"Left Ajar" {poetry} by Arshia Qasim, Aisha Sharif and Susan Marie

First published on MOGUL  

On The Poet Community

 © Arshia Qasim

A door half shut
a door half open,
Mysteries to unfold
promises to hold.

A heart that thunders
a mind that ponders,
One-step travel bound
one-step firmly ground.

In-between go, stop and if,
Life shapes, bit by bit.

Left ajar,
my heart.
Much like keys that fit,
perfect,
like hips and curves
of notes and clefts,
and question marks and apostrophes,
hanging midair
in breath,
caught and held,
as sentences
never spoken,
yet felt.

The door left ajar
what does it mean to the air,
It can push it either way
as it goes from here to there.

Love waits on both sides
unhurried, calm and patient;
There is no room for despair
hope lies in what is vacant.

There is choice,
freewill,
like flight.

Hurry love!
Do not make haste,
the door is open,
this is now,
the ever fleeting moment,
glimpses
into past, present, future,
the making of lives and losses
the jump, the fall,
climbing vines into aether.

My dear, my love,
how shall you choose?

Skeleton keys that fit
like skullbones,
crying the most holy tears
to heaven.

So enchanted are we with the lock
so enamored our hearts to the door,
That oft our eyes cannot see
there’s more, and so much more.

The soul does not knock three times
the heart does not ring the bell,
The space does nothing to choose
who in there will come and dwell.

When it permeates through the walls
all locks and keys go astray,
It is said and known all along
that love will find a way.

Left ajar,
my heart.

Much like keys that fit,

perfect.

* * * 

By Arshia Qasim, Aisha Sharif and Susan Marie

One Hour With Celia White

Published on Medium 

What a beautiful conversation with Celia White, poet, writer, librarian, educator and she read "Kali Yuga" and I start crying. This is one hour of history about life, writing, art, music and writing. She reads from her book "Letter" and speaks about the artistic scene as a whole. www.celiathepoet.blogspot.com/

You Make Me Beautiful [For Sir Muhammad Iqbal in response to “I Desire”

© sayyidali.com

First published on Jaggerty 

[South Asian Lit Journal]

 
Your voice is that of millions
wandering, lost,
bedraggled and confused,
seeking peace and enlightenment
everywhere,
but from within.

Yet you seamlessly describe
the pure beat of thunder in your veins,
indigenous drums,
ancestral circles,
of smoke
rising.

Your breath is my own.

Thoughts that scatter
inside my skull,
you have written of them,
reaching into my heart
with open palm
behind my sternum,
gently,
you take one tip of finger
and tell me
what my own soul
already knows.

Dear Sir, you make me beautiful.

I am lost in your words,
unable to do anything
but melt
within the beauty
of the divine.


– For Sir Muhammad Iqbal  
[Shair-e-Mushriq, Poet of the East]
in response to “I Desire”

The Nature of Things

                                      First published on Rebelle Society

The great eye of heaven

hides behind clouds

not on purpose.

This is the nature of things,

change.

Like leaves

kamikaze

brave,

helpless to their fate.

They adorn

the mighty oak

unconditional

with beauteous wonder

tresses of hair

every hue imaginable

an Autumnal bridal gown

only to one day

be let loose

without warning,

arms outstretched,

wailing for one last embrace,

before flailing through the sky

relentless,

tumbling within the fierce wind,

once recognizable,

once friendly,

once home

landing upon pastures

foreign to them

left in the wild of this world

to converse among blades of grass

and finding nothing

but incessant

chatter.

And the morning dew

once refreshing

turned to frost

unannounced,

unplanned for,

and breath

turned to smoke

in the crisp cool dawn

once warm,

inviting,

safe,

once loving.

And words

now fall flat

upon lips

that no longer yearn

for a kiss,

so utterly precious

and eyes

no longer view beauty

once divinely adored

by sight

and the heart hardens

to ego

and begins to close

when one ceases

adoring

the sun rising

everyday

just for them.

And it makes one wonder

if the mighty oak

feels any emotion at all.

For actions are louder than words,

silence shows disinterest,

and apology —

after repeated apology —

now means nearly

nothing.

I told you this would happen.

You smiled and laughed

said “There’s no possible way”

as you stared at me,

staring at you,

lovingly

and you liked that

and I smiled back

knowing the truth

yet to pass

my chest

full

my heart

pounding

trying not to

cry

I smiled

because you needed me to be strong

and I was a pillar

like now

spitting out bits of blood and bone meal marrow

seeping from the tips of fingers

that write words

beautiful,

like you

but you threw me away

like some secondhand

thrift shop

used shoes

human

being

with

a

heart

and it has taken me a long time

to accept this absurd existence

I have chosen for myself

but you threw me away

and I kneel under this dank, grey skyline

hovering upon the Eastern shore

palms raised

lined, in supplication.

These weary hands of mine

writing words such as this

to deaf ears,

to blind eyes,

to uncaring hearts,

to the bleeding mouths of those who suffer.

Yet, I rise

because

I am love,

I rise

because

I am free,

I rise

because I am

different.

And I rise

like the sun,

and rise

like constellations,

and rise

like mountains echoing time

after time,

that the sky

is

crying

thunder,

again.

You see,

you once saw,

like the others.

Yet, you threw me away.

Like seasons,

change,

is the nature of things.

I have been letting you go

for months

and

you

cannot

even

tell

the

difference.