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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So we travel on earth seeking the terrain of Poetry, walking through wilderness and empty landscape or visiting those ancient sites like Dholavira in far-western Gujarat, or Mykenai in the Greek Peloponnese, or the Arawak campsite on eastern Carriacou in the Grenadine Windward Isles, pursuing that authenticity of experience in a form of antique material reality...
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