Poems ::
Farhain Khan
1.Ashes have no colour
Ashes have no colour
they glisten of decay
of fire that once burned
a hope that died away
Dragons feed on ashes,
it glides smoothly over their tongue
it feeds the furnace in their stomach
They carry death as their young.
The smell of ashes fill my lungs
clouds of it sting my eyes.
the sharp metallic assails my throat.
Have I still not paid my price?
My garden lies in ruin
mingled with sweat blood and tears.
Ashes dance like Macbeth witches
“Should we make a prophecy for you dear”?
Their cackle lingers in the swirls
of dead cactus and the magic unknown.
My voice refuses to leave and
Now it is finally gone.
The grey matter of mine awakes
I am but lying on the floor.
The force , the brute that slapped
and kicked ,its intensity is gone.
Numbness sets in like an armour
like a shell of a foxnut .
I will not feel, i will not shriek
I will not be a Mad woman yet.
Maybe like a phoenix i will rise
from the ashes of my heart.
Maybe like a Dragon it will sustain me
As I race towards the start .
Ashes have the magic
Ashes have the light
For some it is the end
For me , a budding life.
2. My Little Man
Still have your picture stuck in my head and heart,
And the grainy X ray report.
I run my fingers over the black and white images of you,
A little nose visible; your left arm a little clearer.
In the haze of anesthesia , I saw you being pulled
Out of me and I cried tears of happiness.
I saw you being rushed out by the nurse
Cradled in her arms.
You had not cried.
The doctor had said. But reassured it was going to be fine.
And half paralyzed, I had begun counting the
minutes when I would finally hold you.
But you never reached my arms.
You left without even a goodbye.
Without letting me smell you and touch you.
Without hugging your tiny arms .
Without feeling you nuzzling you against my chest.
All you left was an imprint of your ruddy face
Those closed eyes and the white traces of liquid
Glistening all over you .
And the brief fleeting moment of motherhood that you gave me.
You left me with a bundle of memories.
The first time you kicked inside me;
On a warm January day
How you became impatient if I ate breakfast late.
Those tiny yet strong feet ; Now I can only imagine them in my head.
And stroke them lovingly in my heart.
There is an echoing emptiness and endless grief
That I am left with.
I miss you.
My little man.
You were my best nine months.
3. Before It Dies
I am scared to reach out, afraid of rejection.
There is only so much that a tiny heart can take.
I am scared of my fingers touching coldness.
Killing whatever warmth I saved all this while.
I am sacred of being alone but even more
Of being left alone by you after you awakened that glow in me.
Like a piece of old sock you warmed the recesses of my heart.
I am afraid that it might have holes in it and everything woud slip
And fall and get lost and I will back into that wilderness.
The panic,tears, betrayal and pain blanketing me. Suffocating every last breath of me.
Yes I am scared for my sanity.
It is fragile like a spider’s gossamer web.
I am scared darling. Because I feel you becoming cold towards me.
I don’t reach out to you but wait tentatively for your look , a touch maybe.
And expecting you to sink me in your warmth.
But I am left cold and it sinks further that I am alone.
Even in Us.
4. An Ode to the Mustard Gas
The creaking of the stubborn fan,
like the metallic moan of rusty once unused screwdriver
being slowly droned on , in my ears.
While she goes on and on about horses and pain.
Of a battle fought back in time.
Of horses charging forward and being struck and lying writhing in the mud.
She fidgets around in her chair , talking of chemical warfare.
The Chlorine, the mustard gases and the gas masks.
The rapid explosions and the cry “Gas , gas gas !!”
War is futile, my grey cells converse.
The canvas is littered with broken limbs and gore,
the steaming hot blood, being soaked up by the soil.
Yes its pointless. Violence and the overhead fan.
One can do without them .
And then comes the yawns.
The clock seems to have forgotten to move its hands.
And she in a yellow wasp dress , tries so hard
to convey the message of the animal’s shriek and pain.
And of a man who shitted his pants
which ceases to be hilarious anymore.
Just a small wish now.
Please buzz out of this window soon.
I had enough of this poisonous swoon.
5. A cup of Tea
A cup of tea grows cold
While I wait for your call.
A tempest brews in me , while the bedroom looks eerily calm.
The calmness is worse, it reminds me of you.
But will you call? Or worse leave a message
Then I would not have to endure your frigid tone.
Those dead eyes that arouses simply anguish.
A pity for my shrunken self.
Hatred I have never known, breaks out.
Making me want to claw your face or hurt you.
Shake that complacent face that haunts me.
In its beauty; cold and fatal.
To see some semblance of anger , loath , maybe lust.
Any indication that I matter for you, in ways good , bad or painful.
Still no message. And so no escape.
The tea lies now uncomforting and cold.
6.Caged
I am a ghost, a pale phantom.
I leave my mark on your window glass.
I exhale mist on it and trace the figure
of a dead girl, the remaining pain glistening on her body.
The moonlight does not bring out the worst in me
any more than the sunlight does.
Among all these people ,among all those faces
I squint to find my own. My face and reflection.
The wind does not bring me answers
There is a cage locked within me.
Rusted and empty.
The wind rattles it as does these constant hummings.
Of people. Of you. Of silence.
The embers remain, the fire is out.
The rage is dormant, the anger is fake.
The warmth has but met a frozen death.
Countless splashes of the pain that I could now take.
Of those endless possibilities.
and of no escape.