nuha-fariha - Hello Poetry

Allah’s messenger said, ‘Allah has ninety-nine names, one hundred less one and he who memorized them all by heart will enter paradise.’ To count something means to know it by heart - Sahi Bukhari, Vol. 9, Book 93, Hadith 489 Cook her with Honey, Sweets, Glorious Sugar Peaches and Hares, Soft Haired Stranger smells like Tulips, Beloved Roses, Jasmines, Violets, Blessed Lilies, Lotus Stars and Songbirds First Born, Second Born, Eighth Born The Oldest Daughter, Shy and Timid My Father’s Blessings, My Mother’s Tears Promise of God, God is My Father One Who is Alive, a Songbird Fantasy Person of the Night who Loves the Beautiful Night Rain, ***** Jezebel’s Daughter, Detesting Witch she is One Who Can Forsee, Prideful, Original Sin, Woman of White Magic Wild As a Mountain Goat Torch of Light, Light of Mine, Light All Around watch the Woman with Crown, a Woman of Victory Truthful Ruler of the House, Ruler with a Spear Fighting Filled With Wrath, Strong as a Little Bear Battle Armor From the Land of the Broken Protector of Sunrise and Nightfall Fighting a Battle in Winter with Wisdom and Justice A Princess Who Has A Heart of Gold Beauty, A Woman of High Manners Noble Queen, Radiant Precious Stone Shining Diamond, Like Smooth Dark Wood our Possession, our Brand New Home, our Feast A Reward Given, an Afterthought Charity, Chaste Homemaker Wealthy Companion, Warm Fire, Compassionate Nurse Say the Prayers with Heavy Stones Divine Woman. Universal Woman. God’s Messenger, Holiness, Living.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 5:03 PM UTC

ninety nine names for baby girl

Allah’s messenger said, ‘Allah has ninety-nine names, one hundred less one and he who memorized them all by heart will enter paradise.’ To count something means to know it by heart - Sahi Bukhari, Vol. 9, Book 93, Hadith 489 Cook her with Honey, Sweets, Glorious Sugar Peaches and Hares, Soft Haired Stranger smells like Tulips, Beloved Roses, Jasmines, Violets, Blessed Lilies, Lotus Stars and Songbirds First Born, Second Born, Eighth Born The Oldest Daughter, Shy and Timid My Father’s Blessings, My Mother’s Tears Promise of God, God is My Father One Who is Alive, a Songbird Fantasy Person of the Night who Loves the Beautiful Night Rain, ***** Jezebel’s Daughter, Detesting Witch she is One Who Can Forsee, Prideful, Original Sin, Woman of White Magic Wild As a Mountain Goat Torch of Light, Light of Mine, Light All Around watch the Woman with Crown, a Woman of Victory Truthful Ruler of the House, Ruler with a Spear Fighting Filled With Wrath, Strong as a Little Bear Battle Armor From the Land of the Broken Protector of Sunrise and Nightfall Fighting a Battle in Winter with Wisdom and Justice A Princess Who Has A Heart of Gold Beauty, A Woman of High Manners Noble Queen, Radiant Precious Stone Shining Diamond, Like Smooth Dark Wood our Possession, our Brand New Home, our Feast A Reward Given, an Afterthought Charity, Chaste Homemaker Wealthy Companion, Warm Fire, Compassionate Nurse Say the Prayers with Heavy Stones Divine Woman. Universal Woman. God’s Messenger, Holiness, Living.

