Omer TarinHow can I define this passion? It s tempo and motion? Its deep laments and pain? It is something unspoken but felt, Hidden but not-hidden- ‘’the Open Secret’’ says Rumi- In the darkness I am lighted by it towards some oracle, some worthy and high Pilgrimage, to Olympus or Delphi I do come. My eyes are fixed upon something just beyond this horizon, some grave scene or word that is meant to ring out and grip me, to enthrall and burn to the very bone. Yet, silence. Where are the voices ? Coming down the mountainside and calling me to that ever-burning bush, that fiery tree on the gravelly slopes of Sinai? Why this sordid silence, this emptiness longing to be fulfilled ? The music of the soul is stilled right now. And I shed tears of separation. How, then, shall I translate you, my Friend? My Beloved? How shall I interpret you , in some transcendent mode, bring down some epic code? How shall I address the people? How expound and enact some complex ritual of worship? I leave now, then, towards a simplicity. In my own reflection I see you. And that is all. © 2016 Omer Tarin Omer TarinThe lambs are slaughtered and we leave- By the spouting of their blood! By the omens in their entrails! By the riddles in their bones! - We leave This is no land for the tattered ones We no longer belong to these hills Our ploughs are blunted against furrows of stone; The milk of our cattle has curdled in their udders; Vultures feed on our wretched carcasses As we leave behind our painted dawns and Nights pregnant with desire; We leave behind a heavy curse- O land of tyrants! O land of fools! May your rivers shrivel into dust; May the plague infest your fields; This is no land or refuge for us, The sons and daughters of the ages, We who have been given mastery of these worlds And those worlds beyond these worlds; We have folded our tents under the scrutiny of our foes And tomorrow, tomorrow we shall find ourselves, anew. © Omer Tarin 2016, by special arrangement Omer TarinLodged up there, on an imagined elephant’s back Your voice chants out with pride A medal of triumph, great in itself, Strange and shining in its innocent strength, Like the stars, dazzling us both with precicious wisdom ; The roaring cataract of love surrounds us And your smile becomes a lion, Golden-maned and true. © 2016 Omer Tarin Omer Tarin is a Pakistani poet in English, research scholar, social activist and mystic. Tarin has published five volumes of poetry in English, widely reviewed in Pakistan and abroad, as well as several poems published in anthologies and collections worldwide, including A Sad Piper (1994; 1996 UK), The Anvil of Dreams (1995), Burnt Offerings (1996, 1997), Riverbeds Flowing, and The Harvest of Love Songs (1997, 2000; and UK ed 2003). In addition to his literary and academic interests, Omer Tarin has established a private library for research students and scholars in a wing of his home and also donated a sizable collection to the National Archives of Pakistan and the University of Azad Jammu and Kashmir.
Sarah AngeliseWe waited with our hands tied under our wings For the perfect moment to be gifted to us Watching the Sky from afar Watching the stillness of the burning stars The Moon rose golden in hue And yet you stood still You did not know what to do So we waited a little longer Burned prayers and love letters Sacrificed our chances Gave everything up to the Moon Until the Moon fell sleeping into our hands of dreams And we stood silently In awe of its graceful falling from the Heavens And we let go of everything We ever believed And I kissed you Filling your hands with new stars And you handed me new dreams As we fell asleep in one another's arms With the Moon fading into starlight The Crystal MoonKalyani KapurI had been wandering for a long time, a nomadic soul was I. So when I heard that a group of gypsies was visiting my town, I had to go. Vast arena of colorful wanderers, the gypsies. I found the fortuneteller with the crystal moon. She looked at me, the color of her kohl-lined eyes was darker than coal…she had long tresses to go with the eyes, olive skin with long hands; she was tall, with a hundred stars of different colors on her fingers, and a huge string of beads around her neck. She had a tiara in her hair, and her eyes barely blinked. She looked at the crystal…………. I was scared. W hat if she finds out that I carry you like darkness within me and my soul, like a plant that never blooms but carries the light of a rainbow within that one strand of messed up hair I hadn’t fixed since I last met you-- that smell of yours that I still carry with me the missing color on my lips that one tear, frozen in my eyes-- the heart that I carried within my heart, the thorn in my foot the dagger in my heart that you deserted me on the high seas when there was a storm. I will tell him with the same arrogant demeanor and the aquiline nose that you loved so much that it was I who deserted you; I will wait, for when my tear becomes a pearl. I will remove the thorn from my foot, the dagger from my heart and