There couldn’t be
a better backdrop for change
than one which inexorably turns gold,
red,
and fades away.
Change is good and
change is hard.
Change
is
inevitable.
It is the hardest thing to see ourselves
bare
when the leaves fall away,
and we are left to assess our own growth,
all our knots
and all our bark, peeling.
It is the hardest thing
to acknowledge our own vulnerability.
Will we still be here come spring?
Or will we simply learn
to see the forest
for the trees.
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?
There is something the matter with each of us.
Some of us weep in our homes, too “busy” to face our brethren.
Some of us are always on about the next best thing.
We may be neighbours but we resist becoming friends.
~
Where will you be, friend?
Where you will be at peace.
Where peace is friendly and friendship brings peace.
Peace, peace, peace.
Nothing else we ever asked for;
nothing else we ever knew.
It’s not that hard is it?
Peace must be somewhere, like a river or the sun;
Rising, now and again.
Why would we have to work so hard to get it,
and so hard to stay within it?
Once you get to a certain point,
it won’t be about what you do
but how you handle what’s done to you.
Peace, peace, peace.
Two poems: Museum and courtyard, unedited
These pieces were written while and after visiting the Aga Khan Museum in Toronto, Canada. The first, Museum, is a reflection on history, civilizations, art and interpretation. The second piece, courtyard, unedited, was penned while sitting in the Museum’s inner courtyard, and has intentionally been left unedited in order to maintain for the reader, the flow of inspiration as originally felt. It contains English as well as another Hindi-Urdu mixed language that sometimes spills onto the page. Please excuse my rough transliteration attempt as neither of these is my first language.
Museum
What will the people from days to come decide to make of us,
what will they preserve in their halls?
Those gone by have become to us what remains of them,
after all tribulation and epiphany fell away into dust.
They have become what we can still understand of them.
~
There is too much left to know about knowing; not enough left to see.
We fear we are penning lines already penned by those greater than us,
a people that truly saw the truth unfold.
Nothing can be said now that has not been said before;
our efforts, mere echoes of a greater, grander voice.
What inspired these carvers, and what were they trying to say –
can we be certain that we have preserved ourselves against misunderstanding?
Did they create these shapes because those are what they saw,
or were they too, seeking to lose themselves in detailed but repetitive abstraction?
Do these patterns transcend a name?
~ ~ ~
courtyard, unedited
is jahaan mein hum upna sub kuch kho sakte hain,
sub kuch seekh bhi saktehain
aisa husn ko bananekiliye, aisi roshni, is roshni, ki zaroorat hai
this light is something like the light of the heavens and the earth;
this light has an unnameable quality to it,
a way for all to see all
bathed in it my hand resting on the table becomes something from another world,
translucent, light diffusing outward in the place of rosy flesh
your eyes are from another time here, where patterns repeat themselves to liberate beyond eye’s capacity, where voices rise to a crescendo and we take in,
light,
light,
light, light light,
upon our hands, our face, and every
one is so beautiful here today
yahaan aake kuch bhi likhdijiye,
sub kuch shahiri banjayegi
yahaan aake kuch khaaneki zaroorat nahin mehsoos hoti,
in hawaaon, saa(n)son, is jahaan ka rooh hi kaafi hai
yahaan rehekar kuch chaate hai hum,
kuch khona bhi chaate hain
kuch cheez samaj na chaate hain hum,
kuch cheez humko yaad aatihai
kuch cheez hamaari thi, hamaari hai,
hamaare dil me se nikalke,
humhi ke aage jhoom uthi
keherahihai:
agar aapke dil mein koi baat phool ki tarha khilrahihain,
to usse khilne do;
mat sochiye
agar aapke ander koi baat hai, to aap dil ki zubaan se usse pehsh karo,
chaahe koi samje ya na samje
agar koi lafz kaafi nahin lagte,
to khudh ke lafaazon banaalo
khudh ki zubaan banaalo,
koi samje, ya na samje
~
A rough translation of courtyard, unedited:
in this place/world we can lose/forget everything of/about ourselves;
we can also learn everything
to make this kind of beauty, this type of light, this light, is needed
…
come here and write anything at all,
it will become poetry / anything written here becomes poetry
here, there is no need felt for eating,
these winds, breaths, the soul of this place/world is enough
staying/being here, we desire something;
also, something we wish to lose
some things we understand,
and some things, we remember
some things were ours, are ours;
some things come out from our own hearts
and have come alive/to dance in front of us
they say:
if something blossoms like a flower in your heart,
then allow it to blossom,
think not
if there is something in you that wants to be said, then use the language of your heart to convey it,
whether anyone understands or not
if no words seem enough,
then make up your own words
make up your own language,
whether anyone understands, or not
~
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.
© 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.
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.
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
i write a letter to the beloved
my fingers move only in love
i move in love
and love moves me;
i turn,
i turn,
i turn
~
which sense to keep when loved by the beloved;
which of any of my things could i need?
what use for eyes that see the beloved everywhere;
for direction when upon the beloved’s door?
nothing need make be sense said anymore
the beloved knows what i would write before i do;
the beloved in my veins, in my blood
a flower blooms steadily in love:
desiring for sun to gaze upon its every part
yearning for dew to slide slowly over each curve
at the peak of its love, each petal arches so strongly
that it breaks free of everything and goes on
~
what sun shines here, a dusty lamp;
what morning wet, a mere drop
tell me, if i break free,
will you place a palm underneath and carry me?
living in you is a sober kind of intoxication
in it, my capacity to give increases,
and a focus resolves: that each day must be lived
~
what you must do, is what has been assigned;
all you need know, is your task
will you be the one blade of grass that refuses to bow in the wind?
~
it’s incredible how fortunate we’ve been made;
it’s incredible how fortunate we’ve become.
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.
i walk the narrowest road toward you,
no less fine than a hair
if there is anywhere to fall
it is directly into the mist below,
which
is you.
the end of your rope
is always in sight
all i must do is stretch out my hand
and you send it my way.
your rope – a lifeline for one who drowns
when in fact there is no other sea
if there is anywhere to drown,
it is directly into the height, width, and depth,
which
is you.
dearest,
it’s okay to be the one that loves more
to be the one that speaks less
to be the one that reaches out for a strong hand
isn’t it wonderful
that you can be so in need?
isn’t it wonderful
that you can feel so in need?
my dearest, dearest, heart:
it’s okay to put the self to rest
and to yield to your need
for the beloved
~
i close my eyes and
my forehead is so naturally drawn
downward, to rest at your feet
i cannot do other than bow
this is where i am
and this is where i belong
something in me knows
you
are home.
today even the sky refuses
to see that sun stands behind it;
that sun shines all around
doesn’t sky know that all he must do
is to step his Self out of sun’s way?
~
last year’s trash comes loose from street-side icebergs
i walk, careful not to get my boots wet
eyes looking down,
my Self, growing ever larger
because i refuse to see what is all around
behind me, someone chants,
something eerie, but something familiar
i listen more closely:
rain, rain, go-a-way, come-again-another-day
rain, rain, go-a-way, come-again-another-day
~
silly grown-up! have you forgotten what it was like
to be so small that surrender was no choice;
to be so small that you knew you had no control?
the little girl isn’t happy or sad,
she just is
who are you, to feel the world on your shoulders?
tell me, who are you?
the little girl isn’t worried or anxious;
she holds momma’s hand
with momma there, gloom is simply gloom
that will go away,
that may come another day
but momma will be there!
~
whose hand do you hold, silly grown-up?
saara 