Showing posts with label Sadaf Raza Zaidi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sadaf Raza Zaidi. Show all posts

Tuesday, 1 May 2018

Self-reflective essay


My roller-coaster affair with words, started when I was about eight or nine years old, and I always favoured prose, because to my young brain, poetry was all about having rhyming words at the end, and that was something I was terrible at. I did develop an interest in reading poetry, thanks to Emily Dickinson, and John Keats, but I did not attempt to write my first poem when I passed out from school (considering those juvenile attempts at ten, with all rhyming words do not count). I mostly wrote to help with my ever-growing anxiety issues, it helped me calm down, penning down a few lines, also helped me breathe when faced with anxiety attacks, so I clung on to it.

When I opted for this class this semester, I had been having a writer's or more aptly, a poet's block, for a significant period of time. I had been able to pen down rants with flourish, but in terms of poetry, it was a dry, dry, spell. I was a little hesitant at the thought of joining a poetry workshop course, because I had always known that my poetry was still something that needed a lot of work, and something I was extremely conscious of. A friend pushed me to opt for the course, convincing me that it could only do me good, so I gave in and took a plunge.

Our first assignment was to write a love poem, and to be honest, I just picked out one I had written some time back, edited it little, and submitted it, but then I went through the other poems some of the other students had posted, and I realised, I might never be as good as any of them, but I definitely needed to put in more of an effort, if I actually wanted anything out of this course. So, with the ghazal, I tried long and hard. It was a form I was not familiar with, to be honest, ghazals in English, seemed like a terrible idea, but then we read Shahid's 'Tonight', and I knew it was something I had to at least attempt. As mentioned before, rhyming and I, aren't on the best of terms, but with the ghazal, it somehow did not pose to be an issue. Whatever Shahid was talking of, the emotions, the struggle, I could largely relate to that, so it was not as gargantuan a task I had expected it to be. The ghazal's form gave me a restraint that I desperately needed. When it came to the villanelle however, I struggled and struggled, and then mostly, gave in, and try to do the best I could. The form frustrated me, and all my peace with rhyme schemes was forgotten, and we were back to waging wars. I was almost in tears, because the restrictive form kept me from saying all that I wanted to, I felt like, it was either my emotions or the form of the poem, it could not be both, not for me. Upon reading my villanelle, my struggles will be clearer.

Coming to what I am most thankful for, which is the political poem, because it made me realise, that poems did not have to be only about abstract emotions, they could be about concrete experiences, not only as the thought behind the poem, but actually in the poem too. That is something that our professor kept reminding us too, that our poems only needed to make sense to us, that they did not need to be explained, constantly reminding us to ground the emotions we were expressing. With the political poem, I expanded not only my subject matter, but also the vocabulary I used in my poems, being assured that words from our native tongues, had a place in our poetry, for they were a part of us, just like the experiences or memories behind the poems. It is something that I have tried to make us of, but of course, as most things, it will take time, and I have to remind myself that it is okay to not use just English words, but I still ending up using words from Urdu and Hindi in a few of my poems, using words like 'azaan', or 'matam' or 'moortis' had never seemed to be an option before. Also, Nitoo Das taught us an important lesson, that we did not need to necessarily use capitalisation or punctuations, which was something I had seen other poets do, but I had not really dabbled with, but I have attempted to do it in my later poems, and I find it quite liberating. There is a certain thrill in beginning a poem with a lowercase letter, using capitalisation only to empasise, similar is the thrill of ending a poem without a period, but I am still too new to this to take it that far.

The one on one review with our professor, reinstated my own fear, that I needed to learn to edit, to learn to let go of lines, to not explain myself, to not be repetitive. Honestly, it's all a little much, but I am taking baby steps towards it, trying to carefully weigh out each word, and refrain from using cliches, but it is something that will take time, but at least, this course, has helped me start the process.

I am really glad my friend pushed me, for otherwise, I would still be writing never ending love lorn poems, with no personal substance, with all lines capitalised, and each line ending with a comma or a period, and not even realising that anything was wrong with it. I am also so thankful for my introduction to Agha Shahid Ali, because that really made me see how different English poetry could be.

Monday, 30 April 2018

stop


You need to stop forcing me to stay.
You chose to throw your love at me, you,
How do you not expect me to run away?

You have let your hand stray,
Colouring me black, colouring me blue,
How do you expect me to not run away?

You did this to us, you led us astray,
You choked our love, and I am through,
You need to stop forcing me to stay.

Choking my screams of their say,
Looking at my bruises, as if it wasn't you.
How do you not expect me to run away?

This battered love is all a foreplay,
You're waiting for the bloody act, aren't you?
You need to stop forcing me to stay.

You stop hunting for me, I pray.
I'm suffocating, you see, don't you?
You need to stop forcing me to stay!
How do you not expect me to run away?!



