This poem is dedicated to the fallen of the First World War, and also, to all those we have lost in the years since.

- Somme Harvest -

In the early morning
Dawn of the fiery horizon,
The sea of green caresses the land
And gave it gentle kisses
Of tender sadness.

On this day many an unlived life would find
Life in Death, but first must come Death in Life,
Indeed, a bouquet of barbs grace the
Dark, dank, *****
Halls of Morningstar,
Servants go to and fro preparing the sordid feast
Of unsung heroes.

Babes in arms are they, who shall
Ever sleep till the break of the final day.

Fields of Flanders infertile,
But for the harvest to ripen
The fertilizer of life is
Scattered, battered, tattered,
Sown,
Human manure, nutrient of vitality,
It seeps into earthly soil.

In the year of our Lord,
One thousand, nine hundred and sixteen
Did the farmers collect their greatest bounty,
Not all farmers reaped massive yields,
Farmers Kultur, Sickle and Hammer
Fed their maniacal hunger with rotting corpses,
While famers Lion, Bulldog and Bald Eagle
Wept their hunger with mechanical eyes,
Farmer Scythe, steward of Morningstar,
Laughed dry, dead tears of hungry joy
And sang the golden harvest song
As his blade swam through the harvest thirstily,
For indeed, the harvest was an endless
Smoky sea of blood green
And thousands were sailing.

Twilight gleaming through the sky,
The raging war god *****’s dry thunderous wrath
And wreaks barbaric, savage, ferocious, ****** carnage below,
As sleeping
Babes in arms fly through the red twilight.

Vultures dressed in human feathers
Gather and crowd around their congealing cold feast,
With hatred sewn on their
Lifeless, lidless
Blind eyes,
They shriek their throaty, ******
Thankless prayers to idle gods.

A multitude of thousands upon thousands
Of souls sour to the heights of Mount Olympus,
Unshed tears,
My child, I saw you in that dusky evening half-light,
Flying, soaring and rising higher with your
Brothers-in-arms.

As I looked up at the darkening sky
My heart wept warm tears of ebbing love,
While my eyes forever dimmed the light,
And my baby,
My body became the Earth,

The phoenix has nested.

This poem was inspired by a photograph taken by Kevin Carter. The photo can be viewed at the following link:

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3533/3889588190e6c52b9358o.jpg


A Prayer for the Forgotten

I weep O Lord, I weep,
I weep for those who have no more tears to weep,
In this world overflowing with wealth
a child should not be left for the birds of carrion,

Look to it now before the hour grows cold,*

Remember well the flapping of the Reaper’s wings,
For on the tolling of the day,
One day now, one day soon,
You too will be snatched away before the break of day.

In the room there is a heart beating fast and fresh,
A child newly dressed from heaven’s kingdom blessed,

Touch and feel the softness of unpainted beauty,
No pressure yet, no career, no worries, nor any duties,

Breathe in and taste the fragrance of sweet paradise,
This perfume is innocence; it can never be bought or priced,

What lovely eyes, full of vitality and life’s bright energy,
The world has not yet cast its shadows on this miracle of biology,

Mother and child glow in a world drunk on darkness,
This gift to mankind, this birth makes Death hopeless.

"...in the sensual warmth of dawn
my nose did inhale the fair aroma of a rich flavour,
Dark caressing gold,
In this fragile cup, a cup rare,
My hands do hold a pearled world,
For in this liquid empire floats universal love and hope,
I put my lips to the cup and taste the whole wide world,
what a precious toast I raise to the heavens up on high..."

The song of Freedom...
'tis the lyrical breath of life,
it flies over every land
speaking a language with a universal melody.
*Who dares to cage it?

Something comes…
It comes upon the weeping of the wind…*

He once long ago licked love’s poetry into her eager ears,
He sang soft sonnets which soared and sailed over her curves,

She sat by the shadows of the alpine wood as he spun her hair,
She could hear his heartbeats resting and rising to a hypnotic rhythm,

His snarls slapped and scratched her cheeks,
His hunger addicted to her rose scented blood,

She now waits by the locked door of a weeping widow’s web,
She feels the air bristling through her shape shifting thoughts,

He who knew her killed her,
She who loved him loves him still.

He comes with the shadows of another dead day...

