Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

A loving complaint

Prithee kind sir sway not from thy constancy
Near to thee is begotten all source of myne own esteem

That redemption which hath forsook me so wantonly
Beckons hazily from thine eyes as if a dream

Thy arrogance extraordinaire mayst leave others appalled
They knoweth not ye scathing cynicism hast become thy armor

Enshrouded thus the world awaited stonewalled
Bravely, nay stupidly, alone went forth I with myne heart to barter

Alas! Thou art a charmer indeed!
Takest thou in cold blood myne innocence

 ‘I do love thee.’ Thy words did win, myne heart  did I concede
Forgotten reality that cold stone hit us hence

But Time she shall not betray the purity of a love in earnest
Even if the world forgets a love in its unrequited brilliance.


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Shattered, the walls were – the skin tore and the eardrums exploded.
Flying, he was – through the roof, in the air, hitting the dust crumpled.
Blood, everywhere – in his eyes, in his ears, pooling around him in its vastness.
Remains, scattered bricks and wood, his house now a pile of rubble.

He could no longer hear, but God had not yet taken his life nor his sight
Endowed thus, drowning in his own blood and silent screaming, he watched.
She lay only metres away, moments ago she had been feeding their child.
Now she lay Prone. Silent. Dead.

His young bride with her playful eyes and rosy lips lay spread across the dirt.
A gaping raw hole seeping a river of red pulsed through her open chest
Her leg skewed, shattered bone protruding like wizened fingers grip his heart
Every nerve screamed movement and yet he could not.

He looked down.

Stumps of burnt  smoking flesh, drenched in flames, blood and dust greeted him
Where were his legs? There. Scratched Red. Mocking him with their distance.
He tried to crawl but his right arm was slit open as if by a surgeons hand.
Each vein pulsating like crazy to pump the blood that seeped out of him.

The left hand moved to his head grasping at blood, metal and pieces of his ear
Silent anguish flooded his vision blurring the open carcass of his wife.
Blood that rushed out of him now seeped backwards gluing him to the dirt
Close his eyes. Wait for Death. He had no wife, no daughter to live for.

His Daughter! His eye flew open and scrambled in desperation, Where?
There! A delicate tiny hand rested on his wife’s shoulder.
A mother had made the ultimate sacrifice and her baby was unharmed.
Tears soaked through his open wounds as his baby girl sat crying. Helpless

As if the silence allowed him to see more clearly, he saw her face explode.
Open mouthed target for the bullet which rained shreds of flesh
They jumped down from their tanks and stood over mangled flesh.
Laughing at the remains of his life.

He closed his eyes.
There was nothing left.
He wanted Death.

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Daydream delusion
Limousine Eyelash
Oh, baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I am a delusion angel
I am a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don’t want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we’re going
Launched in life
Like branches in the river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I’ll carry you. You’ll carry me
That’s how it could be
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?

This poem is from one of my favourite scenes in one of my favourite movies.

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Where is my Mr. Darcy?

Bollywood, Disney, and Jane Austen have given me unrealistic expectations on love and men. It’s a fact. I am still on the lookout for a tall brooding young gentleman of 40 thousand pounds a year in want of a wife who flies in on a magic carpet, turns his nose up at me in our first meeting and says dancing is for savages.

If love was really a three hour rollercoaster ride in which I could sing 5 songs, give long soliloquies to about love and life, listen to my hero liken my eyes to the moon or the sun or the stars and cry out distressfully while my hero fought 10 men with his bare hands then I would definitely pick that over reality. Because in reality, love isn’t over in three hours… In reality, love is just a big fat long agonising wait. 

Why don’t films show the long wait women have to endure while a man makes up his mind to call, why don’t they show the extremely stupid things women do and say? Bridget Jones’s diary was the only movie “brave” enough to expose the fragile desperation that makes women act immaturely and kiss many a frog before one transformed into their true love.

Bollywood is responsible for making me anticipate meeting the guy of my dreams when I board a plane or train. Bollywood is responsible for making me think that a man can be rude and endearing at the same time (in reality they are just plain rude, nothing endearing about arrogance). Bollywood is responsible for making hope a man can have eyes for no one but me.

Disney is responsible for making me think women can make boys into better men. Jasmine changes Aladdin for the better, Pocahontas wooed John into becoming the saviour of her people – so what is stopping women from falling for the ‘bad boys’ and expecting that they will magically transform into men you can proudly present to your parents (be they the Sultan or the chief?)

Jane Austen is responsible for the dreams of millions of women around the world. For making aloof desirable, and arrogance endearing. Her heroes are no pink shirt wearing, skinny jean flaunting, man-bag toting SNAGs. No – Jane Austen’s heros are men of integrity and courage with deeply buried passionate empathy and a wicked yet sweet sense of romance.

Sigh. Who am I kidding? I love the airy fairy dreams Bollywood Disney and Austen have created and sustained over the years. I love the warm gooey melting chocolate feeling the endings give me and I love swooning over the handsome yet sweet and sensitive heroes. Another Bollywood romance? Bring it on!

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All I have are Fragments
Bits and pieces of who I was
Fragments of a memory I wish wasn’t real
Fragments I’ve been trying to piece together.

Wondering where I fit
In the shards that I have left
Those are things that belong in the past
But they will not stay

And I must dust them off and learn
To tell their story.


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City of secrets

Spiralling curves and mini gargoyles
Towers turrets and trombones
A white flag waving defiantly
Here the occupants – just you and I
This here, our city of secrets be. 

Time doth stand still for the lover
Space maketh way for a symphony sweet
Like a carousel locked in timber fine
Everything stands immobile till we meet
Here, in our city of secrets. 

A past we do not care to remember
No future for us awaits
The present is all that we savour
All that we can hope for
Stolen moments of pleasure in time
Here, in our city of secrets.

For both time and space will not align again as such
Fortune will not favour our union a second time
The accidental first must be enjoyed
In all its ephemeral beauty and pain
Only here, in our city of secrets.

Reality will divide the fallen lovers
Life shall conquer them individually
Pulling in opposite directions – never to meet again
But the fallen shall remember
Stolen moments of pleasure in time
In their own city of secrets.

                        – Shafeen Mustaq [24/01/11]

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If we don’t believe in fantasy
then how will it become?
Hope Love and Justice

Fantasised ideals, non-existent
in the molecular structure
of the earth’s composition.

And yet we hope
we believe in fantasies
so that they may become.

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