
remember your role; your place.
saara 