She hears fog coughing in the dark splinters of her mind,
It lingers and prowls on the edge of her haunted eyes,
The sharp crack of her bones screams through the night,
Her bruised silken skin drips with love’s betrayed blood.

He snakes into her soul and leaves the venom of his passion...

The night howls with each of her swollen sighs,
A silhouette of a rising nightmare fists into her face,
Her nose shatters into fragments from a story still untold,
The tongue inside her mouth drowns in warm blood.

He is the nightmare from which she will never again wake...

The romantic room growls and scratches her with impatience,
The white sheet crawls up her legs and wraps around her neck,
Her lipstick leaks down her cheeks and she twitches no more,
Outside in the sky of the night the moon bleeds into the clouds.

He smiles and wipes away her dead tears as her soul evaporates...

I place a gun to my temple,
My dreams lie trampled,
My mosque everyday burned and mocked,
My church fired with brimstone and rocks,
My synagogue scarred and tarred,
My eyes see through the false plastic masks,
My body my simple shrine,
My blood red as winter’s wine,
My head wears no crown and I am all alone,
I pull the trigger and kneel at God’s eternal throne.

The eve of my death shall be my coronation,
For although I lived and breathed it was but a lament,
I hid it well,

No one knew,

For pain did not upon my face draw its battle lines,
This garden of earth’s simple delights I found barren,
I go now to a place where the soul never hungers,

Now I know,

This was always the dream of my final resting place,
Under a beam of a cold weeping moon,
There I shall sleep my discarded life into the roots of a dead rose,

*This is home...

A husband without his wife is a desert without an oasis,

A man without a woman’s shadow is a man without a trace,

A marriage without passion is a rainbow without colour,

A child without a mother is a seed without a flower,

A home without a family is a ship without an anchor,

A beauty without grace is a diamond without a glow,

A mirror without a face is a ghost without a name,

A breath without a prayer is a life without hope,

A body without a soul is a well without water,

A search without faith is a hollow shell without the Creator,

A lover without the Beloved is a life without meaning,

A question without sense is an answer without understanding,

A hunger without reason is a famine without deliverance,

A palace without people is a king without a crown,

A country without peace is a cancer without a cure,

A sentence without mercy is a law without justice,

A nation without a dream is a song without a melody,

A singer without a voice is a bird without wings,

A painting without colour is black without white,

A night without sleep is a room without light,

A day without end is work without play,

A circle without a line is a shape without form,

A life without laughter is death without life.


©Rangzeb Hussain

On that dread day,
when innocent babes in arms
were torn screaming from the ******* of their mothers,
when the old and infirm were lined up
and had their spines snapped by high velocity bullets,
when the refugee camps ran red
with the slippery blood of voiceless victims,
when the sky itself wept and wailed,
on that dread day a nation bargained away
and lost its precious soul.
Peace and love died on that dread day.


©Rangzeb Hussain

I have seen our garden after Eden,
I have felt the change in the climate,
I have tasted the warm summer rain,
I have ploughed your perfumed harvest upon a moonlit evening.

I still rummage through the memory of autumn,
I still yearn to **** out the crease in your silken garments,
I still feel your heartbeat fluttering in the breeze of the hummingbird’s wings,
I still irrigate my life with your tears that will forever sting.

I can taste your fragrance in the seeds of spring,
I can close my eyes and pollinate my mind with your dreams,
I can reach out and plant a kiss on the silhouette of your fingertips,
I can still see the faint trace of your fertile footprint.

I want to thaw out the winter from my weeping bones,
I want to cast aside the sad saturated memory stones,
I want to hear the melody that we wrote with our warm souls,
I want to be where you are in the land where cold souls grow old.


©Rangzeb Hussain

Journey to Mecca – The IMAX Experience

Imagine the scene... There are crowds of people milling about, some in queues, some chatting by the windows, others sipping a warm drink. There are children playing in corners, babies drinking milk, and wherever you look you see people of all creeds and races united under the banner of a shared humanity. And what is the reason for this diverse cross section of society to be present in one place on a quiet and sleepy Sunday afternoon at Birmingham’s ThinkTank? The answer is right there across the busy foyer. It is a poster for a new IMAX film called “Journey to Mecca”. The very air bubbles with excitement and expectation as the cinema staff cut the proverbial ribbon and usher the people into the auditorium.