give you that pearl as a parting gift. For I promise, I won’t meet you at 60. The fortuneteller looked at me for a long time and said: “I don’t read a gypsy.” I got up limping, She called me and said, “It will take you a long time to get that pearl.” I started walking again and she called back again, “But you will get it before 60.” I smiled and she smiled. Humboldt Bay under the Weeping WillowKalyani KapurStanding alone With a resounding silence within And always questioning why am, I called the weeping willow The kids running around me My leaves rustled with their voices For once I could take joy in their hugs Unaware of what would life unfold for them The old couple, Life came along wasted or hidden away in fantasy Decided to end it all, holding hands On the Humboldt Bay under the weeping willow The girl who sat under my arms and cried For selling her soul for pennies As I tried to protect her, Her tears watered my soul For the fruit I will bear Will have the echoes of the heart that grieves For the boy who ran away from home, Because he was odd, They call it autism And I thought he kept alive the child within I the weeping willow, on a stormy night When he went fishing I sat rooted on the Humboldt Bay waiting for his return He never did…….but many did return On the Humboldt Bay under the weeping willow The PearlKalyani KapurI have to tell you for you ought to know, I destroyed the pearl for it grew within me like a seed for your denial fearing the social carcass. Such was my desperation I removed the dagger from my heart and stuck it on to the pearl. In that moment I saw blood on my hands and all over, then there was oblivion. I woke up completely empty... I tried to find myself in the mirror and saw nothing for the mirror shunned me too. I was hallow by my own sins so today I forgive you for my sin is bigger than yours-- I destroyed the pearl with my own bare hands The pearl I felt The pearl, you neither felt nor saw. Flying HomeMarilyn FlowerI'd like to say I didn't know you'd die that day, the morning I fled you, Father. At night, I hold your legs against the palsy, press you to the hospital cot, rising, jumping—how can Mother face this without me? Early Monday, she brings your pill; you turn your head away. I know you'll be gone by nightfall. I kiss you, kiss Mother (who doesn’t know), race from the house, terrified you'll leave before that airport bus carries me away. You wait until evening to take that breath subdued—I know you knew, Dad. I sigh, content you blessed my flight. Early LoveMarilyn Flower Because you're small and kewpie cute, the third-grade girls from class bring you home, fumble with your shorts ’til they crumple around your ankles, then pass you hand- to-hand. On the second round, you snatch your shorts, hurl them across the room. The girls stroke and pet you ‘til the sun has fallen in a dream. Later, you find Julie, pupal, aching, sweet. That was love, you’ll always say, remembering. Your father takes a job across the country, hauls you with him. In the years that follow, you marry and leave, marry and leave the same woman or find another, each beginning flooding your eyes with gold.… Outside those moments you clamp shut—sell cars, sleep, wander shopping malls at night, like those empty winters in the place your father moved you to, stripped branches, dead sky, earth a crust of ice. Burning Jasmine ~ Φλεγόμενο ΓιασεμίChristos Rodoullas TsiailisI wanna give you—give you give you So I take everything back home and cook I wanna give you—give you give you Oh, I take the sun, blue tack and a broom I wanna give you—give you give you So I take the yellow leaves and sew Oh, how much I wanna give your dreams some lag Obstacles, lenses and flammables My fire will be enough. I wanna give you—give you give you So I ask my room some favour I wanna give you—give you give you Oh, I move the moon cast forth—it blooms I wanna give you—give you give you So I collect nocturnal jasmine seeds Oh, I wanna glitter little thoughts inside Nyx, Zorya, undress your satin veils I wanna see your skin. Because you asked me to give you everything Here, it is what I have most precious A rare Japanese flower burning on my naked palm [Oh, no, no! Don’t leave me… don’t go! Oh, please take it… nooooo!] Oh, shame, what is left now of this wonderful pledge is two shadows cast to opposite sides of a stone village, which would never comprehend rank, loss and Hara-kiri and me on my bed unable again. Φλεγόμενο Γιασεμί Θέλω να σου δώσω—δώσω δώσω Κι έτσι τα παίρνω πίσω στο σπίτι όλα και μαγειρεύω Θέλω να σου δώσω—δώσω δώσω Ω, παίρνω τον ήλιο, μπλου τακ και μια σκούπα Θέλω να σου δώσω—δώσω δώσω Κι έτσι παίρνω τα κίτρινα φύλλα και ράβω Ω, θέλω να δώσω στα όνειρά σου αμφιταλάντευση εμπόδια, φακούς και φουσκωτά Η φωτιά μου θα σου φτάσει Θέλω να σου δώσω—δώσω δώσω Κι έτσι απ’ την κάμαρά μου χάρη μία ζητώ Θέλω να σου δώσω—δώσω δώσω Ω, το φεγγάρι κινώ, μπροστά το ρίχνω -- ανθίζει Θέλω να σου δώσω—δώσω δώσω Κι έτσι μαζεύω νυκτόβιους σπόρους γιασεμιού Ω, θέλω μέσα σου σκέψεις μικρές να λαμπυρίσουνε