The Language of Words (#2)

Descent to the Mediterranean by Vladimir Kush

My hands were tied to a pole and I couldn’t speak

You see, the only way I could speak was through a language I hadn’t yet deciphered

My days went on, in a shell of thoughts

When out there, was an ocean waiting to devour me

People often stood long enough by the pole – long enough to let the streetlight lick their sins away

Until one of them untied me accidentally

And I traversed within after he ran away, so deep within that I didn’t even know that there was a path underneath my feet

People often talk about the ground slipping from under their feet, but have you ever felt it slipping right back?

I did

And so did the words itching the insides of my body

And the poems begging to crawl into the ocean

And so, I wrote – never stopping once, never looking back at the pole and those delicate strings of a self-made prison;

I took the path not meant for me, but the one I had been meaning to take anyway.

-Nameera Anjum Khan


Day 2 prompt was inspired by the famous and much loved compose by Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken. It took me back to a time when I was still a novice at writing and didn’t exactly measure its importance in my life. Years later, I can proudly say that the person I am today is because of the choices I made, despite the paths that lay ahead of me.

I’ve been confused and lonely at times, but I always made sure that whatever it is that I do, my heart and my soul is in agreement at the end of the day.

Following your heart is easier said than done, especially in a world that’s always out there to complicate things.

Fantasies & Fiction

There’s a fantasy, at the surface of my spine

It flutters into your arms like a Gothic Romance choking on its own saliva

I spill the rainbows that you planted in my bladder ~ an acid leaves my body crawling on all fours,

There’s a lullaby growing in my belly & with every kiss, you extract a note from it until every syllable is infused with your name

A name this territory knows all too well, a fantasy that speaks my name like it’s the only poetry that matters; the only fiction worth realization.

-Nameera Anjum Khan

Will You Write Yourself?

If the heaven was the eyelash that stole my wish

If it was the candle that I blew on days I lived,

Then I want to write my own goddamn History

In an abyss that reeks of an unending staircase,

I hand my sins to you, so you may decide my grave

I fall as I fly, unto the blue skies~

re-writing the tears that have forgotten how to be a poem.

-Nameera Anjum Khan

(An excerpt)

On Writing

Writing for a purpose, specially one that’s for a long term, can be so difficult to provide an impetus to. I’ve been so frustrated and annoyed at myself for the past few months. I was in a similar position at the beginning of the previous year, but it was for all the different reasons.

And I honestly love writing about writing, you know?

I’m not making much sense. Also this is yet another pms-ing rant haha, in case it wasn’t obvious.

I want to write for myself, like I always have. But I also want to share myself with the people that inspire me and vice-versa. We all have some inspiration to offer to each other. It’s beautiful.

Life is beautiful, we should write it more often.

-Nameera Anjum Khan.

The Doomed Hero

Harmachis
The name that spells doom
Men bowing their heads low
To a woman’s whims
Forgetting the everlasting fruit
Mother Isis promises
Upon the cursed tongues
Her name appears in times of
Despair

Harmachis
The name that speaks of hell
And a deathless punishment

From the curves of she, who
Neither grieves nor loves,
Harmachis
Becomes the lore of
Utter agony and revenge

Love is nothing more than an irony
And the biggest of them all
Comes from between a
Woman’s thighs where
Men find temporary
Worship

Forever leaving the
Permanent shrine of truth
Shutting off all spaces for the
Light to come through until the
Mystery engulfs life and settles
Between your rotten bones, masking
Itself as an eternity of blackness, of death.

_________________________________

This poem was inspired from a character from one of my recent reads ‘Cleopatra’ by H. Rider Haggard who has a brilliant and unique way of story-telling. It’s an amazing tale of Harmachis, the lost prince & a priest, who is on a quest to get back his rightful ownership of the land of Egypt but first, he’ll have to overthrow the current monarch, Cleopatra and to do that, he has to make sure to not fall victim to her charms and beauty.

All in all, It’s an impeccable story, an absorbing read for someone like me.

The tale unfolds through the papyrus rolls that have been recently discovered by an archeologist. It goes on as a translation of three of those ancient rolls written by the doomed prince himself, Harmachis.