The Eternal Eyes of Lord
2022
The Essence of Prayer
Part I
What should I do
(Now)
Lock it up in me
Or scatter it around the meadow?
A crow can touch it-
The wheels can break it-
The sun can burn it-
Ughgh!
Sometimes, it is foam like-
Fire-
Water-
Sand-
What is it?
It is the spirit. It is the same spirit that withdraws the spirit of “What if.”
It is the same spirit that embraces the spirit of uncertainty.
It is the same spirit that dances with the tunes of by-gone days.
Same, same, same- Everywhere
Like some god-sent sailors
Finding nothing except
Their fragmented, repented souls
Rippling images on mirror-
Water as mirror.
Like the atheists overlooking
The signs given to them by Jesus, the Lord
And celebrating life
With no peaceful prayer;
It fails to follow the patterns
Of light projected onto
The ship, water
From the lighthouse-
Lighthouse as God’s hands.
Who is it?
It is the humans,
The souls-
Who gather rage, hatred, and lie
Like a heap of garbage
Turning
(Unconsciously)
Into the bad- mouth, foul- scented beings.
It is the humans, the same humans-
Who look at the time
The same cruel time-
The same forgiving time-
The same loving time-
Holding its soul
Within its palms
With youth and
With mercy-
Some gibberish words come out from
Mumbling lips, crooked bodies,
Beating heart-
Those same words create the echo
Of some meanings-
Thus, a prayer is born.
All the lost souls
Like soldiers, sailors, farmers
Look at the sky
Only to listen to those same sound-
Sound of their echoing souls
Sound of prayer
And they find
Themselves in the land
Of songs.
Songs of destinies-
Songs of dawns-
Songs of divinities-
The same song that is written as the lines of fate
Is becoming the prayer-song
For the scribblers
Named as unseen forces-
The Goddesses and the Gods.
08.01.2025
Part II
Once, I crossed a lake-
Beside it, I saw a
Chain of grotesque, Gloomy Faces;
Multitudes of pain Run through
Swollen Limbs,
I shed off tears
And it was vanished into oblivion.
Part III
O my Muhammad, O my Lord Jesus,
Fill my heart with spiritual Thirst.
O my Virgin Mary, O my Grace,
Shower thy Blessings and Revive these Damned cells.
2019
Fear
Some words in my throat
That I want to swallow
Want to vomit
Keep stagnant
I do not know
The reason.
My current state is dwindling like waves
Waves of sea
Sea of uncertainty and fear
Navigating life between dilemma and faith.
Sometimes,
In life
You feel you have to be saved by Jesus
And
In these cases,
You can only be saved by God, the Almighty.
You know you fear a lot;
You know you cannot handle pressure
As it fractures your bones
And makes your soft soul bruised;
Bloody, wounded
You have become
It is just fear-
Alas! Everyone wants to be saved.
To Sylvia Plath: A prose poem
Today, I owe you a great treat,
It is not a sonnet,
Not a parody evoking laughter,
Not an epic
Demonstrating your journey from body to spirit,
Or spirit to body,
Not an ode to unveil your woes.
It is a chamber of secrets, a drawer of emotions;
People rush to the pornographic clips to derive pleasure,
I rush towards you,
And find a piece of solace
In you.
The name that moves its wings around my neck
Coming back from dead past,
Is none other than Plath.
Today, I owe you something
To your butchered soul,
To your ruined peace,
I will offer you green ashes, red debris
Made out of women bodies
Those bodies faced electrocution, marital rape, sharp attacks, agonized anguish,
Bagful of dirt under their dripping Eyes, quarrel for Vegetables
And utensils
And unkind dowry, child birth, menopause, loneliness and death;
You wrote for them, for me,
And for those unnamed Plath(s),
Caged in their rooms
kept hidden under their door-carpets, sealed in the bell jars,
Jars of bad mouth
And sold to the markets.
Your words carry voices
A sound of determinism as well as of instability
Paradoxical antithesis, surreal aroma
Of your poem
Painted my race’s trauma,
You never held pen between your fingers,
The pen became the weapon,
And continued your writing therapy,
It reminds me of
Lowell and Anne Sexton.
Today, I owe you a gift, a magical pot
That will remove the blemish, blemish between you and
Ted’s Bond,
The bond between Hughes and Hawks,
All I remember is
The way you suffered
The way you ended the life.
I am haunted by the passing sadness,
From staring at the starry sky
To the empty playgrounds-
From the lonely crow
To all the insects slightly emitting out
A mellow sound,
I notice all,
I kept a brush in my pocket ,
The words that I chew are the Words that
I owe you, my Plath.
I remember
How vulnerable your Soul was
At the time of separation,
How brutal that man was!
How you craved for love
And feared for losing your cherry lips and hairs
And beauteous colours and gloss.
Smokes curling up from the oven
While cooking up a bowl
Of noodles,
I think of your burning head,
I am sitting on my room along with your poems
To know your body and soul.
2019