Laments of a Reed-flute..

Steal me from the reed field!
Pierce me
and leave me to die in your soul..
.. until I breathe again.
Breathe again,
between the cups of your hands
.. like a prayer.
Breathe again,
beneath the sole of your feet
.. like a whirl.
Put me to your lips O’ Beloved!
Put me to your lips,
and give me life again!
Play me into songs,
caged within your mute heart.
Sing me into chants,
born amidst your loud tears.
Let me show you..
what a simple reed flute can do.
And let me tell you..
what a piece of dry wood can be.
Sit with me in this barren field,
where you had me plucked
from my silent dance once.
Raise me in your eyes!
O’ raise me in your eyes now,
and let me bring both worlds to you.
So I may shed
the garb of The Lover
and whirl..
.. whirl like a Sufi dervish
in this “mad mad trance”.
O’ come!
Before the splendor
of my songs are lost, come!
Come blow a breath
of your soundless soul into mine
.. and let this ‘Ney’ be the one for you.
Yes! Yes!
The one to raise you
in your final ‘Sema’.
The one to raise you
to your final ‘Fana’.
O’ Beloved, come!
Come put me to your lips now,
and give me my Life again.


~ IZ ~


*Sufi: a Muslim ascetic or mystic (Sufism) — *Ney: an end blown flute made of hollow reed or cane, commonly played in Sufi ceremonies (often in Turkey — *Sema: a special ceremony performed by Sufi dervishes “in remembrance of God”, comprised of music and, often through whirling. — *Fana: the ultimate state of self-annihilation (Sufism)

You are my Poem!

You are my poem!
The poem I have still to write.
If you’d let your perfumed body
be my paper for a day,
I’ll let my silent fingers
be your pen for a day.
Let me mix
my verbs and nouns..
.. and gently pour them
onto the curve of your back.
Let me weave my adverbs and adjectives,
and slowly spread them…
over your heaving chest.
Let me write all day long —
till sun yawns.. and moon wakes.
Let me write all night long —
till stars hide.. and dawn creeps.
Oh let me gently
fill the spaces between your fingers,
with the ink of my mute hands.
And let me softly scribble
forbidden poetry into your ears,
.. and make garlands from it
to decorate my wavy hair.
Let my words..
.. letters
.. and spaces
take forms of balmy simpers
on your honey nectar lips —
like verses never penned before
on your lazy waxing smile.
O’ let time write all the way..
till the paper is filled!
Let moments write in any way..
till my ink is dried!
Let my fingers bleed unknown languages..
into the voice
of your trembling heart.
Let my fingernails 
speak a thousand cosmic dialects,
upon the planes of your blank skin.
Let me break every norm of literature!
Let me reject,
every form of grammar!
And then..
and then let me simply forget,
where to put my commas
my colons
my full stops…
so our poem doesn’t pause,
.. doesn’t stop
.. doesn’t end
Tell me this much, my Gibbous Moon!
If I make you love every line,
every metaphor,
every synonym —
even the antonym of my Poetry —
will I get to keep the Poem
… and the Book too?
Yes, You!
You are my poem!
The poem I have still to write!


~ IZ ~


.. Of Paper Boats and ‘Salty Waters’


Now that you are here,
let’s make a journey together.
Do not speak, do not move,
.. and do not close your eyes.
Let’s pretend
this paper is a boat,
and this poem a sail.
Let’s pretend
these words are winds,
and their meaning a compass.
Let’s pretend that
this moment is an island —
and our “silence” its only route.
Must you ask
about the missing ocean,
come sit by me for a while —
have a look into my eyes.
So you may begin
your journey from there,
.. where “salty waters” roll
Now that you are here,
let’s make this journey for once.


~ IZ ~