35

Cockroaches peering between the shattered plates scattered once they heard the slap of Shanta’s footsteps up the narrow halls. 5’4 in white socks and brown sandals, she commands the room, her yellow sari, a beacon in the darkening winter days. Mrs Tagore’s radio leaks through paper-thin walls. Pagla hawar badol diney/ Pagol amar mon jegey othey Out the **** elevator, she glides above dull linoleum floors to her two room cardboard box. Salina’s neon pink birthday banner hangs on, cobwebs burrowed between ‘A’ and ‘L’. She put the meager groceries away, and hung the bag out the window next to of her neighbor’s drying ******* cold air a mercy from the heat of the stove. Next door, the radio blares on. Chena shonar kon bairey; Jekhaney poth nai nai re, Shekhaney okaroney jaai chhootey Lamb’s breath sauteed with cumin, onions, garlic and green chillis from Aladdin’s Grocery on 14th and Jasper clings to her collar like an expensive perfume. The water hisses when it’s poured over, steam rising in protest. She traps under the lid, allowing a single stream to whistle her a lonely tune. Ghorer mukhey, aar ki re? Kono din shey jabey phirey/ Jabey na jabey na, deyal joto shob gelo tootey. Today is Salina’s birthday, her plastic table mat is still in its place on the three legged table propped against the living room wall. Shanta puts down a chipped white ceramic plate, cuts out a slice of angel birthday cake and lights a candle, a spell casting soft gold on the old crayon drawings on the plaster walls. She sits in a plastic chair and watches the door. The song reaches its crescendo. Brishti nesha bhora shondha bela/Kon Boloraam-er ami chaela/ Amar shopno ghirey naachey maatal jutey, joto maatal jutey. Each echo of stilettos makes Shanta hold her breath. Perhaps this year Salina will finally come back, perhaps this year the door will open and her daughter will smile, will hug her, will laugh as her mother cries. On the table, wilted jasmines, calling cards left unused, Salina’s poems cut from magazines, the word collage blurring together. “My mother's hands/calloused/call me/ bruised mango/this is love”. Each ticking of the clock another blow, another **** collecting on the plate. Ja na chaayibar tai aaj chaayi go, Ja na paayibar tai kotha pai go? Pabo na pabo no Mrs. Tagore’s song ends. The candle wax melts on the cake, the cake is thrown away, the room grows dark. Shanta collapses next to the stove. She undoes her yellow sari, loosens her blouse. When she strokes herself, when she comes, she bleeds, she is coming home.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:57 PM UTC

Shanta & Salina in the Pagla Hawar

Cockroaches peering between the shattered plates scattered once they heard the slap of Shanta’s footsteps up the narrow halls. 5’4 in white socks and brown sandals, she commands the room, her yellow sari, a beacon in the darkening winter days. Mrs Tagore’s radio leaks through paper-thin walls. Pagla hawar badol diney/ Pagol amar mon jegey othey Out the **** elevator, she glides above dull linoleum floors to her two room cardboard box. Salina’s neon pink birthday banner hangs on, cobwebs burrowed between ‘A’ and ‘L’. She put the meager groceries away, and hung the bag out the window next to of her neighbor’s drying ******* cold air a mercy from the heat of the stove. Next door, the radio blares on. Chena shonar kon bairey; Jekhaney poth nai nai re, Shekhaney okaroney jaai chhootey Lamb’s breath sauteed with cumin, onions, garlic and green chillis from Aladdin’s Grocery on 14th and Jasper clings to her collar like an expensive perfume. The water hisses when it’s poured over, steam rising in protest. She traps under the lid, allowing a single stream to whistle her a lonely tune. Ghorer mukhey, aar ki re? Kono din shey jabey phirey/ Jabey na jabey na, deyal joto shob gelo tootey. Today is Salina’s birthday, her plastic table mat is still in its place on the three legged table propped against the living room wall. Shanta puts down a chipped white ceramic plate, cuts out a slice of angel birthday cake and lights a candle, a spell casting soft gold on the old crayon drawings on the plaster walls. She sits in a plastic chair and watches the door. The song reaches its crescendo. Brishti nesha bhora shondha bela/Kon Boloraam-er ami chaela/ Amar shopno ghirey naachey maatal jutey, joto maatal jutey. Each echo of stilettos makes Shanta hold her breath. Perhaps this year Salina will finally come back, perhaps this year the door will open and her daughter will smile, will hug her, will laugh as her mother cries. On the table, wilted jasmines, calling cards left unused, Salina’s poems cut from magazines, the word collage blurring together. “My mother's hands/calloused/call me/ bruised mango/this is love”. Each ticking of the clock another blow, another **** collecting on the plate. Ja na chaayibar tai aaj chaayi go, Ja na paayibar tai kotha pai go? Pabo na pabo no Mrs. Tagore’s song ends. The candle wax melts on the cake, the cake is thrown away, the room grows dark. Shanta collapses next to the stove. She undoes her yellow sari, loosens her blouse. When she strokes herself, when she comes, she bleeds, she is coming home.

