"arshia" poems
There is a certain romance of incomplete stories
and unrequited passion....
A certain heroism , in unfulfilled ambitions and sacrificed wants ...
(There is also
Selfishness in altruism,
Mockery in humility...
Fragility of pretenses,
Deception of senses,
Armors of sensitivities...
all those nitty gritties,
paradoxes that haunt
etc, but then...)
Sometimes this happens,
love stays and we go.
Sometimes this happens,
there is no beginning, nor end:
through “ifs” and “buts”
priorities distend
the space between, what is seen and what has been.
I picked your hopes with my eyelashes
and thatched together a shade for us
You caught my fall in the web of your thoughts,
softening for me, the landing, and thus,
we built a dream.
Sometimes this happens
the stars are buried in the desert sands
the lines dissect though you’re holding hands
but for the heart that understands....
it’s all divine. Not yours nor mine.
Sometimes this happens
one understands, but it’s not enough
one knows, but accepting is still pretty rough
You may have all ingredients
but you still need a “here” and a “now”
no question of why? or what? or how...
Sometimes this happens
the wait becomes unbearable
so remember that you know....
time is deceptive
and it’s already tomorrow in Tokyo
Arshia.
Nov 26/27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 2:17 AM UTC
Bombs go off in Gaza,
and here on the east coast,
the friendships I have nurtured for several years
are blown away in the air like ashes…
The earth is nebulated in a nightmare
flames of despair and anger,
consume the oxygen of hope…
And now, depleted,
my heart sunk in mourning,
I am thinking of words that I will say to my son
so that he can continue to believe
in the good of people.
Arshia.
12.10.23
#middleeastconflict #war #israelpalestineconflict
Oct 12, 2023
Oct 12, 2023 at 6:10 PM UTC
احتمالی بندشوں میں جانفشانی قید ہے
کر کے دیکھیں وار تو پھر زعم ہوگا آر پار
Zeal is restrained
in the boundaries
of “what-if”s
Give it a go, so you
know, whether
your claim lives !
Couplet and translation ©️Arshia.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 4:18 AM UTC
Far enough but still so close
A pain I earned, the ache I chose
I recognise, but can’t relate
The circumstance compels this wait
As I stand by, and you become
Recalling some, forgetting some
I feel you, though not hand in hand
I know, I see, I understand!
Mindful of what lies ahead
I want to look behind instead
Or glaze past all uncertainty
And wake up when in clarity
Almond scented, jasmine hued
Chocolate smooth and zest imbued
O caress of sure hands
Full as skies, deep as lands
I may not be with you right now
But we are always synced somehow
The journey of a teardrop
From the rim to when it stops
A trace of love, on sands of time
That renders our lives sublime
Grow, engage, enhance, affect
Shine on, but also, pause, reflect
This is the space, between the two
from no longer...... to not just yet
Arshia.
27.6.19
#morningmeditation
Jun 26, 2019
Jun 26, 2019 at 11:38 PM UTC
—————————————
I thought I was unduly bent
with the burden on my head
No heart had ears that understood
the tales my face had said
I thought the path had sifted me
away from smoother stones
Where everything is forsaken
and no one truly owns
I thought and thought and thought some more
till I no longer; saw
For eyes, that I knew not I had
widened to stirring awe
In tumblements, I had arrived
to the hall of cynosures
where souls lit up in endurance
and patience opened doors
Accepted for defectiveness
revered for differences
Collected, all, in being dispersed,
closer for distances
Had fate and path not made me, me
and storms made waves I ride
and then I took all I held in
and looked around, outside
It brings you. where you need to be
it gives, what you require;
To then, become what you were, always
waiting, beyond desire.
©️Arshia
13.7.2020
Tokyo
For unexpected realizations, I am #thankful
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 7:19 AM UTC
"Where did you go ? " he asked
"In your album", she replied. " you're the collector , aren't you?
" you collect everything:
Sunsets, clouds, melting snow
Falling stars, shadows,
fireflies in jars
butterflies in nets
feelings,
hurts, regrets
loves
lovers ........
You throw a hook and cut a slice out of them, for keepsake
and render them useless,
like clipped nails....
and then you preserve them
mummified and exalted like they were never when alive
each sentiment, pickled in the brine of your words
each encounter , framed and hung in the museum of "could haves"
But I,
I am the soil.
