We Are All Dr Faustus...,Parveen shakir

In a way we are all
Dr Faustus.
One from his craze
and another helpless from blackmail
barters away his soul.
One mortgages his eyes
to trade in dreams
and another offers
his mind as collateral.
All that one may need sense
is the currency of the day.
So a survey of life’s Wall Street says
that among those with the buying power these daysself-respect is very popular

Steel Mills Worker...,Parveen shakir

Black ghost
born of sperm of coal
at hellish temperatures.
His work now to keep shovelling
coal into the burning furnace.
For this
he gets extra wages and special diet,
and no work beyond the four hours
at a time. Perhaps he
does not know that he has signed
a suicide pact in full knowledge.He is the fuel for this furnace.

Hot Line,Parveen shakir

How he used to complain to me!
So many people
come between us
we cannot talk.
In the season’s first rain,
first snow,
full-moon nights,
evening’s mild fragrance,
morning’s blue cool,
how helpless!
How the heart aches!

Today between him and me
there is no third.
There can be contact
with a slight movement of the hand.
But how many seasons have passed
since hearing that voice.
It is not hard for me to call upon him,
but the truth is
the voices and the accents
do not have the same tones.
The tune is the same but the heartsare not close enough.

Pink Flowers,Parveen shakir

Pink flowers blossomed
in the season I met you.

With your attentions they are opening again,
though these wounds had healed already.

How long could the columns support
these houses shaken to their foundations?

That old strangeness came back,
as if our meetings had been done.

The body was still hotfoot with its infatuations,the feet bruised on the way.

A Message,Parveen shakir

It’s the same weather.
The rain’s laughter
rings in the trees, echoes.
Their green branches
wear golden flowers
and smile thinking of someone.
The breeze is a scarf, again the light-pink.
The path to the garden that knows us
is looking for us.
The moment of moon-riseis waiting for us.

Kanras,Parveen shakir

The eyes downcast,
the tone enervated,
sentences uttered in fragments,
lashes covered in dust
and sunburnt face.
Bowing his unkempt head has come a long lost friend.
The heart is tempted to take hold of his hand,
to rush immediately to kiss his brow,
and never allow him to go back alone.
But deep within me someone whispers:
all this is feigned, phantasm, facade,
Don’t ever believe!Don’t ever believe!

Your Attitude.,Parveen shakir

Your attitude toward me has been like
a seasoned diplomat’s toward a young journalist
—every statement heedful of its implications
and possible repercussions,
every word carefully weighed
(the issue lost in the quagmire of quotations).
Nothing that he says should turn out to be
an arrow recoiling on himself(which he may have to repent).

VANITY / Vanity Thy Name Is… ,Parveen Shakir

He is so simple.
His world is so different from mine.
So separate are his dreams
and his preferences.
He says very little.
He writes
this morning I saw
some lovely flowers in the lawn
and thought of you.

I know
I am at that dishevelled stage of life
when my face
is not much like any flower.
But I wish—whatever he says—
I could believe it a while.

WHERE AM I? ,Parveen Shakir

Where am I
in your life?

In the morning breeze
or the evening star,
hesitant drizzle
or sharp rain,
silver moonlight
or hot noon,
deep thoughts
or casual tunes?

Where am I
in your life?

Down from work,
a weekend’s interval
on a beach,
or an unintended
silken release between your fingers
from serial smoke?
Or a readily replenished,
freshened moment without wine,
or a moment’s leave, anonymous,
between the breaking of one dream
of love and another’s beginning?

Where am I
in your life?

AFFECTION (PARVEEN SHAKIR)

SPRINGíS CLOUD HELD THE FLOWER
IN ITS PALMS AND
KISSED ITS FACE
IN SUCH A WAY THAT ALL ITS TEARS
POURED OUT AS FRAGRANCE