11

Hello, thank you for using Bangladesh Free. please input the number you are trying to dial. yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to talk to myself there, not here, my body straddles two nations yesterday i rubbed my fading purple stretch marks i don’t know which language I dream in any more yesterday i sat in cold bathwater scrubbing until the purpura bleed my mothers’ mothers’ mother died in a red river my mothers mother’s mother birthed a nation between her bleeding legs most days I am still, her water’s edge, algae between teakwood toes yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to tell myself We’re sorry your minutes have run out. Please deposit ten dollars to continue.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC

Creaking branches leaves trails of algae in my grandmother’s pond

Hello, thank you for using Bangladesh Free. please input the number you are trying to dial. yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to talk to myself there, not here, my body straddles two nations yesterday i rubbed my fading purple stretch marks i don’t know which language I dream in any more yesterday i sat in cold bathwater scrubbing until the purpura bleed my mothers’ mothers’ mother died in a red river my mothers mother’s mother birthed a nation between her bleeding legs most days I am still, her water’s edge, algae between teakwood toes yesterday i bought a long distance calling card to tell myself We’re sorry your minutes have run out. Please deposit ten dollars to continue.

12

Wee black-eyed daughter Sakina was the first to notice it. The guava that had the hairs on it, prickly like a stray alleycat’s. We didn’t know what to do with it so we left it by Nana’s backyard swing next to the pond. When we came back the next day, the hairs had grown longer, this time like crooked peacock’s feathers slim, indolent Saleem’s father used for his broken down rickshaw. “Wow!” bushy eyed Hidra, “should we eat it?” Our piqued response thereafter was that Hidra should be excluded. All throughout the monsoon season, we trekked back to Nana’s backyard, our hungry, empty Ramadan bellies growling in loud protest but we slathered on, bulwarks against chaos. Each day, the guava became more human, on Monday the smallest hint of tooth, by Tuesday three limbs, and after Jummah prayers on Friday a whole mouth! We poked it, bruised it, no regard for ****** integrity, evince the monsters we hid underneath. It was a sensation that haunts us today. Demure Dafne was the first one to clothe it, placing a ragged sun-bonnet over the eyes. A soft smile emerged then, a genteel kindness. Imbued with flimsy protection, she slipped into the pond.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC

Out of the Guava Tree, Her Soft Smile

Wee black-eyed daughter Sakina was the first to notice it. The guava that had the hairs on it, prickly like a stray alleycat’s. We didn’t know what to do with it so we left it by Nana’s backyard swing next to the pond. When we came back the next day, the hairs had grown longer, this time like crooked peacock’s feathers slim, indolent Saleem’s father used for his broken down rickshaw. “Wow!” bushy eyed Hidra, “should we eat it?” Our piqued response thereafter was that Hidra should be excluded. All throughout the monsoon season, we trekked back to Nana’s backyard, our hungry, empty Ramadan bellies growling in loud protest but we slathered on, bulwarks against chaos. Each day, the guava became more human, on Monday the smallest hint of tooth, by Tuesday three limbs, and after Jummah prayers on Friday a whole mouth! We poked it, bruised it, no regard for ****** integrity, evince the monsters we hid underneath. It was a sensation that haunts us today. Demure Dafne was the first one to clothe it, placing a ragged sun-bonnet over the eyes. A soft smile emerged then, a genteel kindness. Imbued with flimsy protection, she slipped into the pond.