I can never collect!
I only renew.
I drizzle rain of tears and draw minerals out of my darkest depths
I soak in everything that the cosmos strews at me
I shed the leaves of expectations at each fall
and let my pain rot to fertilize my womb
I nurture and protect hope,
so that it grows, blossoms, gives fruit.
I many not have anything to show
for what I've been through,
like you....
but the birds come back to sing
in me. "
Arshia
21.4.16
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 9:30 PM UTC
I’ve lost count of the weeks.
Grief has made its own calendar.
The pandemic stopped what ambition started
I surrender.
4th March 2020:
My mother has died
I can't close my eyes tonight
not because I am afraid of falling asleep
but of waking up in a tomorrow
where she does not exist.
Behold, the audacity!
I never accepted night,
and still, the sun creeps up
across the jagged Tokyo skyline
ascending the tower ladder,
bouncing off windows,
pushing apart curtains
pouring in from all crevices
as the city flips up
person by person,
onto its stuporous hustle,
as if nothing happened.
-----------------------------------------
Amazing Grace:
A million poems came to hold up my heart
as it fell apart
in my mother's death
I had prepared for this moment,
but what preparations suffice,
when air is wrenched away from breath?
I could write the saddest lines,
sadder than Neruda's
but the tales of her glory
have a more engaging story
to tell.
What would she have said
when she saw herself tagged
in her obituary?
she always counted the likes
and read the comments I receive,
rejoicing momentarily,
in what, she claimed, was borrowed fame.
And now I grieve.
My frantic efforts to capture screenshots
whenever we face-timed,
so I could hoard
her presence.
Oh, bless her essence!
even though her skin-clad bones
had lost the cushion of flesh,
even though the bruit
of the fistula in her left arm terrified me
like a constant 'low-battery' signal,
when she managed to hug me, breathlessly,
that last time,
it was an exchange
of the most amazing grace:
her pain wrapped in patience,
mine in gratitude.
-----------------------------------------
Retrospective Realizations:
And suddenly,
I remember all the condolence messages I have ever written
and retrospectively fill them
with feel, only now revealed to me.
My best compassion and empathy paled in comparison
to this reality.
Death is inevitable; mortality, inescapable.
but life,
with its enticing persistence to carry on,
is cruel.
-----------------------------------------
The poem ends but the pain doesn't:
The real mourning starts
when the visitors leave
and the phone calls end
and the messages stop pouring in,
when you have to resume living
but the dead can't un-die.
Arshia.
22.4.2020
#onewritingaweek
#weekunknown
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 10:35 AM UTC
High rise buildings don’t shed leaves.
And the trees are too far below to be seen.
‘Fall’ carries a different context in concrete
With gravity at play, its threatens to be mean....
There are pockets where nature is trimmed to size
And planted to add value to unreal estate
I should miss the mess, the sights and the eyes
And instead I watch my senses acclimate.
A pumpkin cinnamon latte, in Starbucks terms
Offers cultured aspirants a slice of respite
I am not ungrateful, but I can still reminisce
Not because of my earnestness but despite....
Memory of colours, orchestrates fall
A cacophony of wistfulness without a plot
I can’t even pretend it is autumn in my mind,
When the artifice around me is still so hot.
©️Arshia
6.10.18
#afutureisticpoem
#ifclimatechangecontinues
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
My search of one
remained futile
I had no skill
nor had I guile
But when I picked
with both my hands
some bits of stars
some fists of sands
I found that 'all'
for me was 'one'
And I was all
or I was none!
Arshia.
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 7:10 PM UTC
Fluttering by
Quivering by
Oscillating their coloured wings
The delicate butterflies of my poems
From one thought to the other
On the branch of words
Come, pause, rest, and fly away
A moment here
A moment there
And then who knows where
And in their pursuit, with every breath
From one motif to the next
From one night to the other
I run around, armed with the net of imagination
So that I may touch them
With the softness of the caress, my fingers
Tremblingly
Reach their tips....
They disperse their iridescence
On my hands
And instantaneously
Fly away some where else...
