Fragment III

The rose faint with fragrance

has slowly begun to wilt

in the chaotic quietude

of deep, starless nights.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Lorca's Lament

My love has flown away

on the black wing of an eagle

to pierce the blue mantle

of a Spanish sky.

Words have deserted me,

they have marched away

to the beat of a thousand drums

and the clash of swords.

The gleam of his naked pistol

and the sun's scorching rays

blinded me as I knelt

that sweltering summer's day

on flowering earth-

mother of all mothers

that gave birth to me.

They dragged me to the cemetery

to breathe my last broken sigh.

I am still searching for the mound

where my shattered bones lie.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Painting

'The Chief'

pen and acrylic on paper

(click on image to enlarge)

Poem- Echoes of An Evening

Pink sequins and an emerald wrist

in a mirror marred by violence.

Look behind you, there is a spider clinging

to a flimsy web that cannot be held

together by mere words alone.

In a green silk blouse shimmering

like sunshine on a crystal tear,

you look for distraction in a mirror;

you stroke old wounds with fingers

yellowed by cheap cigarettes and years

of bitter acceptance.

Through evenings smelling of stale smoke

and plants dying in Moroccan terracotta,

you comb your hair in a window lit

by moonbeams frail and tarnished with time.

You sleep to the lonely sound of chimes,

and engulf yourself in the folds

of a long and scathing solitude.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Ephemeron

It happened so quickly,

the way her love shattered

into a thousand fragments,

each a tiny mirror reflecting

a magnificent sunburst,

blinding her soured vision forever.

And all she had done

was ask him,

ask him in a quiver,

'Did you fuck her?'

to which he lied,

the bastard slipped,

so that the truth hit her.

She knew it was over.

Zaina Anwar 2010

Rose Scented Illusion

The moon tugs angry at my heart,
drawing black blood in an ebb and flow
of the sea that crashes and roars
against the rocks beneath this monstrous cliff.

The mist hangs in patches dissolving shadows:
no wonder I cannot see who I am,
give me a candle so I can satiate myself-
are these really my raw, soap-frothing hands?

Love was a wonder, a cherished hope,
but now I am down on blistering knees,
chasing a potato for the next singeing meal
over a kitchen fire that has burnt my years.

He shall not patch me up with occasional nods
and bland phrases reeking boredom;
he brings me roses on a Sunday forgetting
that there are thorns on the bloodied stems.

On turning 30

She is fragmented in the mirror,
a possibility failing over and over
to come to fruition.
How does one put the myriad petals
back into a rose?

(I think I've had an overdose of Sylvia Plath)

Gone Up in Smoke

What I saw then was different-
it could not have been you.
Blindfolded then maybe,
now I breathe indifferently
but sometimes
as in autumn when the trees
begin to shed tangerine leaves
and the clouds veil the sun
for weeks at a time,
a sharp pang of regret
over a lie concocted
or a devious riddle I failed
to solve pierces through me
with a black intensity,
an affliction I simply
cannot sustain.

August 2010

Another favorite subject: Arthropods

Insects
Acrylic on canvas
(One of my favorite paintings)
click to enlarge

It Makes No Sense

Don't tell me it's not a crazy world
When women stringed in heavy pearls
And priceless furs to which the dead smell
Of flayed animal heat still clings,

Slide out of hotels huge and foreign spiced
With glittering floors and cucumbers sliced
In odd shapes, labor of sweat and blood,
To sell through hot, steaming kitchens and lure

Exquisite taste buds nurtured by leafing
Through the right magazines, cameras flashing
To capture a beautiful morsel entering
A costly mouth, red-lipped in layers hiding

Tiny winter cracks and expelling
Fumes from breath freshener bottles displaying
The heraldic arms of a corporation labeled
In loud golden letters.

Don't tell me it's not a crazy world
When across the street from one such hotel,
A wrinkled man lies by the side of the road
Missing a leg in a land mine carrying a load

Of cooking oil and flour for the family's bread.
His clothes are filthy with the peculiar smell
Of need and endlessly streaming sweat
With boots rugged and barely hanging together

And hammered in places with rusty nails.
By the road he lies come heaven or hail,
Begging for food his body daily craves
While frenzied lice crawling through his matted hair,

Enact a circus to keep the people away,
Who recoil on instinct as they pass him by,
Wishing that the council would have him displaced-
He is spoiling their perfect landscape.