Space, vast and open, is the first thing that hits the audience as they take their seats and let their eyes wander over the immense spectrum of the IMAX screen. A map unfurls across the screen and a narrator explains the time and lays down the background to the scene that is about to commence. The year is 1325, the place is Tangier and the story is about a man who is about to embark upon a journey to the holy city of Mecca on a pilgrimage. The charismatic young man is Ibn Battuta, he stares at the stars that twinkle across the canvas of the night sky and he dreams of spires, of domes, of jewelled cities that sparkle in the desert sands, and his vision swoops like a falcon over the alleys and streets of the kingdom until they rest upon the Ka’aba, the sacred building at the heart of Islam.

Ibn Battuta bids farewell to his beloved family and sets out on his journey which will see him tested, both physically and psychologically, as he travels to the fabled city of Mecca. His trials and tribulations on the road to Mecca are detailed with an emotional richness rarely seen in modern cinema. The script is nuanced in a way that allows the audience to connect with the action and the various characters. The depth of research and the care in which the tale is told is delicately balanced. This is cinema as entertainment and as education.

The film reveals the magic and wonder of the Hajj by contrasting the life of Ibn Battuta with modern day worshippers at the same holy sites as those visited by the young traveller all those years ago. The scale of the event is brought to realisation in a way that will make even the most jaded film connoisseur gasp with astonishment.

In terms of technicalities, the IMAX technology is notorious for being extremely expensive and difficult to master. The format does not allow for the creative freedom that one can utilize in 35mm, so it is to the credit of the crew that this film looks seamless and breathtaking. Every single frame of the drama is a beautifully crafted canvas that seems to glow like a painting. The cinematography is exemplary and employs a painterly palette. The deserts and mountains are dry, cracked and dusty brown like wrinkled parchment while the sun drips golden lava across the scorching landscape. The white garments of the pilgrims are like beacons floating in the creamy dust of the desert sands whilst the tapestries hanging in the bazaars are lovingly stitched in green and blue threads; and the silver and gold bangles on the arms and ankles of the village girls ****** and twinkle. The atmosphere of warmth and friendship is apparent in every scene, especially when the succulent food is shared by the soft red glow of the campfires. High above this blend of colours, languages and the swirl of human emotions are the dancing stars that ripple in the heavens. The spectacle and sounds of a bygone era are stunningly designed.

The soundtrack also serves the film quite well. The music is never intrusive or melodramatic, it is there as a soft accompaniment to the proceedings. The use of strings, Moorish mandolins, African percussion and the human voice brings an exotic and ethereal ambiance to the drama.

“Journey to Mecca” is a journey of hope, a journey of understanding and a journey that will inspire. The sheer magnitude and beauty of this film left the audience awed and instilled a desire to learn more about the past which we sometimes neglect to reflect upon in our fast moving lives. This film is an ode to peace, love and compassion, and acts as a bridge of understanding between the past and present. And, as the film fades to black at the ******, there is a final haunting image that will resonate with every member of the audience. The message is simple and poignant. It illustrates the transient and swift nature of life; it shows how we glow brightly by the light of the noon day sun and then fade into the tranquil shadows of the coming twilight. Our journey in this life should be one that respects all of humanity despite our cultural or political differences. It is not often that one leaves the cinema knowing that your soul has been moved by something rare, delicate and exquisite. This was one of those rare occasions.

Spoke Defeat thus: "I love Success."

Replied Success thus: "I hate Defeat!"

You,* the light and joy of my life,
You,  the purest of the pure,
You, whose beauty the butterflies copy in vain,
You, songbird that can ****** the nightingale,
You, sweetness that the rose envies,
You, jewel which sparkles in my eyes,
You, who I love and treasure,
You, are mine,
Mine,
Mine,
All mine.

I huddled into my collars and looked to the sky,
The day was overcast with yesterday’s lies,
The wind ripped through the streets and sang pain in my ears,
The clouds above heavily pregnant with tears,
On such a dark and cold day...
My eyes beheld a sight full of radiating rays.

Striding down the street in a landscape very urban
was a youth dressed in a gentle green turban,
His white salwar and kameez caressed by the air,
His fresh face beaming shining and clear,
And upon his lips and around his chin
curled a beard neatly combed and oiled from top to rim.

