Tag Archives: poem

“بات کرنی مجھے مشکل کبھی ایسے تو نہ تھی”

مجھے خود سے ایک شکوہ رہتا ہے کہ میں اپنے لکھےگئے الفاظ میں معنی ڈھونڈتا ھوں ، اپنے معنی کو الفاظ نہیں دیتا۔ میں ان الفاظ کو اگل بیٹھنے کے فورن بعد ہی ان کے مطلب کے بارے سوچنے لگتا ہوں۔ میرے سر میں کتنے خیالات اور قلب میں کتنے جذبات پس پردہ زباں چھپے ہیں اور اس نقاب کے پیچھے سے جھانکتے ہیں، الفاظ کی کھوج میں۔ مسلہ یہ ہے کہ ان احساسات کو جو کوئی لفظ بھی دکھ جائے یہ اسے دید سے دل میں اتار لیتے ہیں اور باقی سب دعوےداروں کو فارغ کر دیا جاتا ہے ۔ اس جوش خطابت سے نکلی جلد بازی اور لاپرواہی سے کئی احساسات اپنے کی بجاے دوسرے احساسات کا لباس اوڑہ بیٹھتے ہیں اور معاملہ ٹیڑھے سے ترچھا اور ترچھے سے الٹا ہوتا چلا جاتا ہے ۔ یہاں تک کہ میں خود اپنی تحریر سے آشنائی کا دعوہ کرنے سے گریز کرتا ہوں اور اگر کوئی میرے کچھ لکھے ہو ے کا مطلب مجھ سے دریافت کر لے تو بولنے سے کتراتا ہوں۔ “دیکھئے، آئینے میں میں خود کو دیکھ کے میں بھلا کیسے بتا سکتا ہوں کہ آپ کیسے دکھتے ہیں؟”  اور اس طرح کے کئی الٹے سیدھے جملے اپنی لاچاری کو جائز ثابت کرنے کے لیے کہ دیا کرتا ہوں۔

مگر اب میں نے صرف وہ لکھنے کی ٹھانی ہے جو لکھے بغیر رہا نہ جائے، اور جس کو لکھتے وقت اس بات کا یقین ہو کہ جو کچھ لکھا جا رہا ہے اس کامدّع کم از کم میرے ذہن میں واضح ہے ۔ لکھنے کی چاہ میں میں نے بے معنی جملوں کا اتنا شور و ولولہ مچا رکھا تھا کہ اس میں چند ایک بامقصد اور پر معنی جملے اور لفظ کراہتے رہتے تھے پر انہیں نہ  تو کوئی پہچانتا، اور نہ ہی  کوئی ان کی اصلیت تسلیم کرنے کو تیار ھوتا۔ ہم سب کو اس دواتوں اور قلموں سے بھری دنیا میں اپنی لکھائی کا نام بنانے کے لیے کئی کرتب کرنے پڑتے ہیں۔ کوئی اپنی تحریر میں گالیوں  کی بوچھاڑ کر رہا ہے تو کوئی بڑے لفظوں کی بھرمار ، کوئی ہم آواز الفاظ کادیوانہ شاعر آزادی کا متوالا ہوا تو کوئی دلکش تصاویر  پہ اپنی شاعری چھاپنے لگا، کوئی دو زبانوں کو جوڑنے کی کاوش میں لگ گیا تو کوئی نت نئے موزو سخن تلاشنے لگا ۔ میں بھی اس جستجو جدّت میں اکثر سچ کے ایک بڑے حصّے کو کھو دیتا ہوں۔ اپنے لکھے سے متاثر میں ویسے بھی کم ہی ہوتا ہوں مگر جب الفاظ اور تکنیق کی دھند میں معنی ہی اوجھل ہوجاے تو قاری اپنے سچ گھڈ کے میرے پہ مسلّط کریں گے ہی۔ اس سے مجھے خاص مسلہ نہیں، الفاظ تو ہیں ہی سیاہی کے  پتلے، جنہیں پڑھنے والوں کی عقل کی رسیاں انہیں کے دل کی دھن پہ نچا تی ہیں۔ لیکن مسلہ تب پیدا ہوتا ہے جب میرے الفاظ کی رسیاں مجھے ہی جکڈنےلگتی ہیں اور میں ان کے ساز پہ  رقص کرنے لگتا ہوں، نہ کے وہ میرے۔ جیسے زندگی معنی کو لمحوں میں سمیٹنےکا نام ہے، لکھنا معنی کو لفظوں میں قید کرنے کو کہتے ہیں۔ مگر جیسے  آگاہی کے عذاب کےبائث میرے لمحے بھی معنی کی قید میں رہتے ہیں، میں بھی لفظوں کا غلام ہوں۔

