I've seen your sorrow, I've seen your scars, I've seen the side of you that's broken. And these cracks in you are beautiful, because they've made you, you.
As all good things do.
It died.
Be still
breathe
in and out
in and out
tangled minds and unnerving
thoughts, the weight
of the world heavy
in the trenches of your mind
stop. my dear,
stop. be still.
the burden
of the world is not yours
to bear. this burden
is not yours. this weight
is not yours.
be still, my dear. stop.
be still, breathe
in and out
in and out.
It's been ages, no? So I figured I'd bless your ears with this beautiful piece of music from the ever-talented Jon Bellion, as an apology for my absence. When I first heard his song on the radio, I really thought he was just another auto-tune pop singer. Oh boy, was I wrong. I stumbled upon the acoustic version online and I was so glad I did. This man can really sing and it's only fair that he gets all the credit he deserves.
Ah memories. It truly amazes me how memories just linger in your brain. Just waiting for someone to flip a switch, and suddenly a memory that you haven't thought of for so long comes up and you can remember even the slightest detail.
Do you know that feeling when certain things just bring back memories? Well, I do.
Sometimes this thing, this organ, all it wants is to be heard. This longing. "Why?" It asks, "Why? Why can't I have what they have? What do they have that I don't?"
Sometimes this thing, this organ, it demands to be heard. There's a battle going on in there. An ongoing battle. One part of it is singing out words of encouragement, to hang in there. You've been through this before, what makes you think you can't hang in there a little bit more? What's a couple more weeks -months, years- of this?
Another part though, the weaker part, is huffing about, throwing silent tantrums. Wondering if it ever will be worthy. It has all this love to give away, but nothing, no where, no one to give it to. It can't help but wonder sometimes, if it ever will be worthy.
Someone is bound to come knocking, right?
I mean it can't be vacant forever, right?
Sometimes this thing, this organ, all it wants is to be heard.
Question is, will it ever be?
I mean it can't be vacant forever, right?
Sometimes this thing, this organ, all it wants is to be heard.
Question is, will it ever be?
"See, the 17 year old girl in me fell in love with your silent eyes. I imagine they looked the same when you were convinced of your own brokenness. I imagine your lashes wrote anthologies every time they kissed your cheeks; maybe that's why I heard a century of voices in your quiet. Every unspoken part of you sang symphonies when we touched and I found myself wanting to be a musician all over again."
-Aman Batra, "When the Timing Isn't Right, Neither Is the Man"
What shall I compare
you to?
Nothing; absolutely
nothing.
For you are
unlike anything,
anyone. That I have
ever met.
I'll keep you
safe, hidden. As I
keep this clove hidden,
folded safely
in my breast pocket, close
to my heart.
This. This was the kind of weather you were waiting for. The light pitter-patter of the rain on the window. Soft. Reassuring; unlike so many other things in life. You have the window just a tad bit open, just enough for you to smell the petrichor emanating from the modest garden right outside your window, but not enough for any of the raindrops to pay a visit inside.
The record player in the corner of the room is playing lazy tunes. Soothing. While the flame from the candle sways and dances. Flowing freely and in sync with the nature of the tune. You close your eyes. Inhale. Geraniums. Roses. Flooding your nostrils.
Immediately, you smile. Behind your closed eyelids, you see that face that you adore so dearly. The smile that makes you swell with joy every time you see it. The softness of the hand. You remember when those hands brought you your first flowers. Introduced you to the beauty that each flower beheld. Geraniums. True friendship. For it is true, theirs is the truest friendship you can ever hope to have and one that you can count on for eternity.
The pattering still goes on. Somehow, in that cold weather, you feel so warm. Warm with all these thoughts and that face in your mind. Warm as though you could feel their hug. Their reassuring arms wrapped around you, while they calmly whisper in your ear. I’m here for you always. Always.
You wish for anything right then, with the smell of geraniums and roses filling the room, you wish for anything. For that face to be right by your side. Those hazel eyes staring right into yours. That smile, smiling right back at you.
Mother. You whisper. Mother. I wish you were here.
You smile, with the smell of geraniums and roses filling the room. You smile. As you feel a tear escape from behind closed eyelids. You smile. As the candle kept swaying and dancing to the lazy tune. As the petrichor slowly begins to fade away, overcome by the smell of geraniums. And roses. This was the kind of weather you were waiting for. This.
When I first met you,
you were
just another face,
another name.
Nothing more.
But 3 years later,
yours is the only
face I care
to look for,
the only name
that slips off my
tongue
and lips
with a smile. And
everything more.
27/7/2014
P.S:
Once again, for World Poetry Day.
Haven't written anything new for a very long time, this in fact is an old one taken from my notebook.
For all the poets and poetry lovers, this is for you guys.
I hope you've liked it so far.
Well, keep the love going, keep those words flowing!
-FNI
I hesitantly
opened the gates. Every step I took was heavy and I could feel the burden. When
was the last time I came here? About five years ago, I would think. The grass
was tall and the garden had not been looked after for quite some time now,
obviously. To my left, I saw what used to be the dahlia garden my wife, Dahlia,
looked after. Dahlias were her favorite. I could feel the tug on my heart
looking at what was left of it. I looked up at the bungalow. Green algae and moss had begun to grow on the walls. The
house had definitely seen better days. Vines had crept up along the walls of
the house. This was my home a long time ago. My home sweet home.
