Namesake

When I started blogging, I would spend a lot of time in finding the apt name for that blog. Eventually for the love of peculiar-name-finding I ended up making a lot of blogs - blank and unmanageable. Then I deleted them. 

Such were the stupid and funny pleasures of my childhood. These must not be judged as nerdy habits but I found a corner to pretentiously portray that I can write and things around the world are affecting me. Like a sign - that I exist and if you find me here, the impression would be stronger. 

Coming back to my craze about making a new blog instead of an effort to write a new post.....After finding the name which sounded intellectually bright and poetically confirming - I would quickly register and start with a nasty, grammatically poor, nostalgic post about something of and around emotions. Why emotions because this is what I value the most and this is one thing I failed to change till date.These tiny little sensations always find a way to capture and sabotage the practical side of mine. Practical side! To take part in the making of this world and to survive, I need to be practical and less sentimentalist. I juggle so often between these requests that I am mostly nowhere. 

Finally, the whole purpose of this post is about the name of this blog (Poet of Minutes) which I am changing. I am changing it to                   . Change has never been a constant friend of humanity. (only if you could see me mock at myself)

“We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.”

 ― Fernando Pessoa

Memories

as they come
they might knock the door
but mostly without a foretelling,
they enter and amuse the ego

they spread from one empty room to another
igniting the old, forsaken corridors

in utter silence
the final ghost of speech awakes
and this sound is the cause of damage
in all our humane endeavors.

AEY ISHQ HAMEIN BARBAAD NA KAR - NAYYARA NOOR 

Terribly tiny tale

One cat, Four dogs.

Tossed, ached and bitten.

Two human eyes, one mute mind.

A million frozen cells. An invincible blot.

Cat loses a body and the human loses a soul.

Performance Poetry

Admiring the way this woman, Rafeef Ziadah (you will get information about her on Google and her website) made poetry so powerful. Respect. Love and motivated!

words of a diary

sometimes i exist, sometimes i don't
i look for reasons to live
i look for answers to dispose
i live under the fear and
invisible for all
i would sing of my history
and become a page of past
sometimes i think, sometimes i don't
sometimes i feel, sometimes i don't

Young Habits

My writings have been affected. Please don't read them with any expectation. This is simply an attempt to manipulate a simple moment and hence dismissing the rules of poetry which were structured from all directions. This might be near the idea of what humans are in my perspective - a chaos in search of harmony - a recurring image of irony and a long pause in a conversation between two gods!

The 26th.

A father amuses a Sir by singing a song of bank
this river of economics run through the world of modern men.
sanctioning a policy of financial loss,
they calculate the down payment
This is the mortal men's fate!
Like an unromantic warrior, the father counts all numbers
yet the music of accounts fail to resonate
Has this unfortunate hen who lay the golden eggs
dismissed the ego for the future of sterile men?

A sun who cursed the son
sublime into the hours of stars and heaven
The flash-light of a television box
connects the stationary to a mobile region
and before the eyes could blink
begins the dance of tongue and doomed heroes!
"All men are on duty" - states the sensuous journalism
A brother and a remote controller
reigns the room of television.
The cast is changing as the era is different,
these old rooms will change as per the new tenant.

Inside, sitting in the clear mist of another corner
like chanting a holy scripture, unconsciously,
a mother is  popularizing a devoid book.
Like a monk who sold his peace for a title of a mother,
she is a zen artist in the loud battle among all the wrongs.
Memories march around this family
but everyone is occupied. Blind and busy.
In the invisibly visible cubicles of self
is a gathering of separated lives.
The story does not end here.
The ironical play of words is a perpetual saga.
A white soul looks into the eyes of graying self
while a little girl crawl towards the centre of the table
to blow the candles.