Pieces of Perfections

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections

it would go something like this:

  1. your love
  2. your angry tears
  3. the love you are given
  4. every mistake you made
  5. everything you say out loud
  6. the anxiety you feel sometimes
  7. everything you say inside yourself
  8. the piece of you that says yes when you want to say yes
  9. the piece of you that says no when you want to say no
  10. the piece of you that doesn’t say anything in case you hurt someone

(maybe in that order)

 

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, and jumble them all up, make some bigger than the other, rename a few pieces when you’re not looking

how unbelievably perfect would you be?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, take you away from your form, look at you naked, no longer clothed in your hopes and dreams

would you remain perfect? or are you posing just for me?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, keep one in a jar beside my bed, one to freshen the clothes in my cupboard, and one to spread the jam on my toast

how grossly imperfect would i be? holding on to you pieces of you?

showing you off and using you to survive?

if i were to split you up into pieces of perfections, i’m sorry. i should never have done it.

 

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Pieces of Perfections

Love: An Essay

“What is love?” in the context of Sufi teachings.

“What is love?” is a question is very similar to Pilate’s question “What is truth?”[1] It cannot be answered with a simple definition. To define such an intangible concept one must venture into it’s different names, attributes, effects and how one can achieve it.  To do this, the greatest thinkers of Sufi teachings will be referred to, who have based their entire Sufi experience and teachings on Love. Ibn ‘Arabi and Rumi are most famous for their vast number of literature on the topic, both devoting their time to engulf themselves in the conceptualising of Love. Also, Rabi’ah of Basra was most famous for providing a foundation of pure devotion to God, to the extent where she decided to live a celibate life as she was wholly in love with God. Ghazali will also be referred to, and has fewer works on the topic; however his take on Love is somewhat different to the majority of Sufi figures.

Continue reading “Love: An Essay”

Love: An Essay

Paradise Avenue

Paradise Avenue.
The angels argue who will fall
first, and they choose you.
You are quick to laugh it off,
“O Angels, must I fall. Can you not arrange a ride? With all the power God holds, can he not find someone, who with me, could die?”

Amongst the extroverted residue
I see translucent trails of you.

I see you cry by the bins of Abraham’s bakery
you are just a sphere of blue
Without blowing my cover from behind the reed flute
I somehow wish to tell you
for years I’ve watched you grow into
a light above the architectural dispute,
and since a child golden cobbles heat up as you walk beside them on your way to Gabriel’s honey pool,
I see you between God and his first Repute
and since a young age you have had your eyes wishing to dilate,
cocking your head between God and Adam
wishing you could have a love as great.

For heavenly years I have tried to build up the verses to tell you that;
I have fallen in love with watching you and
I have come to always
see you behind me, ahead of myself
I see you above me, I lower myself
my only wish is for you to be brave enough to grow form
so I may hold you and you may have, just as you wished, a love to fall for.

Paradise Avenue

First.

We don’t know where we’re going. We’re by a canal and we innately understand that the city lights won’t let our gravity be defied. We plaster our sight across every other line, across every other line, across every other line.

– We need green.
We catch eyes.

I inwardly apologise if I’ve done this prematurely. Face on; I turn to face you. On the hill, the sky meanders until it is the only thing beside you. There’s a blur of scintillating taxi signs and 5pm fireflies behind you. I can see the line of your profile. You breathe deep and the lines of your chest become obtuse. You breathe in the ripples of the sky. The lines of your silhouette reach its peak and the city lights seep behind it. Right there, in front of my eyes, you breathed in deep; and I witnessed you taking away the disquiet.

– We need blue.                                           We we want each others’ truths.

We’ve waited months for the night to fall and now it is ours. Starting to feel more at ease we talk without taking a breath. We know that with each anecdote that passes by the sundials amends its time. It gift us with more night to watch the stars fight with sonar lights. We’re walking side by side holding onto our own shivers; but we’re not yet close enough. I want you to know I can take away the winter breeze and I need you to know I have never spoken with such wide-eyed devotion about the mundane. I tell you things I’ve never known.

– We need red.

Walking further along the canal we come across a damp dock to rest our backs on. We need to jump over fences to get to it. We came this far. We jump. To make sure we know the night is real we chose a ribbed dock to lay on. Side by side, we catch planes while I dip my feet into the water. You tell me you should never really have your chest uncovered. I take off my coat and cover us both. I dip my head underneath and you follow suit. For that moment we didn’t need the stars. For the first time, under my winter coat, I felt the density of your spectre. The sky becomes impatient and warns us the night is coming to an end. It begins to rain. We don’t want to leave but the rain gets heavier. We run towards a bridge, shivering and wet. I bury myself in your chest and without knowing we protect each other from the heavy rain.The sky is still not happy. Lightning begins to flash and we decide to take shelter under some stairs. Arching our backs slightly, we find ourselves away from the city and finally from the sky. While we wait for the rain to stop falling, you quieten all the noise as we kiss for the first time. The lightening stops and the rain fades. We wait for the noise to come back but the only thing that can be heard is a sheet of film sliced between dusk and dawn melting away.

