Friday, 23 February 2018

simple things

as far as stereotypes go, i've often heard that women are complex - in their machinations and ideas, their intents and thoughts - that everything that one should do is not taken as an impulse, for granted, or without attention to repercussions thereof. and of men? men are simple, doomed to do as is, and predictably so. i'm not sure how much i agree with this, but let us say it is generally true; i can testify that there are few situations where men are at least as complex as the fairer sex, if not more so.

you are awarded no points for guessing that being in love is one of those situations, and even less if you were quick to point out that it is untrue - that men love on whims, easily and as fickle as any fleeting emotion could be, to dwell upon one today, and jump to another as soon as opportunity arises (or departs, if rejection were to doom it). i say the latter because that is no true love, and we are all allowed our fleeting fancies, men and women, if only as a(n excusable) prelude to what love may utopian be.

i am a simple person, and i cannot claim to have tasted the sweet (and/or bitter) taste of love's kiss. in fact, i would deign the opposite, in that i have only known spurn and wrath, though not incitingly so; perhaps a mild rebuff at love's scornful beck, and at most, a proffered attempt at obsequiousness in courting such loves. nay, i wouldn't claim to know love, but i can see enough in others to recognise what (i hope) it should be. herein, i include my godson and -daughter, wahhaj and maryam, as a frame of reference, if only for myself.

but, i have felt, true to the words of the expression, 'makan tak kenyang, tidur tak lena, mandi tak basah' (translated: to not fill from eating, not peacefully rest from sleep, not be wet from bathing) - well, at least the first two, as i would not claim to have bent the laws of physics for anything, though attempted love might come close. it is only through familiarity with such a hideous thing that i have learnt to eat and sleep (and bathe?) through remembrances - and that has been a godsend. a man in love cannot be simple, i conclude, but a man who is simply in love is either blessed, or knows little of what it is to love (and in that ignorance, he is also in bliss and bless).

as far as stereotypes go (with regards to being in love, for either gender, though i write in the feminine), there is her face engraved upon my eyelids to haunt me in my sleep. there is here fragrance, that whiffs from heavenly graces. there is her laugh and jaunt, and onomatopoeia in the creaks of the furniture settling in; that keep me awake and aware that she is a million miles away.

as far as stereotypes go, every loving couple is one that could have been her and i, but are instead her and another - old and young, passionate and platonic, overt and implied. every smile is hers, paltry in comparison, but sufficient as a reminder. every kind gesture could have been, but is never as good as, if it were by her hand.

as far as stereotypes go, i would have nothing else, except everything. including everything. only everything. and even that would only be as good because it already has her. but selfishness is the bane of happiness, because how could one want for something knowing that it degrades in one's presence? like a flower picked, or a fruit pared, or clothing thoroughly worn. rather, one might hope it is (beyond his sight and knowledge) deflowered by another, and in the end made life just that much happier for others, though not at the expense of oneself? i wonder if that is even possible.

i can only imagine how much more fitful it must be to have a woman in love, as i know that i have never been acquainted with such things - surely it must be horrendous and revolting.

Tuesday, 21 November 2017

stormy seas

therelies upon the horizon blue,
at dusk, in dawn, with tempered sway;
a mistimed word, which misconstrue,
makes fleet-fleet-fleeting, slips away.

this boat, which dingy, and threadbare,
could never fleet so long, so far;
to bear another year's seafare,
this weary wandering wonderer.

in search of sand, that promised hearth,
with warmth that taint of human hands;
bright stars to guide ones ship to berth,
give birth to and from distant lands.

but hark! 'tis there, beyond the blue,
what dreams to dispel solitude;
what beings that make for company -
what words circumvent platitude!
what hearts to warm the chilling nights,
what mouths for unutterable fights...
what hands that strike relentless force...
what screams that voices beck too hoarse.

perhaps it best to veer this course,
set sail for charters far from land;
that even in such deep remorse,
fault lies only in one's own hands?
for what is worth a sturdy lie,
if not but beaches, shores and strands?

so sailed again to horizon blue, with islands sinking to fathom's deep,
for sated is this sailor's thirst for woman's touch and man's deceit.

Thursday, 14 September 2017

this blooming tree of mine

temperate, in which root is sown,
to leave for room thine paltry own;
and fertile soils with rain a must,
that sproutlings have become robust.

such healthy guide with your own ways,
that subject to sun's nurturing rays;
though without pruned for form or style,
whose branches could have grown so wild.

and from such humble, base and root,
have others plucked each supple fruit;
to taste, that nectar'd bittersweet,
that one should have for own retreat.

yet i could not, for all my lust,
partake in harvest of your trust;
oh, aging, tree, to beg implore,
and see the sapling you were before,
if only for another day,
before those leaves wither away.

but hope! i see a shadow looms,
a late, whilst budding blossom blooms,
a second coming of greater things,
protracted with the autumn springs.

with flowers beauteous than before,
in numbers more, and evermore;
for all to pick and none to see,
grown thorns for all the likes of me!

so cruel! so bitter! how could thee grown? though beg not mine and not my own,
to choose of birds and bees and eyes, that beckon with sweet sorrow'd lies.

and wait this hand does patiently, that heart of fruit and flower'd tree,
'til sun has set and dawned again, that last bud might remain for me?
but one can only tend so long, for when the winter becks appalled,
should wither into dreary song, to snatch the final petal fall'd.