الفاظ خود ہی اتنا بولتے ہیں کہ مجھے بولنے کا موقع ہی نہیں ملتا۔

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Inability to Sigh Deep Enough

Foxes ran over people on roads, driving unsafely,
“Birds! Please, eat the bread crumbs before some way finds me!”,
my rapidly sifting sentimentalities would’ve had their way,
But the rabbit fell, not into a hole but a comma, under that darned tree!
It clogged its spree, marred its glee,
Branches reached out and shaped the word “plea”.

“Oh that dude? Do worry, he’s not dead,
he just has a burst bubble for a head,
a brain pregnant with doodled lead,
fighting with the slumbering afternoon bed,
lines strangle themselves into words he never read,
beyond a stopping sign where they snobbishly tread.”

The lightning crackled sharply last night,
it sounded like your book page caught in a gale,
Like ivy, flowers crawled up the metal chair,
on which sits throned the fox without bail.
Is the tea stale? no?
Why then you so pale?
Ahh, a lost trail.
Well, all hail!

Wasn’t that what we always wanted!
Wasn’t your fear of being figured out what got you haunted?
Using your blindfold, your compass you pestered and taunted.
Every turn in your road made you realize it wasn’t you but the path that jaunted.
Alongside every drifter’s swirling dust and idyllic maps never flaunted,
There’s the unknown, go get it, you know you want it!

It’s weird… almost surreal…
But you know?
I’m just not, all that daunted?

What now? The hour’s black, Khokhas are all closed.
My friends they’re all with exams overdosed.
my face feels like a sandpaper growing thorns,
and all my poetry’s gone redundantly prosed.

The fox, the rabbit, both chase the bubble heads.
bobbing about a barely betrodden bazaar,
of bitch bravura, banal bashing, buffoon bidding.
The loneliest adventure I’ve had by far.

It’s all never going to come disentangled,
so why don’t you go do something worthwhile?
go get a fox, and a rabbit,
and make them screw each other’s smile.
But be broodingly observant,
notice their volatility all the while.
And when they’re both sitting,
discussing who of Waits and Bowie is weirder,
present them a cup of bile.
Ambiguity? Insecurity.
everything shall turn vile.
Only for as long as you don’t keep count,
there shall always be an extra mile.

So, sit back and let it begin, the trial!

“Try Again, Can’t find this file”?
Go to hell, Force Shutdown style!

PS. No matter what mountain shall against me lean,
I would still wish Sting didn’t have caffeine.

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Shrink

—opening time—

I’m not a remover that glides across strangers’ pages full of scribbled ink, smudging its white self as it passes,
But I am.
I’ve the right to retain the volume I contain though I fill others’ glasses,
But I can’t.
A honk that was beauteous as Coltrane’s flute went once unheard in the midnight lamp’s chilled glow on a red headed stranger’s street,
But mine is a horn that screams intense, these strangers hear it bleat but hesitate to treat,
Clean pages and glasses full of delicious colors sit atop my table which I desire overturned,
I marvel these and although I blow hard I cannot get the horn to produce the music yearned,
Hence I lay down my head
Reading a fragrance instead.

