THUMBPRINT POETRY COLUMN
POETRY EDITOR ANANYA S GUHA'S NOTE:
Saikh Md. Sabah Al-Ahmed's poems straddles themes from extremist violence, to seeking God, to the quiet repose of nature. A skepticism marks these poems. A dangling question mark. There is no outrage, no outburst but a nagging doubt, all this embedded in pathos and lyricism, hallmarks of great poetry
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A Paradox in Kashmir
Just at the cusp of dusk,
Evening descends on a park bench;
Where –
Two dreamers shiver,
As they gaze at a retreating flock of birds;
Suddenly –
Gunshots;
Somewhere in the city outskirts,
Again –
Some more dreams were shot dead,
In cold blood,
By robust olive green souls;
Meanwhile –
The retreating flock of birds,
Couldn’t make it either.
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It’s Hard to Be Happy Again
That winter evening
the setting sun had reminded me
that the ‘big ball of fire’
could finally be ice too.
I felt a nip in the air
as the sun could no longer
warm my heart, nor my soul –
the sun was useless at night.
Dejected, I felt as if
a pin had pricked
a balloon in me
filed with happiness.
My bloated ego now floated on the envelope
and I for once felt, as if
it was hard to be happy again.
Why?
The rotund sun
whom I had trusted warmly
was now ice
on a winter evening.
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The Poverty of My Poetry
Somewhere in a dingy cranny
of a heartless city,
a poet’s eyesight struggled.
The dim lantern on his shabby-looking study table
stingily illuminated his already crammed room.
Supper was just over, and it was late evening.
He then lamented:
I have lost many a random verse-thoughts,
that had once simmered in my mind,
just like the gentle kicks of a fetus in a womb.
He again lamented:
I didn’t jot them then and there,
or anywhere,
nor did I find a piece of paper, then and there.
He now laments –
I now search them;
I am sure they are floating with the moving clouds,
I try to visit and revisit them – in vain.
This is the poetry of my poem;
This is the poverty of my poetry.
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For the Love of Poetry
I love to write poetry;
What else did you do for the love of poetry?
Don’t tell me –
That –
You had bought her the moon in your verses;
Plucked her a couple of stars in couplets;
Trapped heartbeats in ballads;
Painted the rainbow’s eighth colour in haikus;
And –
In sonnets,
You made the wind embrace embarrassment;
So –
What else could you do for the love of poetry?
Well –
I still love to write poetry;
Knowing fully well,
That it won’t sell.
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Who Said I Am a Saint?
Who said I am a Saint?
I fear crossing the pork seller on my way to the Mosque.
Who said I am a Saint?
I fear crossing the beef seller on my way to the Temple.
Who said I am a Saint?
I fear crossing the Convent on my way to the brothel.
Who said I am a Saint?
I fear crossing herds of cattle on my way to the abattoir.
Who said I am a Saint?
I fear my shadow on my way to the mental asylum.
Who said I am a Saint?
I fear crossing the morgue on my way to the graveyard.
Who said I am a Saint?
I fear my own soul inside my graveyard now.
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Thorns On My Lemon Tree
I still remember the morning
when my eyes gazed upon
the dwarfed lemon tree
in my miniature backyard garden;
The lemons on the lemon tree;
I could count only two of them,
One almost a perfectly-shaped oval;
The other had deformed contours;
Both ripe – so pale yellow;
The thorns on the lemon tree;
I couldn’t count them though;
The pricks on my hand,
Were conspicuous by their absence,
And so were any pores with dripping red;
My wristy-hand could dodge those prickly thorns,
And the tangy-twosome lay on my palms.
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To Hell with Hell
I feel as if God speaks to me,
On days when I was about to be swayed away,
By an armful of darkness,
Into the corridors of corruption,
Those slippery verandahs I mean;
I then suddenly halt at the apt hour and avoid slipping,
Into the bosom of the so called ‘moral morons’;
Judgment Day was afar;
I was still here on familiar earthly terrain;
It was from Him to me that acted as a saving grace;
So now –
To hell with Hell.
1 ‘Verandah’: Balcony
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Playing Hide and Seek with My Sins
On a hot summer noon:
On a narrow stone-paved lane,
The sun threatened to melt the stones;
On a hot summer noon:
On that same narrow stone-paved lane,
I saw three little reflections of my own childhood
with a frail fishing rod each,
thrust into a roadside drain;
On a hot summer noon:
On that same narrow stone-paved lane,
I saw my own reflection of my old age,
Trying to dust-off the dirt from my iron gate,
As if – I was,
Trying to rub off some old sins from my soul;
Late afternoon:
On that same narrow stone-paved lane,
Just below my feet,
I could see small ants in a synchronized drill;
On a hot summer noon:
On that same narrow stone-paved lane,
I later realised that the
sun and the shade had played
hide and seek with my own sins.
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The Purpose of Intention
When mornings were still asleep,
I see fresh flowers being quietly plucked
from soft overhanging branches;
These stolen flowers later adorned puja thalis.
Later, that same evening –
As dusk descended,
I could see humans in khaki
dragging feeble handcuffed hands
for stealing discarded bread
for their starving mothers.
1 ‘Thali’: Plate
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ABOUT THE POET:
Saikh Md. Sabah Al-Ahmed is a Guwahati-based poet, lyricist and columnist from Assam and winner of the Reuel International Prize for Poetry (2019) for Best Upcoming Poet from North East India. He was also awarded a ‘Certificate of Excellence’ by the United Nations Association (UNA) of Assam for his ‘outstanding literary achievements in the field of poetry and journalism’. His debut poetry collection Tranquil Musings was reviewed by Jnanpith awardee Dr. Mamoni Raisom Goswami and released by legendary (former) BBC journalist Sir Mark Tully at the Asia International Literary Festival in 2010. His poems have been translated into Italian by Giorgio Moio in Frequenze Poetiche, an Italian magazine published from the city of Naples. Keki Daruwala, one of India’s legendary poets applauded him as “A young poet with promise.” His poems and book reviews have appeared in Indian Literature, Frequenze Poetiche, Asian Times, Joao-Roque Literary Journal, Kritya, The Alipore Post, Garhwal Post, The Telegraph, The Assam Tribune, The Sentinel, etc. Besides these publications, his poems have also appeared in prestigious international and national poetry anthologies like The Roseate Sonnet Anthology (100 poems by 102 poets of ‘The Significant League’), Witness: The Red River Book of Poetry of Dissent and The Penguin Book of Poems on The Indian City (Penguin Random House).
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