Sunday, 19 March 2017


he was only a child, restless and fragile, incompetent and brash. however, he was sweet - the kind of sweet you would adore from afar, and perhaps even find enchanting should you never have had the displeasure of meeting him in person. a child who, if only by name, was immature and selfish, petyr, and was too naïve to fully comprehend how the world works. take away his toys, and he would not cry, but he would be bitter and taciturn for a fortnight. take away his food, and he would not make any qualm, for he knew that it was only a matter of time 'til he was given another meal. give him a book, and he would read for hours on end, neglecting almost all responsibilities, but those he had to nature; but never give him an inkling of affection, for he would grow far too attached to know that every hello ends in goodbye, that every smile should end.

petyr grew up in solitude, never knowing any peers as he was the son of a czar, too rich of fortune to mingle with peasants, too poor of culture to know otherwise. what he lacked in social interaction, he made up in grooming, made prime by tutors of various disciplines and mentors from every continent. though he may grow, one day, to become refined, articulate, educated, and well-read, nobody could have said that petyr the younger showed any promise of growing beyond an average child. he displayed none of the characteristics of his father, in being charismatic, or commanding, or charming, but, perhaps, took after his mother, though nobody could say for certain, for she died giving birth to him, and was a princess from a lesser, unknown-to-many state, leaving her personality up to speculation and educated guesses - likely as much as her husband knew of her at the time, too. regardless, she was quiet and a self-admitted romantic, which, if petyr inherited from her, was only accentuated as he grew.

unfortunately, his notion of righteousness and chivalry stemmed almost entirely from vague and extrapolated notions of what was retold to him of his mother, and to the czar's dismay, was entirely detached from local custom and culture. to whatever ends may be of import, he never found in himself the will or capacity to endure others' companies, and spent copious amounts of time either in the palace library, where he was accompanied by the handful of scribes employed only for posterity, or in one of the many gardens, where he was accompanied by his own. as time passed, he would learn to appreciate more of the latter, and as he spent more time in the vast gardens, now reserved for his own use, he ironically retracted more and more into his own thoughts, lulled and disillusioned as one may in their own time.

today, however, marks a day of departure from his norm, and petyr would find himself chained and restricted by his own choice of upbringing. a royal gala, held in accordance of his royal father's conquest over a far-away country (no doubt, of barbarians and heathens), were to serve as an introduction to the ineffable, beauteous and amiable anna, of whom nobody in the kingdom had heard of before. having seen her from across the banquet table, petyr could not have cared less for the charming young princess (or, if not from royalty, perhaps she were merely of regal and blued blood, though none could ascertain for the now), and hoped eagerly to return to his chambers come the end of the night. however, the czar, never one to betray his promise to the memory of his wife, made arrangements that the two should have a conversation in private during dessert, and it was then that petyr was smitten beyond his restraint, and would later confide in his chambermaid, ".. a darling creature of such exuberant character, the sound of whose voice resonates with the night and the sight of whose shadow could not but cast a brighter light! truly, i am lost in such wonder, and i have been fool not to have betrayed myself in speech, act, and thought..."

alas, who could wonder to the ends of such simple a meeting, for as far as conversations go, the young czar was poor and leaves wanting, and for beginnings of courtships may bloom, he is but withered and hopeless. and so it has come, to the end of the night, no sooner had it relented as it had becked unwantingly - at least for said young petyr.

Friday, 10 March 2017

never again

posted here for posterity and bitter remindings, that never again should there be let this heart astray, only to embrace those which have previously becked, and those who have left it uncalled - there can be no worse sundering as already has, and for that, recuperation is no longer a choice, option, or reprieve, but the only salvation for this heart to survive.

expressed in one sentence, that the future reader may laugh at the follied attempt at writing.

Friday, 3 March 2017

your move

an ocean of a million miles, that plagued with depth of leagues unknown,
could hardly as far as between, what fleeting darkened crows could flown;
yet, farther this haunting divide, what becks emotions 'tween two hearts,
that make for slated wuthering winds to blow unknown souls apart.

one wish that expressed better what the mind was feeble, heart was scared,
(though fondness ever grew unchecked, how could one lay such thoughts full bared?)
so says he now as fleeting flights, of mind, of heart, of form, of stray,
how could he live through sordid nights, full knowing of your move away?

with apologies to S.W. to whom i could never express such intense and burning affection, if only because your heart was always elsewhere.

Thursday, 22 December 2016


daily that i fall in love, upon mine trembled stand commute,
beseeching eyes that fall upon the day that seem so resolute;
hourly should i falter once, and twice as much should i choose not,
against the steepled tropics rain, before the sunless burning hot.

daily that i find new kin, and friends with whom i share our woes,
while some wry of golden sixpence, and others of lacked passion throes;
timely as i while away by reading into strangers' eyes -
belying tired, languid tales, betraying hopeful, cheery lives.

regardless of their coloured sheens, or practiced thoughts of godly-tales,
one can but tell of kindred bonds, that disregard such ebon pales;
and though i pretend to have read, perused upon mine pages bland,
there are none more interesting tales to have heard from across the land,
such as those told through silent speech,
through smiles and coughs that one could teach;
and though i think it but distraught,
who knows what teachers could have taught?

now crosses sturdy wooden bridge, i hear the trundles thump and creak,
some storied told are for the heart, and some are never for the weak;
but always they are worth being told, on days and sometimes weeks apart,
there are as many different loves as are there many flitting hearts.

now here we are, arrived at last, upon the proverbed daily grind,
some authors write for penance sake, and others perhaps to unwind;
but all they write - and as do i - so easy like a beggar's plead,
if only to behest that one should spend the time to rest and read.

fare thee well my scribing friends, dispersed like dainty dawdling doves,
and forget not my errored prose, that daily should i fall in love.