—them—

I feel this ‘her’, distant as though those nails scared her too much,
But it isn’t so, it’s her friend’s matrix’s glitch,
I feel that ‘her’ shrinking from her liabilities for he’s found among the books she’d touch,
One refuses a slap, the other a touch,
A touch she once allowed, a slap she never lead me to much,
And this ‘he’, and that ‘he’, one hasn’t even touched it while that ‘he’ has his hand on full swing,
This ‘he’ wants mere entwined hands to pester God into mutual blessing,
And that ‘he’ needs an affirmation if the blow should be where it is, landing.
A two way diplomat, two friends reconciliated,
One an overthinker, another thinks thinking’s overrated
And this other girl needs, but really wants, to know,
If there are shards beneath the pearls the world won’t show,
If there are murmuring ants beneath the smooth undulating piano keys,
Whether her playing fingers would crush them beneath or the melodies.
So this ‘she’ is hangin’
and that ‘she’ is her usual yellin’
And this ‘he’ is an imbecile
while that ‘he’ is an artist among assassins
and the other ‘she’ is an artist among speakers.
Speakers I’ve learned the hard way to see as leakers,
People whose worth is defined by others’ secrets they can bark,
And I’m blood drawn to the shark.
And so I enter this bathroom, dark,
And flick on the light to get away from my father who just strode
Into my room, reminding ‘exams in a week!’, so I sit on the commode.
Not shitting it but myself.

—us—

Of that squashed cockroach the bathroom tiles reek,
Dripping conscience that doesn’t tweak,
The crimson liquid from these pipes shall leak,
For her beauty is like northern lights, almost Greek,
And my senses are numb, ineffably weak,
So frail and fragile that even festive affairs affect their nature freak,
So I wish I swim and sway down this drain I see,
This exhaust’s hum drowning alongside me,
So I could excuse myself to swiftly slip assunder since I’ve a severely sleepy sleep to sleep,
Away where whisking whistles of bellowing, wistful winds of a forgotten nightmare don’t wither my ways,
These frays will be the end of your days,
Can I call them that? Nocturnal as they are
Limbo like, as the stillness of the time inside a slumbering afternoon bar,
Where a hunched Dylan in a shadowy corner may cut his veins to bleed out words,
Which many I’s would collect and rearrange and strew into wires lined with birds,
And make them chirp outside the bar, for inside there will always be a bleeder,
A molested child, a driver touching self proclaimed writer, dilemma reader,
A hater of ambiguity of self, yet host to a game of opposites,
A believer of unsaid words and connection above his dick before it all reversely transits,
A target achiever who gets there without a stroll or a ride,
An amphetamine desiring dreamer that looks at an alley seemingly wide,
A restive beaver reflected in another, through machines which kill fascists
A nocturnal screen watcher who the next day doesn’t get anything’s whole nor its gist
A caffeine consuming chicken who doesn’t know where it should stand,
A traveler who knows everything but his wants, in a decision demanding land,
A procrastinating, hairy child molester who imparts slumbering kisses and touches too kinetic for the bar’s stillness,
And all these and more need something to while away the interior’s sleeping dullness
Hence I give them all something to listen,
Those birds on wire outside this bar all glisten,
With an iridescent gleam of pain inducing inspiration,

—closing time—

And the birds are all perched still and sing,
Until a stone at them I fling,
And then the teacher tells me ing ing is a sound fascinating,
She sits there and on a page that musical note she’s drawing,
knitter of multi hued fabrics, she’s pieces of my mind sowing,
And she, those glasses I filled and pages I removed, and the honk will never know
How all those characters, this bathroom, the coming tests and the battles slow
my days and make weeds grow
In the desolate heart of a man who knows
That he’s a cork, he’s a screw,
he’s a blistering hypocrite who’s blue
and would like to selfishly think
That for many he’s between sanity and self a link
Thinking his sage blinking face can bring
people back from madness’ brink
For in his rigid heart the reality can’t sink
That if he desires a beautiful brain with limbs all pink,
He’ll have to dwell in his imagination, style Barton Fink
Otherwise he’s just a cleaner who can’t rid of his own corollary stink
That he’s nothing but a fucking worthless shrink.

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