Collapsed Celebration in Heaven Closet

Perhaps, world is a faint relief
As for lust, we share our sadness
Music and angels sleep together.

For Marry, who wished to cook
for angels, disappeared from Earth
She took the kitchen on her journey.
And, there’s nothing happier than an angel
Who gave birth to seven poems
Who sounds like soft baking lungs

Marry baked white pancakes
and caramel candels.
The gypsies labelled celebration
And, called it silver Moon

Stepping out of the good news,
Trying to abondan her seven poems,
A thunderstorm too proud of it’s rain
left the angels, sanguine and saline
They stopped screaming and
forlorn weeping.

It is that time of the year again,
Hopeless angels are walking in gloam,
Marry has returned to her home
Staring hazard specks and soot
Under her feet, again and again.

Time melts like butter on the tongue,
Still, she just sits there
staring endlessly at wall,
creating images through pain
It is that time of the year again.

_ Chahat

Sometimes, we take an effort to recreate us, our incompleteness bothers us somehow in some or another way.

But, you know what broken is beautiful. And, people find Beauty in your incompleteness.

Here’s an incomplete poem, which I haven’t even taken an effort to complete. I find it owning in her original way. Land and take some time to read it.


Someone spoke to my poetry last night.
And, she broke in between.
She found no word for recipient of the love.
She asked to be alone,
“Don’t find me in the crowds of this world’s cities.
I am a kerosene in chandelier of fire”. Those pale pages of poetry said.
She falled upon my lap,
In my lap, there were no candles.
She remained there for so long
Drying the split ink from her
helpless eyes.

In morning, She wore the easy light going
through exhausted darkness.
The window danced
On rhythm of her words that
wasn’t sounding.
Those ceilings in pain
Ran the little palms on her insole.
And her mouth overflew
Even more bitterly.

Today, she woke up after little ages.
With her aching heartbreak
And screaming scars.
I gazed at her face
and caressed her head
Her eyes were tired and
cheeks swollen red.
I was stuck,
I ceased at every word,
Between each spaces,
she meant or not.
She was incomplete, Wistful
Yet, I find her
serene and Beautiful.
I wish I could rewrite her.

_Chivishra, an incomplete version.

The Star I had fallen for

Laugh , cry, sorrows all vanishes some day, what remains is memories, the moments we live.

The memories of first love, proposals, dating. Remember, when was your first date. How perfect you wanted everything to be and how crazy you were for this. Let’s see.

Good old days

They stare at my youthness

I spend the entire spring

Stockpilling the courage to tell

How badly I wanted him to be mine.

That his weird laugh doesn’t matter,

His staying with another flower

Never blow me off.


I want to tell him

It’s okay, its okay if his

Chewing gum won’t bubble up

If the noodles fell again inside his shirt


The wine stains are making house in it.

They are okay

I won’t laugh.

I just smile hard with flattened teeth.


I hate coffee and he loves it.

And, I think he likes his coffee black.

So, I won’t mind even having one or two

And, before seeing him

At our favorite place – the bookstore.

I played this game of changing-unchanging clothes

atleast fifteen times.

And, my hairs, they should be waving.

He doesn’t like my hairs tied.

I want to tell him all at once,

I am going to tell him, today


That at our meeting.

The sky will wear it’s favorite denim.

The universe will recite Shakespearen Sonnets

Niccolo from heaven will play violin for us.

And, my metaphorical letters will be drowned in fragrance

With a thought, “He will love them”

But what if he sneezed,

I still won’t laugh.

I will just smile hard with flattened teeth.

Agha Shahid from 21st century

Remembering the renowned poet

From me, To you :

I was smiling, radiating the beautiful rainbow colors,
Until I saw another Shahid in my rear-view mirror.
He breathed in the air of Kanpur.
And resides in pages of Dark Diaries.
I saw him wearing black nehru jacket
With wide smile on snow-specky face.
While he was writing, I asked “What do his name means? ”
And he chuckled “Sun”, The Sun, which I inhaled previous night.
And the grave told me,
It means Beloved in persian, witness in Arabic.
From the pages I loved, read:
Mad Heart Be Brave.
And the Agha I know, wrote
Ice in the Paranoid heart.
From the incident, I remember.
Shahid delayed his death to teach
his little sub-continents.
And my Agha came early from father’s funeral to teach his little monuments.

At the airport,
Shahid carried his heart for the passengers,
And, my fellow Agha,
worked poetry into his answers .
At the stage of food,
The way, He whispered :
“Khaane k ky mehek h”
The engine left,
from platform, with variety :
Rogan Josh, do-nut and burgers,
And the two waiting with wide mouths opened
To fill the cave altogether.
He wished to die in palanquin of paradise.
And my Shahid, left his soul in mountains.
Both were the pericardium of this
beautiful poetry world.
The selfish cancer built a home in his head
Blurred the vision with short memory lapse. He sighs :
“This doesn’t mean I am dying. ”
And, For The whole way,
That naughty girl.
Didn’t let Shahid sleep all night.
Muttering in days and laughing bright.
She Made him giggle on tiny red eyes. .
The tiny tears danced on her cheeks
Her sudden silence made everyone freak. He chases:
” That doesn’t mean her low voice,
Vanished off in river’s noise. ”
Just like around the sun,
Divinity rolled through Ali’s age,
The time tickled and let him take ,
One beautiful poet ,
The World wished to stay.
That naughty girl,
Saw another Shahid’s brown eyes.
His divine soul and Serene smile.
She better wrote one last time.
Her Shahid’s face and vintage style.
The perfect phrase for his poetry life.
He’s part Saadat, part Sahir.

| Bon Voyage |

Your crawling sunrise
On my wet body feels so warm.
Like every ceasing day,
It hereby passes across my home
Crossing infinity to reach me.
Only craving for you,
On every window pane.
With each setting sun,
It moans your name.
And like warriors,
My curtains wishes :
See you tomorrow ”
And those glorious shades
Bursting in sky,
Promises me :
“Don’t worry.
You will begin with a new healing
(But who wants healing, when
a beautiful love is bursting inside.)

| मैं शायरा तो नहीं |

| मैं शायरा तो नहीं |
मै शायरा तो नहीं,
पर कभी-कभी मिसरे लिख देती हूँ
कागजों के दस्तावेज में
सुनहरी बातें कह देती हूँ
जिंदगी के तमाम लोगों को
अपनी कहानी बता देती हूँ
उन बेफिक्र पलों को
मसरूफ बना देती हूँ
मै शायरा तो नहीं,
पर कभी-कभी मिसरे लिख देती हूँ
दिल गुलजार तो नहीं
पर वस्ल की याद बना देती हूँ
इन चुप लगी बातों को
आवाज बना देती हूँ
उलझी, अनजान नज़्मों का भी
तारुफ करा देती हूँ
मै शायरा तो नहीं,
पर कभी-कभी मिसरे लिख देती हूँ


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