First.

I Don’t Believe

 

I don’t believe in the first day we met
It’s all just fables and tales.
We may have bled into each others skin
unwillingly seeped into each other’s lives

 

we may have forgotten what we meant

maybe we never said hello right

 

I don’t believe in the way you look at me
Because there has never been a day
you didn’t look dead
And that’s not how it’s supposed to be

 

It’s supposed to be us against the world

                                      but the world burnt us alive

 

I don’t believe in a mother’s touch
Because sadness no longer means
find warmth from your hands
It means find shelter in any man’s plan

 

You didn’t even have to do anything,

I could have brought the blanket

 

I don’t believe in firearms since
the day you shot me in the leg
and I fumbled by your feet
close to kissing them

 

I’m sorry for staining your shoes

I remember trying them on as a kid

I don’t believe I saw remorse
When you froze me with your stare

 

I don’t believe you ever looked at me
standing still when you breathed heavily

 

I don’t believe humans are from one
because we’ve always been about honesty

 

I don’t believe we are all connected
All because you don’t believe in me

 

Aside

Bengal

As soon as words leave her mouth, love turns to lust.

A Bengal tiger guards the now familiar pavilion

And stretches his elegance as soon as the adhaan is heard

The white silk wrapped around the four bed post tastes the parity in the wind

The red inked walls listens to their breathing getting heavier.

She can hear his clothes creasing, his feet on the dense Persian rug

With passionate modesty she looks away from him

And towards the Fourty Rules of Love she left on her bed

Without a word she feels the rosemary around his neck on her neck.

She feels her straw bed on her back.

She feels his regretful love on her lips. His bridled future on her breasts.

The Opening begins playing in her father’s voice in her head

She trembles in her lace gown when she witnesses divinity

The gold coins embellished with allegory cradles the wind

Creating rich sounds of The First Father.

It hides the vibration of her first unforgettable sharp breath.

But, the Bengal tiger’s ears perk up,

his sunbathed skin going wherever his bones go.

He silently walks through the grains of silk towards the enriched pavilion.

He finds both girl and boy undressed, on the Persian rug

Wrapped in wine sheets

blushes of red in their cheeks, pretending to be asleep.

He looks at her and  counts the threads beneath her shoulder.

And she opens her eyes to look at him

When she no longer felt his eyes on hers.

Bengal

The Moon & I

I’m feeling nostalgic over moments that happened a month ago.

I remember listening to the moon creak slowly down his angle. Arthritis got him moving slower.

‘Tell me tales of the old’, I asked the moon and the stars. They gave me a little inspiration and I thank them for their stories. I may have departed them by belittling the sky. I told her she’d be absolutely nothing if it weren’t for them. Who would look into an empty sky and dream of lives they wished they believe they could live?

I did this every night for a very long time because I was always static during the day and I found it hard to see past the computer screen and all it’s information.

So, every night I met with the moon and it would project an image of itself chasing the sun. A little narcissistic but I liked knowing the moon knew what he wanted to do with his life. He would show me all the lovely people that spoke with him about the freedom they longed for (I admit I got rather jealous when i saw that loads of girls spoke to him). At twilight I’d say good night.

One night, I was on my way to the moon and Orion’s Belt coughed stardust in my face. I gave him a good telling off and a little advice to take some honey and lemon. Apparently, Orion was trying to get my attention and had something urgent to tell me. He said that the moon is a hypocrite and I should not fall for his trap. I was instantly taken aback. He asked me if I wished I was as beautiful and as happy as the moon. I said yes. He asked me if I wished I was as free and light as the moon. I said yes. He asked me if I knew what the moon’s job is. Job? What job? He does these things because he loves to. Orion’s Belt told me the moon has got a 9-5 job and he’s stuck in it forever and he has no choice but to stick to it. His job is to make people feel free.

At exactly ten past eleven the moon came. I never realised it had a schedule. I felt very betrayed by the moon and told him everything Orion’s Belt told me. He didn’t even deny it. I couldn’t believe that all those nights I was looking at life’s 9-5 job to think I was unshackling from my predestined plan.

The moon and I don’t talk anymore. Ever since that talk with Orion’s Belt I’ve felt a bit weird speaking to the stars.

The moon can’t derail and neither can I. And now I’m always sleeping on time and waking up on time.

The Moon & I