I don’t think I can claim to be a poet. Honestly I don’t think I even speak English well. But somehow I find poetry to be a very convenient form of expression. You can say so many things in so few words. Hence I write once in a while, really don’t care about structure or meter. It’s mostly attempts to put things that touch me in as few words as possible.

This particular poem was inspired by the recent earthquakes in Pakistan and India. All the TV channels were full of live and recorded pictures of earthquake hit areas. When I saw some of the pictures, I started thinking what will a person staying far away from home, think when he/she sees the body of a beloved one in the pictures of the earth quake beamed through the television.

I kind of added a story around this thought. I don’t know what kind of poem it turned out to be, I was thinking of writing a narrative one.

My earthquake
—————-

The news ticker crawled
like a caterpillar
unemotional, but in a hurry
to move out of the screen.
38000, 39000, 41000
death toll refused to pause
even during the ad break.
The valley cried
with any tears left
for all the dead souls
looking for few feet of land
to get buried in.
Winter froze the few smiles
of finding a loved one alive.

In Connecticut,
it’s the middle of fall,
trees gleaming with joy
aroused by the soft caress
of the morning air.
Asif left in a hurry for work
the quake probably
shook his portfolio.
I’m still a house wife
as they call me back home
in Muzaffarabad.
CNN beamed broken homes
broken bones and broken hearts
straight into my home.
The ground where I played hockey,
the junior school,
the valley of flowers,
ammajan’s tailoring shop,
all broken pieces of brick and mortar,
memories floating aloft
in the cloud of dust and smoke.

The face, God, let it be an illusion
Najeeb, my infinite dream,
my eternal joy,
my first freedom,
and my last pleasure.
The hands that helped
me ride a bicycle first
twisted and broken
refusing to come out
from under the boulder.
The eyes that lit a
thousand fires in me
closed but open
to the outside world.
The face that colored
all my dreams,
covered with dirt
and burden of death.
The broad chest where
I found abode
twisted as if to
allow nobody else to rest.
They put him in a plastic bag,
all sounds stopped,
pictures froze,
and my tears refused to
come out of my eyes.
The phone is ringing,
it’s Asif.
The past and present,
it’s a lost game for me.

– Ravi