Poem and translation: ©️Arshia.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
a thought diary:
Now the ratio of exhaustion and ambition is just right
Now the need to respond to each stimulus is subdued
How the curtains have cleared between sight and insight
How the walls have crumbled on each lofty feud
————————————————-
All this while, time unwinds with its every revolution
And the axis of the roll is tethered to rest
Whosoever can withstand the decree of absolution
Will remain unperturbed with the purpose of the test
—————————————————-
From the cafe-fed pigeons and the debris-drunken bees
To the mendicants and paupers on the streets of the famed
I do ponder the encounters that happen in your being
Some I know, still there are all the countless and unnamed
—————————————————-
On the ripples in Danube river scribbled with light
The distinct reflection of serene Budapest
And the splendour of adsorbing all dimensions of ‘might’
Till you don’t have to prove yourself to the rest
——————————————————
On your face, I can trace , all the lines of an epic
Every fold is two sided: one gory and one glory
I chose love, all above, for in the maze of theoretic
There are so many ways to tell the same story
—————————————————
It’s what I learn in struggle that I convey in song
What I earn in endurance , I adorn in grace
Thus every gain, with its pain, does truly belong
One has to burn in the soul to light up ones face
————————————————-
You have the same hospitality for all your guests
Whoever loves you more, will perceive more of you
It’s the lived experience that defines the quest
It’s the intent, not content that sanctifies Wudu
—————————————————-
But still I wonder all the loves that embellish your ways
And the promises in your narratives that echoingly roam
the same streets I tread and the same night and days
As I lose myself in you while I’m looking for my home
—————————————————-
Travel is a state of mind, and home, a station of the heart
How far we go is measured from where we start
You’ll see, in the trajectory of an encircling path
Aein, our beginnings and ends are never apart.
©️Arshia.
18.8.18
Budapest
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:22 PM UTC
عین یہ شیشے کی نگری، نقص گننا چھوڑ دے !
جو دِکھیں اوروں میں ہوں نہ خود تمہارے دیکھنا
Aein, this is a house of mirrors, stop counting who is defected
Flaws you see in others, may just be your own, reflected!
Urdu couplet and translation, ©️Arshia
#mytranslation.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
احتمالی بندشوں میں جانفشانی قید ہے
کر کے دیکھیں وار تو پھر زعم ہوگا آر پار
Zeal is restrained
in the boundaries
of “what-if”s
Give it a go, so you
know, whether
your claim lives !
Couplet and translation ©️Arshia.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 8:47 PM UTC
ملا تو پھر نہ رہے گا جوازِ شکوہ گری
جو مانگنا ہو تو یہ حوصلہ ضروری ہے
If you get it, you will have no justification of complaint
When asking for something, this fortitude must be ascertained
Couplet and translation ©️Arshia
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:12 PM UTC
I’m feeling beautiful today.
Is it because
of this dress of velvet
like molten sapphire
against my skin
or the shimmering gold
a finest thread
lining my silhouette
in a filigree thin
Is it the mascara line
curving out
and making my lashes
flutter and sway
or the tint of pink
in a creamy blush
that on my cheeks
has come to stay
is it the curl in my lips
a contrived pout
or the click of my heels
on the floor it clouts
the bangles on my wrist
that sing as they jingle
the sparkling earlobes
as the earrings ******
is it the perfumed rose
that blooms in my scent
or the coiffured scarf
a colored accent
is it the swing in my gait
or my elusive trait
it is my voice, my gaze
or how, when i talk
my pupils dilate….
I feel beautiful today,
but i do not know why
i have thought all day
and now dark draws nigh
I feel beautiful today
so I should enjoy….
Arshia
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC
For my son as I tried to draw his portrait. ( Originally written in 2021. Rewritten 29.4.24)
I know each curve, each follicle
Each eyelash, every smile
I know your boastful playfulness
And your resplendent guile
I know your hiding sorrows
And the demons that you fight
I know your composition
Each sound, each smell, each sight
I understand your duty, I comprehend your woes
I know quite well your matrix,
the friends, the bends, the foes
I keepsake all your stories, I’m a bank for your dreams
I notice each infliction, rebellion, all the schemes
I Am the primal witness to the glory of your being
Perpetually enchanted, entranced with what I’m seeing
Not a flicker, not a twinkle, a spark that goes amiss
For me you are perfection, so let me tell you this
Each atom, every molecule, with my mothers heart I trace
And yet my love-rimmed fingers, just can not draw your face.
Apr 29, 2024
Apr 29, 2024 at 10:48 AM UTC