2

Girl you want some lotion? Here I got you some cocoa, coconut, shea butter, vanilla bean We’ll have you smelling like fresh dewdrops From the morning rain, fresh bread, blessings, Here let me hold that for you, here give it to me, Here, can I help you? I got you some soup, some Chocolate, tampons, gum, hair ties, smiles, hugs, These are how we keep each other alive. Girl, you gotta listen to this, it’s gonna change you Your whole life today, go in a dark room and close your Eyes and listen, mouth each word until its fits yours you’re looking fine today, you’re holy, you’re whole. you’re a whole world. here I am, right here, here standing here, right here beside you.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:52 PM UTC

Anthem for the Girl in the Back of the Room

Girl you want some lotion? Here I got you some cocoa, coconut, shea butter, vanilla bean We’ll have you smelling like fresh dewdrops From the morning rain, fresh bread, blessings, Here let me hold that for you, here give it to me, Here, can I help you? I got you some soup, some Chocolate, tampons, gum, hair ties, smiles, hugs, These are how we keep each other alive. Girl, you gotta listen to this, it’s gonna change you Your whole life today, go in a dark room and close your Eyes and listen, mouth each word until its fits yours you’re looking fine today, you’re holy, you’re whole. you’re a whole world. here I am, right here, here standing here, right here beside you.

14

Gather your books, your notebooks, your pages and pages Barely legible Catholic school cursive, oil crusted papers Coffee stains, cheese danish crumbs, ink marks on your thighs Use your mother’s brain, your father’s tireless oxen energy Your sister’s bravery, your grandmother’s mix of mango & tajin, Your grandfather’s home grown guavas from the rooftop gardens You come from a legacy, a star doesn’t explode in isolation At my funeral play Jamila, play Nitty, NoName, Rihanna, SZA, Mahlia, Kamaiyah, MIA, Nina, Light a votive in the shape of Beyonce and baby Blue Sing your blues, the chorus never sounded this good

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:51 PM UTC

A Potion for Studying

Gather your books, your notebooks, your pages and pages Barely legible Catholic school cursive, oil crusted papers Coffee stains, cheese danish crumbs, ink marks on your thighs Use your mother’s brain, your father’s tireless oxen energy Your sister’s bravery, your grandmother’s mix of mango & tajin, Your grandfather’s home grown guavas from the rooftop gardens You come from a legacy, a star doesn’t explode in isolation At my funeral play Jamila, play Nitty, NoName, Rihanna, SZA, Mahlia, Kamaiyah, MIA, Nina, Light a votive in the shape of Beyonce and baby Blue Sing your blues, the chorus never sounded this good

11

Dear Angela, When was the last time the wind blew threw your hair or did it go through your body too? I didn’t know the last time we saw each other, the cat would stain on the wall with its **** and then you would miss your date. Your hair looked like a crown in the sun. Did you ever get the energy to come out of bed? Dear Angela, Soot collects in the hollows your cheekbones, the eyeliner you have rubbed off in your sleep. The last time I saw you, you were cleaning the cat’s **** from the walls and missed your date and we laughed it off and had pizza instead. Angela, I know you are exhausted from simply opening your eyes. Angela, do you still hold your body at night like it is something holy? Dear Angela, Do you remember when we had tea in the August heat in clear plastic cups with our pinkies up and your mother showed us her corrugated cucumbers? Angela do you remember when you were swimming in the Y with the ladies whose bodies could hold your body and mine and still have room for more. Dear Angela, Do you remember when we walked out of class during your first panic attack and how I told you to lay down on the plastic benches that littered the hallway and you said you suddenly felt calm again? Angela do you still lie down on your side sometimes and think about going back to your prime days? Did you know then? Dear Angela, I can tell you to stay strong but I don’t know what that means either. I can tell you that it is winter now and it is cold and campus is a dead white man’s tomb but there are still flowers that stay in the winter time. They call it a winter garden. Angela, maybe you are a winter garden, maybe you are the softest footprint in the snow.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:50 PM UTC

