Volume 1 : Issue 2
ISSN: 2454-9495
Jungle
Bollywood songs and disco lights swarm this beat jungle
Where notes and words become unheard: the blank sheet jungle
Without tabla taps and the syllables of sitars
I’d shudder in corridors of this concrete jungle.
Conversing over coffee is like drinking with no cup
Unthinking thought, stumbling though an offbeat jungle.
If only my voice could hush these ceaseless city sirens
I’d hum rivers and plant green under my feet: jungle.
Drowned in the watery palimpsest of ancestors,
Israh can only cross the bridge where street meets jungle.
Miles to go
If only I had enough pens, enough to write ghazals in my sleep.
then I would know I have miles to go, miles to go before I sleep.
In my city, sirens are lullabies and trucks perform symphonies.
when their instruments clash in dawn’s chill, time stalls for sleep.
Cramming into subway cars, we stare into spaces devoid of eyes.
we grip poles and sink into seats, defying the poison of sleep.
Sometimes I walk until streets fail to recognize me, until I lose myself
until I follow instinct to Queen’s Park, where the homeless sleep.
At Bay & Bloor, crowds push and thrust themselves into traffic,
maneuvering through humming cars, cars that routinely fall asleep.
Women with fur coats dig designer heels into concrete
freshly glossed nails and coiffed hair put self loathing to sleep.
Some faces stretch beyond expression, blank and repulsively perfect
if they could speak, they’d confide, We don’t dream when we sleep.
At dusk, when bitterness creeps in and the horizon is bruised blue,
we enter cafes and sip our espresso to drive away the fear of sleep.
When night breaks open and the city is glowing with artificial light,
shopkeepers force doors shut and we must lull ourselves to sleep.
My evening commences at 3 am, with dead poets resting in my bed.
with my fingers skimming their lips, what is the allure of sleep?
I slap myself awake with black tea, mourning words without ink
Frost whispers in my hair, “Miles to go, Israh, before you sleep.”