He walked with the confidence of a vibrant caliph,
I did for a moment in my mind stop and marvel at his belief,
This young man was such a contrast to the dark day,
He displayed brilliance and integrity and trod upon truth’s way,
He seemed one who was at ease with God and his deeds,
What a wonderful ambassador for all races and creeds.

As we two passed I offered up a greeting,
“Asalaam Alaikum”.

His eyebrows rippled and coiled like twin cobras lacking intelligence,
He replied to me with the surly silence of arrogance,
He ignored my universal humanity,
He ignored my peaceful charity,
He ignored my friendship and camaraderie,
He ignored God’s solemn word so rich and full of love’s clarity...

This young man...Who was he?
What did he think himself to be?
He was a stranger to me
and a stranger to himself. Could he not see?
He was a stranger even unto God Almighty Himself,
This self-assured man condemned his soul and lost touch with life itself.



©Rangzeb Hussain

The shadow crawled up the staircase,
The long bony fingers crept up,
The arm long and wrinkled.

The candle flickered and momentarily flared
creating even more bizarre and terrifying
shadows along the balcony.

The cold air brushed past
the phantom on the stair
as it reached the child’s bedroom door.

An old hand,
wrinkled and dark,
turned the doorknob slowly.

There was a loud creaking as the door swung open.
Inside it was black,
as black as a tomb.

By the light of the silvery moon
a small bed could be seen near the window.
“Hello Grandma,” said the child.



©Rangzeb Hussain

Her name is Magda and this is her story.

Cast your mind to another time, another place...

The year is 1939 and the place is Germany. The night is cold, the wind howls and upon the strike of midnight there is a thunderous hammering upon the door where little Magda lives. It is the Gestapo, ******’s secret police, they arrest Magda’s father and send him to clear minefields for the German army. Her father has not committed any crime. He is a law abiding citizen who works hard and is a respected member of society. He is arrested because he happens to be Jewish.

Less than a year after the arrest Magda’s mother receives a letter which says her husband has been killed.

Then, on another wild and frightful night there is thunder once more upon the door. This time the soldiers arrive and take Magda, her mother and Magda’s brother George, who is only four-years old.

They are driven to the railway station and packed into a cattle truck with many other people. The floor of the tight compartment is slippery with cow dung, the walls greasy with grime and dirt, and the air hangs heavy with the stale sweat of fear. The prisoners pray silently.

Magda can feel the heat rising as time passes and her mouth and lips become dry. The air is becoming humid, people are gasping, some have fainted, others are weeping. Magda has no idea how long she has been trapped in this claustrophobic dungeon. Her throat burns but there is no water and no food, just slow and painful suffocation. The journey seems to be without end.

Finally, when she thinks she is about to faint, the train screeches to a halt. There are screams and shouts as the prisoners are pushed and shoved out of the carriages and marched towards the barbed-wire gates of the death camp that looms out of the morning fog. Soldiers stand at the sides pointing rifles at the new prisoners. Magda jumps back from when she sees a huge dog snap at her. The spittle from the dog’s foaming mouth flicks across her wrist and she shivers. She notices the sharp teeth and the raging eyes of the dog. The soldier tugs on the dog’s leash and laughs.

There are men in black leather uniforms who are separating the prisoners into two lines, one for men and one for women. Magda’s little brother George is torn from his mother’s arms and thrown into the line where the male prisoners are waiting. Her mother tries to fight her way through the soldiers but she is thrown back and falls into the mud. When she gets up she sees the line of men close around little George and he vanishes. This will be the last time Magda and her mother will ever see little George.

The seasons change, the world turns and time passes. The year is now 1944 and the prison is a place of hunger, thirst, disease and death. There is nothing but fear and sadness as family after family is killed for no other reason except that they are Jews.

Once more, on a stormy night, there is a scream in the night and Magda wakes up. She reaches over and touches her starving and skeletal mother, she searches for her mother’s warmth and her protection, but on this night when her fingers clutch her mother she finds only the cold. Her mother has passed away during the night.

The next day the Allied Forces arrive and liberate the death camp. Magda is free at last. Her frail body is thin but she has survived. She knows that her mother only lived as long as she did so that Magda would survive.