Dear Mr.CM

Dear Mr.CM, I too am an Indian. 

your bhakts constantly try to send me back to Pakistan,
but how can I go 'back' to a place I've never been to?

the 'Hindu' in the Hindustan might mislead you, and them,
but you forget that between the saffron and green, is a white

if criticising politicians like you, who sell out our nations,
makes me an anti-national in your eyes, so be it

But, Mr.CM, I still am an Indian. 



Mr.CM, when you can't protect your people, 
do cows really matter?

children are screaming for help, 
but you choose to turn away and go back 
to stoking your fires of hate,
and tending to your gaus instead. 



we were cracked at the seems, yes
we were fighting, yes
but we were still a family,
still a state

but then you came, bhakts blazing,
and bestowed us with communal bloodshed
underneath the saffron skies.


You seem to forget, that we're all Indian, Mr.CM. 

the only anti-national
the only traitor
is you.

comforter




comforter

cover yourself
in my love


pull me
over you

plunge deep

deeper


let me
keep you
warm

better yet
strip
 n
    a
      k
        e
          d

let me
caress
each
             c
           r
        e
      v
    i
  c
e

writers


writers
d
we revisit
each wound
let it rip
watch it bleed

we never
bury the pain
we build a
shrine
for all our grief

we breathe
a new life
into our
dying pains
just for
one more
rush
of 
words


(burning) love


(burning) love


in all the time we've spent together
and all that we've spent apart

in all the times I've loved you fiercely
the times spent hating you with all my heart

I have never regretted my fallacious decisions
never once lamented the burning pain

for

I would be blind to the sanctity of our togetherness
if I hadn't felt the sacrilegious pain

maatam


maatam

as my hand
strikes
my chest
the grief is
finally expressed

for what happened
in Karbala
hundreds
of years ago
still makes me
weep

but for you

fanatic! 
H
extremist! 
h
terrorist!

why does
my grief
have to be
answerable?

my maatam
is mine

it's
     for
          me,
                not
        for
you.

Saturday, 3 March 2018

Slipping


It's never overt,
Never completely out there. 
Never completely obvious. 
Never completely unveiled.

It's subtle. 
Lurking in the shadows.
Always beneath the surface.
Always behind each word we utter.
Always under each look we exchange. 

It's under the things we thoughtlessly say,
And under the things we fear to state. 

But it's there. 

I know it. 
I look into your eyes,
And I know you know it too.
That you feel us slipping,
Wondering if our time is through.

Desperately looking back.
Frantically looking for that mistake.
Hopelessly trying to search for the
fracture,
That broke us. 

When did we slip up?
Did we ever even?
Or did we just grow tired,
And let the distance sink in?

We both pretend it's not so,
Trying to act like it's the same,
But,
You know
And I know,
There's no us anymore. 
No we.
No you and me. 
Just you. 
Just me. 





Bleed

           I will keep banging my head
Against disappointments and deceit,
                          Till I finally give in,
                              And bleed poetry. 

Too Soon

Two hollow little pools,
Having seen too much
Too soon.

Two worn little feet,
Forced to run
For far too long.

Two innocent little hands
Covered in the blood
Of too many beloveds.

One small little mind
Innocence abandoned
Too promptly.

A battered little body
Left soulless
Too soon.

Too soon.

Ganga Jamani

Salaams and Namaste, interchangeable,
Diwali, just as bright as Eid 
Siwayin just as delicious as gujias
And kebabs as mouthwatering as tikkis.

The saffron flags descended,
And the food on plates
The language on tongues
Books in homes
And names on the door front
Over arched what was inside.

The devil, the angels
All alike
Judged not for their horns or wings
But by these mindless little things. 

Saffron sirens, deliverers of all justice,
Promptly weeded all that treacherous viridescence. 

The white is crimson, 
Splattered by the ruby sins
Of humane deeds
The minarets and moortis mourning
The fratricide. 

Friday, 9 February 2018

Here I am under Your spell tonight,
Scared of crawling out of my shell tonight.

I prayed to You, out of belief or habit,
I know not, but on my knees I fell tonight.

As I hear the azaan, I convince myself,
That someone listens to me yell tonight.

Merely listening yet again, doing nothing,
Why won't you douse this fire of hell tonight?

Don't get me wrong, I count all the blessings,
I just can't breathe in this blasphemous cell tonight.

Is there anyone to thank, or is no one out there,
I restlessly continue to dwell tonight.

I struggle to breathe amongst all this loneliness,
I just might sound the knell tonight.

Are You a mere figment of my imagination,
Or do I question just to rebel tonight.

You should make me feel safe, but You just don't 
Anymore, so I, Sadaf, bid Thee farewell tonight.


Tuesday, 23 January 2018

Another Love Poem?



Another Romeo 
Rose from ashes.
Another Romeo 
Died in vain.
Never learnt that
Love was futile,
Nothing but 
A twisted game.