Νυξ, Ζόρυα, τα μεταξωτά σας βέλα απεκδυθείτε Θέλω το δέρμα σας να ειδώ. Επειδή μου ζήτησες τα πάντα να σου δώσω Ορίστε, είναι το πολυτιμότερο που έχω Ένα σπάνιο Ιαπωνέζικο λουλούδι καίει τη γυμνή παλάμη [Ω, όχι, όχι! Μην μ’ αφήνεις ... μην φεύγεις! Ω, πάρε το σε παρακαλώ ... όχιιιιι!] Ω, κρίμα, αυτό που απομένει πια από την υπέροχη υπόσχεση είναι δύο σκιές ριγμένες και ταγμένες στις απέναντι πλευρές ενός πέτρινου χωριού το οποίο ποτέ δεν θα κατανοήσει την ιεραρχία, το χαμό και το χαρακίρι κι εγώ στο κρεβάτι μου ανίκανος ξανά. VIEW OF GERLACH NV FROM THE BURNINGMAN OFFICE*Martina Reisz Newberryfor Brian They look more like massive weeds than trees, but they stand in the foreground, moving leaves when I reload. If they are trees, they might be olive trees which I cannot stand their dry grey/green depresses and alarms me...still I stare at what looks to be abandoned houses and further up the road a store and restaurant and maybe a bar with trucks out in front of it. There is sand over and under everything even the red water tower and the white fence and the green roof of the Burningman’s Office I watch the camera day and night. Few lights are on in the darkness except for that store and restaurant and maybe the bar I mentioned earlier. I wonder at my low-calorie obsession with Gerlach. What is there to see? The dirt side streets are empty. The trees move leaves when I reload. I am sure there must be something wrong with me to watch a deserted place so intently. Came time for the Burningman Festival and, overnight, people were in the streets at Gerlach and walking up to that store and restaurant (maybe a bar). The two-lane had traffic and lots of it mostly RVs and campers and vans and trucks and the people were walking on the side of the road, going for dinner and ice cream and maybe drinks. Lights came on in houses I thought were abandoned, strings of lights on the dead dark fences and headlights coming and going on the dirt roads, the highway. Every night I watched and reloaded until the festival was over and the trucks, et al, went one way out of Gerlach and each night became darker than the one before until all was as it had been and would be. My heart broke; I don’t even know why, and I vowed to stop looking, stop trying to see what was just beyond the camera. You’ve guessed it. I’m back at the site again. I decided on one last look and realized, after reloading, that a strong breeze has come up and is moving the leaves on those trees I mentioned and seems just strong enough to clear a space so I can see beyond the water tower, see out to what is there. *Once a year, tens of thousands of people gather in Nevada's Black Rock Desert (also known as “the playa”) to create Black Rock City, a temporary metropolis dedicated to community, art, self-expression, and self-reliance. They depart one week later, having left no trace whatsoever. Gerlach is a tiny town located next to Black Rock City. Martina Newberry’s books include WHERE IT GOES (Deerbrook Editions), LEARNING BY ROTE (Deerbrook Editions), NOT UNTRUE & NOT UNKIND (Arabesques Press), RUNNING LIKE A WOMAN WITH HER HAIR ON FIRE (Red Hen Press), and LIMA BEANS AND CITY CHICKEN: MEMORIES OF THE OPEN HEARTH (E.P. Dutton &Co). Martina's work has been anthologized and widely published in the U.S. and abroad. She lives in her beloved Los Angles with her husband, Brian, a photographer/web designer/audio media creative, and their fur-baby, Charlie. Connect with Martina at her web site. The Lover's Heart Dares DreamMirza Tahir Ahmad, Tr. Rehan QayoomA poem by His Holiness Mirza Tahir Ahmad - Khalifatul Masih IV (1928 – 2003) whose philosophical and religious work during the last 2 decades of the previous century dispelled darkness and filled the age with the light of Divine wisdom which radiated from him. His brilliance was not confined to that century alone. It is to remain outstanding work of unique greatness for centuries to come. His prayers always stood by my side, though he himself could not. Blessed be his soul. R. Q. Had you too kept some contact with me Alas I would not have been so alone Had my name jumped from your heart to your lips just once I would have been as unique as the quiver of those lips This favour would have beat in my heart every moment With its each strike would my breast have been enlightened That same light would have eradicated all the heart's evils How serenely sweet would have been its luminosity When we would have created uproars of love In the imagination's secret chambers it would not have been talked about Who would have known of the dream of our desperate hearts? Who would have seen what we would have seen? We could have met in secret this way hiding behind the heart's veils Who knows what things we could have done in our heart of hearts We would have enacted in such ways the rituals and traditions of desire And we would have loved each other open-heartedly If we had ever bumped into each other at the crossroads both our hearts pounding We would have been fearsome of fearlessly expressing our loves You would