There is an ambulance waiting and Magda is driven to a hospital and from there she is given the very last seat on a plane bound for Great Britain. She arrives in Birmingham and is welcomed with open arms. The people are friendly, warm, kind and smile when they speak. Magda cannot speak English but in time she learns to read and write and soon she is living with a foster family who treat her with love.

Magda knows that in Germany she was not allowed to go out and play. Her mother could only go to one shop for a few minutes under armed guard. The family had no freedom and no protection. Things in England are different. She can go to school, visit shops and parks, spend time with friends and go to her place of worship without any fear.

Every week she goes to Steelhouse Lane Police station and gets her documents stamped. She can only stay in England if she is a student otherwise she will be deported to Germany.  Thus, Magda studies hard and hopes to go to college. She is still sad inside because she knows when her education ends she will have to return to Germany. Sergeant Roberts, from Steelhouse Lane Police station, smiles warmly and advises her, “Magda, if anyone ever asks you what it is that you’re studying, tell them you’re studying to be a grandmother.”

Once more time spins and this time eighty years have passed and the year is 2011 and the place is Birmingham Town Hall. An elegant lady walks onto the stage, the light bounces on her curly hair creating a silvery halo around her glowing face and the audience wait eagerly to hear her speak. She is calm, peaceful and her voice is clear despite her age. She carries no darkness or hate or vengeance, only love. She looks at the audience and smiles gently and says, “My name is Magda and this is my story...”



©Rangzeb Hussain

You, yes you...

You think you know?

Tell me, what do you know?

You can give me facts and figures,
Lists of numbers and statistics,
You speak in a dry dead monotone,
You know this but you don't feel it.

But know you this...

Every number,
Yes, every number,
Every dot on that page,
They were people.

People who looked different,
Dressed different,
Danced different,
Sang different.

They had the same pearly passions,
The same daily dreams,
The same jolly joys,
The same high hopes.

Into cattle trucks wet with abattoir stink,
Into barbed wire tattooed around veins,
Into cells shrill with apocalyptic hymns,
Into Death's breathing gas.

Remember them,
Their tales were ours,
There is blood on the wires of history,
Look to it and fear it...

Humanity?
We preach it
but we fail to live it
or wake up and embrace it.



©Rangzeb Hussain

I perched today in the rain of autumn's late harvest,
Nothing, nothing, nothing but travesty,
Drop after drop after drop of a stone's weightless gravity,

Pain dripped and mixed with the dead grain,
pain milky cloudy purple and insane,
pain germinates across these polluted plains,

Her dread perfume still clings to me,
The bread of her soul still stings me,
Her infertile love is the acid inside of me,

In the depths of the dead winter's heart
there lies my tormented fleeting fearful hart,
For all eternity to be hunted by love's doomed dart.



©Rangzeb Hussain

They killed a Man,

They killed a Message,

They Killed a Vision,

They killed a Dream,

They killed universal Peace,

But...

No matter what they do,

The Dream still lives on,

The Dream still marches on,

The Dream still shines on,

The Dream still glows brightly on.



©Rangzeb Hussain

Smoke in the underpass,
Darkness in the subway pass,
Evil in the alley,
Shadows in Death's valley.

Into the sultry misty wood enters a pert
girl wearing a red hood and tight skirt,
the slinky material short and silky,
rising high to reveal a slash of black lace curly and *****.

He grabs her from behind stifling her shout,
He forces claws across and into her lipstick mouth,
He stabs her face into the ***** stained wall,
He reeks of cheap aftershave as he throws her against the iron door.

Darkness enters her eyes and tears,
Darkness enters her mouth and ears,
Darkness enters her heart and nose,
Darkness empties inside her soul.



©Rangzeb Hussain

Life
Lies,
Love
Lusted,
Trust
Tortured,
Shell
Shocked,
Bones
Batt­ered,
Jagged
Justice,
Desolate
Death.



©Rangzeb Hussain

She told no one...*



©Rangzeb Hussain

YESTERDAY* shines with the golden glow of memory,
Ah, how sweet indeed was love & life!*

TODAY struck the day with the mace of destiny,
O, how cruel thou art!

TOMORROW is yet to be unveiled,
Oh, how it excites and tingles with mystery & fresh hope!



©Rangzeb Hussain