Sheikha A: Selected Poems

Illustration: AI

Manora

for and after Karachi

Rivers run grey where humans are debris —

the refusal of attainment — speaking

of charity like it is a war on the verge

of life’s final bed — a den of monogamy

called sinless aspirations. This launch is

a body of wood where lovers have scraped

fate-lines with forked knives. A static of

belligerent cries swirl as salt-air right here,

in the middle parting of her hair; scalp

white like the sea's tear-fomented froth,

while all we did to ease the rocking wood

in the tangles of her braids was recite,

like a fish swimming home, recite soothe

and fill a can with her reciprocated smoke

to spread like fire in constructed forests;

Manora is an open book of a mass of waves

we no longer bewilder upon, transferring

cruelly our longing into her unmeasured

shadows, of how long they ride the distance

how deep the surface goes.

Dispersal

You don’t sit on any mantles,

I haven’t exalted you to heights,

I can read well into your black

and white silence, the stillness

in the photos.

Your Elysium denotes a voodoo—

living in a better place. The marks

on your back well-guarded by

silks and corduroys— laced

perfidies.

The shoes on your feet depict

nobility; the soul in soles

would know of haggardness

that tread over shards of miasmic

deceptions.

I have inherited your marks,

maybe not the face in accuracy,

but I possess your legacy—

giving away in oracular pieces

to live inside many vessels.

You will find me as I will you;

my ambulatory fate will succeed

over legions that you call posterity,

our stagnancy unsealed—

my destiny squandered.

Autumn

Amiss of a full moon this night

Undone of the season’s pretences

The leaves have stopped browning for me

Under the mushrooms of your memories.

My days may suffer the phosphorous light

Not harsher than your brutal vagaries.

Emancipation

They defied God by eating in the dark—

for this span of starvation when

the religion of dining was taught

by omniscient mouths, when

fire torches stroked burning oil

on their tongues, they bared theirs

of the eras of silence layered

like a poor man’s coat of white

virtue; the water in the glass

bourn like a dream from a blind

man’s vault, as they ate pieces of wars

crumbled in a bowl of meatless broth;

meanwhile, from where the hunt began,

a carcass preached of sacrifice,

it stood a leader for having made

it to the plate, from which they ate

its memories in the dark,

defying religion,

defying god.

Sheikha A. is a Pushcart and Rhysling nominee from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. She has written a variety of poems ranging from subjects of mysticism, speculative, horror, sci-fi, spirituality, and some much earlier youngling works that tried a (amateur) hand at love poems (pulling inspiration from the likes of classical poets). Lately, she has been delving into haiku and senryu, learning and crafting the nuance of intricate short poem writing that can amass a century of wisdom or even impactful contemporary story telling in less than 15 syllables. Moreover, her poetry has been translated into Italian, Arabic, Spanish, Albanian, Greek, Urdu, Chinese, Japanese, French, Polish and Persian. More about her publications can be found at sheikha82.wordpress.com