Few scribbles and a poem

I.
Why do women so love
metaphors?

Because only women can hear the strange music that blows in the air
Only when the minor chord touches her, she radiates the unseen shiver
The tremble spreads in the air and again it converges in
Because she can feel it coming within her: the thing, the meaning
Because she loves it coming before it really comes to her
Because she wants it she wants it now she won’t take it before it is time
Because the metaphor means you have crossed it over, at least once, better twice
Because she adores your voice, but she knows it sounds better than things merely nice
Because she loves the face beneath your mask (she only likes it if there is one)
Because she smiles at the implied and plays with the written and the done
Because she knows the answer but is eager for the words you are searching for
Because she knows what you will say, she is just stitching and unstitching knots
Because she likes your shirt smelling like your skin and your skin tasting like something else
Because she will give what a man wants and hates the precise demands
Because she likes a sentence which she can smoothen like a wrinkle and clean like a stain
Because she overlooks the mortal thing and cherishes the fragile porcelain
Because though you chase her she knows she is not real, she is the opening
The real, as you define it, is something she refuses to dwell in
She likes feelings which shimmer like ideas, light in the pond’s skin
Because the answers above never reach it, more love slips away, love seeps in…

Thanks for the question, Inam…I don’t know how the above is connected to the poem following…

II.

Another year-end; I remain shelled under my hide
Fidgeting whom to call, how to shed my pride
Caged in trappings I chose and I didn’t
Sweetness in the air kills, sexual like peppermint
I’m waiting; something might be coming
Something should come

I was dumped in this city like a complying refugee
Its invitations scared me, I still don’t know the well-known streets
Where to go to lose myself, where to go to sin
I’m forever rooted within my ordained loves, within received securities
I’m waiting; something might be coming
Something should come

The city has the face of a woman, the billboards say
Scavengers of fortunes reap silvers off her slow decay
She swells, she sells well and I searched for her yesterdays
In a tune playing in the air, which only they can hear
They might teach me; they might be coming
I waited for them to come

The woman who baited me to her puddle in the pungent park
Her blood was rotting; another one was cocooned in her coming dark
She invited me to her abortion; the other one was misleading the blind
They were not real, but they knew the tune; but I hankered for the sight divine
I saw in your face light was coming like a grace
Trembling did it come

Your flares were blinding, you released a purple scream
There was a razor blade sheathed beneath your chemised dream
My tongue was slit loving you, my mouth is still glistening wet
I was waiting to leave you but I waited till you left
I saw in your maddening haze the moment coming like a blaze
So momentous did it come

And it was gone, rolling and heavy like a midnight train
In this city christmas still comes, holier than the halogen
Trapped in a cage with its windows and doors open
I’m waiting, like a pagan for its coveted heathen
Something should come

And more I trace in songs tuneless the journey of the moan
I’m stripped to words which I string in verse and hang it round my bones
The sound, it swirls in my ribs, in my reels; it is hurting just like truth
Curve me into something legible; cool me in your lute
I’m waiting, like a poem for the forceps of the poet
That woman she should come

She who is the muse who writes, the queen of all that is sung
Here I am ready to be wrought, here I am the chosen one
Gift me a garland of flowers and words, a tower with a beckoning beacon
The promise of the miracle, the vision of the unicorn
I’m waiting, something might be coming within me
Something might become

It’s a face before it is born
It’s a mourn before the the morn’
It’s a will before the done
It’s a stillness before the run
It’s a word which will balm the burn
It’s the chord which will sound the turn
It’s a petal which will unfurl
It’s a pearl which will deliver
It’s the shape before it escapes
It’s the name before it is said

It will come.

Image Courtesy: Oblivious by Danielle Kelly via FILE Magazine