Dear Angela

Dear Angela, When was the last time the wind blew threw your hair or did it go through your body too? I didn’t know the last time we saw each other, the cat would stain on the wall with its **** and then you would miss your date. Your hair looked like a crown in the sun. Did you ever get the energy to come out of bed? Dear Angela, Soot collects in the hollows your cheekbones, the eyeliner you have rubbed off in your sleep. The last time I saw you, you were cleaning the cat’s **** from the walls and missed your date and we laughed it off and had pizza instead. Angela, I know you are exhausted from simply opening your eyes. Angela, do you still hold your body at night like it is something holy? Dear Angela, Do you remember when we had tea in the August heat in clear plastic cups with our pinkies up and your mother showed us her corrugated cucumbers? Angela do you remember when you were swimming in the Y with the ladies whose bodies could hold your body and mine and still have room for more. Dear Angela, Do you remember when we walked out of class during your first panic attack and how I told you to lay down on the plastic benches that littered the hallway and you said you suddenly felt calm again? Angela do you still lie down on your side sometimes and think about going back to your prime days? Did you know then? Dear Angela, I can tell you to stay strong but I don’t know what that means either. I can tell you that it is winter now and it is cold and campus is a dead white man’s tomb but there are still flowers that stay in the winter time. They call it a winter garden. Angela, maybe you are a winter garden, maybe you are the softest footprint in the snow.

10

To Mr Arnav Gupta, Forgive me bhai, your embers are still fanned alive in my memories you are still walking in circles in Ellipse Park Dear Mr Gupta, Do you know what distance a flame can travel on a summer day? How far the flame travels in the camera frame, how long it keeps? Your flame ephemeral everlasting still walking still wake Purians pyres that covered brown bodies in 1687 Dear Arnav, Do you remember when Sita sat in her Agni Praskar in Ramayana? How women still throw themselves in their husband’s funeral? What were you trying to purify through the seven flames?

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:47 PM UTC

Arnav Gupta

To Mr Arnav Gupta, Forgive me bhai, your embers are still fanned alive in my memories you are still walking in circles in Ellipse Park Dear Mr Gupta, Do you know what distance a flame can travel on a summer day? How far the flame travels in the camera frame, how long it keeps? Your flame ephemeral everlasting still walking still wake Purians pyres that covered brown bodies in 1687 Dear Arnav, Do you remember when Sita sat in her Agni Praskar in Ramayana? How women still throw themselves in their husband’s funeral? What were you trying to purify through the seven flames?

13

Your soft featherlight touch wrapped around my shoulders did you know you are made from tears? Did you know you hold oceans inside of you that the deepest part of the ocean is not blue it is purple. We both have a little bit of purple lipstick on us twirl around and around until the world is a blur your soft featherlight touch wrapped around my shoulders reminds me I am home in the deepest part of the ocean.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:43 PM UTC

Grandmother's Shawl

Your soft featherlight touch wrapped around my shoulders did you know you are made from tears? Did you know you hold oceans inside of you that the deepest part of the ocean is not blue it is purple. We both have a little bit of purple lipstick on us twirl around and around until the world is a blur your soft featherlight touch wrapped around my shoulders reminds me I am home in the deepest part of the ocean.

12

Step out from your silver screen and your golden slippers. Unwrap your red wedding sari that hangs heavy on your shoulders. Loosen the blouse that strangles your ******* Untie the skirt that suffocates your hips. Throw away heavy golden earrings and necklace. Wipe off the layers of kohl around your eyes. Take off your clanging bangles. Smash them in the ground and watch the colorful mosaic emerge under your bleeding feet. Anoint yourself with this scarlet bindi. Rub holud in the spaces you love and the spaces you don’t love yet. This is your holy ground. This is where you will fight. This is where you come alive. Stand still and breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe, you are still alive yet.

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Jun 29, 2019

Jun 29, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC

Prayer for a Bride

Step out from your silver screen and your golden slippers. Unwrap your red wedding sari that hangs heavy on your shoulders. Loosen the blouse that strangles your ******* Untie the skirt that suffocates your hips. Throw away heavy golden earrings and necklace. Wipe off the layers of kohl around your eyes. Take off your clanging bangles. Smash them in the ground and watch the colorful mosaic emerge under your bleeding feet. Anoint yourself with this scarlet bindi. Rub holud in the spaces you love and the spaces you don’t love yet. This is your holy ground. This is where you will fight. This is where you come alive. Stand still and breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe, you are still alive yet.

14