August 2010

From my sketchbook..

'Untitled'
Pen on paper

The Itch

At last, the wind,
winding its way,
through the restless leaves
of sap-encrusted trees
has reached me now,
at this hour,
so I can breathe
something other than the stench
of obscenely clinging malarial heat.

The sky is gray dark deep invaded,
by an army of gestating clouds.
They shall now,
have the last word-
the sun's autocracy
would be shifted:
he shall be imprisoned for a few restful days.
Such is the way of monsoon summer.

And so I sit becalmed
by the cool, shimmering breeze
but for an itch,
beneath the plane
where we employ, our finer sensibilities.
So as I reach out,
towards a pale blue packet,
I wonder whether I should have
another cigarette or
delay my death
by a few more gasping breaths.

A Tryst At The Cimmerian Hour

At night when silence slowly creeps

Into the very crevices of rocks and tree-roots,

When the wolves and crickets join the cacophony,

Of night creatures howling grievances to the moon,

As he leaves his darkly silent womb-

I die a sweet, aching death.

At night when mottled fungi awake

To the empyreal dome arching above,

When dewy-eyed flowers luxuriate

By the swiftly streaming brook,

As he picks up the lurking scent and prowls-

I wait for him with bated breath.

At night when an errant moon coerces the sea waves

And they wax and wane in a fury of confusion;

When sea men pray in vain for deliverance

From the vengeful wrath of mighty Neptune,

As I open the door to his urgent embrace-

I drape my desire, over my yearning breast.

(In memory of D.H Lawrence)

Dedicated to Her...

Her words slice through me like a sword,

impaling my brittle heart on its poisoned tip,

draining it brutally to the last vital dreg

of anemic blood- my wavering lifeline.

The fire from her caustic tongue has burnt

the solitary kernel of my cloistered being,

give me a brush so I can sweep the ashes,

give me a rag so I can wipe the slate clean.

(One of my favorite Native American proverbs says: It is better to have less thunder in the mouth and more lightning in the hand)

Poem- A Tribute to Sylvia Plath

The Truth has Spoken to Me

Beware, for there

is fire beneath my nails

and I can scratch

your slippery surface

to swiftly reveal

your masked secrets.

In a box I have lived

full of moist

blackness

and tiny holes punctured

to watch you floating unperturbed

in your fabricated microcosm.

You have always come to me

enshrouded in a thick swelling screen

of smoke and the smell

of burning charcoal as we ignite,

already exhausted,

our embittered passion.

But the heart that has fed,

since time immemorial,

joyous interludes

to our silent ordeal,

has now come to rest

and left us to willingly die

or to pick up the ashes-

it is for us to decide.

Mindful abstraction

'Odyssey'

Pen on paper

Metamorphosis

'Metamorphosis'

Acrylic on paper

A poem

Before you read this poem, you should know that my poetry is not exactly 'avant garde'. In fact, it is old fashioned in terms of style and to a certain extent, even subject matter. But I cannot help myself since I am obsessed with the Old Ones and their words and raspy voices glide down over a century or two to speak to me in my dreams. Furthermore, here at Flowers of Sulfur, I find myself in the company of much more experienced poets, so I implore you not to be, too disappointed....

Could This Be My Dying Hour

What am I to her
but a mere vestige
of a memory long ago
banished to an attic
of lost and discolored
artifacts.

How would she feel
if by chance she came
upon my photograph,
faded and frayed
at the edges and abandoned
by time itself?

Would she frown
at the remembrance
of events best forgotten
and curse the phantoms
of the past disrespecting
her cherished serenity?

Would she forgive me now
that her hair is silvery grey
and the deep black
velvet mane
has slowly over the years,
simply faded away?

These questions I ask
clearly betray,
to me my guilty conscience,
heavily compounded
by a fear that breaks
my cold and calculated reticence.

How strange that Time
which seemed to be
in youth, an eternity,
has miraculously shrunk
into a finiteness through which
I gape in horror-
in horror at my own,
mortality.

The Third Eye

'The Third Eye'
Acrylic on paper

(First painting I ever sold)