have averted your gaze as your body accidentally touched mine And then you would have glanced at me as if you weren’t looking This charm would have immensely captivated but tormented my heart To think what could have happened had you not been mine All my visions would have scattered into mirages—Just one Desert world would have been everywhere before me Just to imagine if you had left me my heart would have always Been yearning for even a single droplet of love's elixirs Such a blood-flood would have burst from my eye As no eye had ever shed before The tale of our love would have drowned in that same teary flood And when our eyes opened it would just have been a sort of dream A flood of such calamity would have flowed from my eyes As had never been witnessed before by any tide or river The sobbing night of separation the night of grief Would have engulfed me would have wrapped me in its arms You would not have been visible anywhere around me-- It would have been just me lonely lying drenched in my own tears Far off a tear trickling down the earth's cheek Overflowing beyond the horizon from the eyes of night In it each moment a trembling and flickering shadow Would have been glimpsed of a lunar face* Who would have snatched away my darling's tranquillity? In whose separation would I have tossed and turned? In whose memory would that liquid beauty have flowed From beyond the horizons ever-blending into new worlds—New islands?** I too would have searched for you aimlessly Had the world of dreams been my sole resort and remedy Where now shall I seek the cure to my loneliness When no moon-muse remains to call my own I have hundreds of thousands of people in this world but none To offer me company in my lonesome moments * The imagery in this verse is reminiscent of Neruda’s sonnet beginning ‘Plena mujer, manzana carnal, luna caliente,’ [‘Full woman, flesh-apple, hot moon’] and ending ‘hasta ser y no ser sino un raya en la sombre.' [‘and is nothing, in shadow, and a flimmer of light.’] (Cient Sonetos de amor, 1960. Tr. Stephen Tapscott, 100 Love Sonnets. University of Texas: Austin, 1986). 29. ** The Holy Quran. Ha Mim Sajdah: 54. © The Tahir Archive, 23 May 2007, 2016. Rehan QayoomShe, too, pursues her ends, Brutal as the stars of this month, Her pale head heavy as metal. Ted Hughes, 'Snowdrop' You are the poison I would drink The death I would die Unshipped in words that fall withering Like these that fail, falter And now blaze, blaze, penetrate, evaporate People like words Are deceptive, temporary, forgettable – Just because they can be The story you told Is the story I am O little wee soul with the body of an angel O body of water That dares and dithers Between this rose and that rose Eating the petals - Taking infusions of the petals Little pink things, cherubim broth The petals of the blush rose and the petals of the dog rose To feel how the bud opens to receive sunlight and water Perhaps you don’t want to keep running back into books? Perchance you won’t? Perhaps you want to fold back into your little-big Zen heavens? The ones where you don’t remember someone, anyone Because nobody remembers you The story you told Is the story I live The familiar, speculative, I divagate To calibrate the love and mourn the life In languages less spoken And words never said Screeding across the Brandywine on the Bucklebury Ferry Be silent when I speak if you will hear Love’s perspicacious promissories Be still when I am silent - You will see time’s univocal Peonies Foxgloves Read the 'Contextual Notes' to the poem here. Rehan Qayoom is a poet of English and Urdu, editor, translator and archivist. Educated at Birkbeck College, University of London, he has featured in numerous literary publications and performed his work internationally. He is the author of 2 books of poetry and several works of prose and criticism. He lives in London. Anne Tammel
In my dream I went back to my mother’s house. It was winter; she sat at the edge of my bed while I slept-- shivering, as she would early Saturdays in my moonlit room, with the Aurora Borealis-painted plaster ceilings and moody skies. This time, instead of remembering my father, she watched over me… You only live once. You are what you dreamt you were. You are here. Lobster steamed in the kitchen, a sky of gray San Jose December; Imaginary lavender vines ran next to June birds outside-- the children of cool memories in the city I love so much, with the broken sidewalks, old-paned windows, and the ghosts of all the shops that have now closed. You only live once. You are here—you are all you dreamt you would be. She could no longer sleep. We both knew this—we both remembered the November night she could not talk to me; the dawn slowly coming and the birds outside circling nervously. That night, she looked at me: Don't tell me. I said. I know. She looked again. She knew, all I needed was to sleep at my mother’s house, to dream by her side, to dream about birds, to count pantomimes, to write. |
Rehan Qayoom
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