Then, suddenly, right before my eyes,
the flowers started to bloom, and the leaves suddenly turned greener.
Everything around me started to change. The grass somehow shrunk and became
shorter. The vines along the sides of the house crept back down and the green
algae and moss began to disappear. I was shocked. I thought my old eyes were
playing tricks on me. I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles and even wiped my
glasses with my shirt, but no, my eyes were not playing tricks on me. What I
saw was real. Maybe I took the wrong medicine when I woke up this morning.
Suddenly, I heard someone call my
name. “Rahman!” I searched and squinted my eyes to see who was calling my name.
“Man!” There it was again. Not many called me by that name. Only my family and
close friends dared to call me by that name. And that voice. That beautiful
voice. I recognized that voice. I have not heard that voice in a long time, of that I was sure. I still could not find who was calling me.
There, by the dahlia garden, someone was waving at me. I could not see who it
was. I squinted against the sunlight. When my eyes adjusted, I saw that it was a young woman. She was wearing a
scarf and a pair of sunglasses. She was also wearing a pair of gardening
gloves. My heart was instantly caught, and I froze, I recognised her in an instant.
My heart started beating faster. I
knew her. I more than knew her. I could not believe my eyes. I almost ran to
her, but my old, brittle legs would not let me. I walked as fast as I could
towards her. It was my Dahlia, but a younger version, maybe of when she was in her late 20s. My mind was already working like clockwork trying to figure out what was going on. She was beautiful,
just like the flower. Her namesake was of the dahlia flower. It was her
mother’s favorite flower and eventually, became her favorite too. When I got to her
though, suddenly she disappeared. I still could not figure it out.
Perplexed, I moved on and went up the
steps leading into the house. The minute I opened the doors, everything looked
just as it did the last time I was there five years ago. It was all starting to
confuse me. At that point, I got to the conclusion that I took the wrong
medication that morning and my mind was playing tricks on me. I kept walking down the hall and on the walls were
pictures of my family and I. I reached out and touched the pictures. Weird,
they were all real to the touch. I could actually feel the frame underneath my
fingers. I turned to the right towards the living room.
Like hallucinations, figures started
to form in the living room. I knew all those people. They were my children,
but they were little kids. They were playing around and laughing. There was a piano at the corner of the room, and Dahlia was
sitting at the piano bench. She looked radiant, although here, she looked
slightly older than before but not more than a few years. She looked up when I
entered the doorway and smiled at me. There were crinkles at her eyes when she
smiled. I forgot that small detail about her.
“Rahman,” she said, smiling, “Come
and sit, I’ll play you your favorite song.” She was always so soft spoken.
As though hypnotised, I went into the
room and sat on the couch. My eyes never left her face for even a second, I
could not bear to look away from her ever again. Satisfied at seeing me sit,
she began playing. Indeed, it was my favorite song. I used to ask her to play
it for me all the time, a long time ago. The kids stopped playing and crowded
near the piano. Even they used to love it when their mother started playing.
The way she played was definitely hypnotising. Then suddenly, it all faded and
I found myself standing in the middle of an empty room. The music was still in
my ears.
I went out of the room and walked towards the kitchen. Before I even
pushed the doors open, I could hear laughter. I heard her familiar laugh. I
reached towards the doors but I was afraid to open it. What if I see the same
thing I saw earlier. This was all beginning to be more than confusing. I am an
old man. Too much shock can bring no good to an old man’s heart. However, it
was not I who made the decision.
“Rahman! Dinner is ready, I cooked
your favorite. I know you are behind those doors. Come in, why don’t you?”
Dahlia’s comforting voice called out.
Listening to her voice was enough to
convince me to do anything. I pushed open the doors and saw them sitting by the
dinner table. Only my daughter and Dahlia were there. Dahlia here was older, in her mid-40s. She
smiled at the sight of me. Before I could even sit, everything disappeared just
like it did before. My frown was deepening. This was all starting to not make any sense. Was I dreaming? I went up the stairs towards the bedroom. I
had a bad feeling about this. Something was nagging at me to not open the doors to the bedroom. But the more it told me not to, the more I
wanted to. Slowly, I opened the door. The door creaked of old age, just as my
bones sometimes did.
I was right, what I saw was something
I did not prepare for. Right there, on the bed, was Dahlia. She looked really
old now, and I remember exactly when this was. She smiled at me when I came in.
She looked very tired but there was still life in her eyes. She raised her arm
in an attempt to reach for me. But her old arms would not let her go far. Not
even halfway through, she let her arm fall. The weight was too much for her to
support all by herself.
“Rahman,” she said, patting the spot
beside her. Like an obedient dog called by his master, I went to her side and
sat on the chair beside her bed. Her hand was held open for me to hold. I
hesitated, I was not sure if it would disappear just like all the other memories
before. Dahlia just looked at me expectantly. Slowly, I first touched her hand
testily, it was real. I could feel her soft, crinkly skin. I held in my hand,
firmly, not sure whether I wanted to let it go now.
She smiled at me. “Rahman, remember
when we were young and we used to love releasing balloons with messages written
on it into the sky?”
I just nodded. I did not know what to
say. If it was possible, whatever this was that I was going through, I wanted
it to stop at that instant. I knew what was going to happen and I did not want
to go through it again. Going through it the first time was heartbreaking
enough. I do not think that I could handle it for the second time.
“I know you are afraid. I am, too.
But we knew that this would happen sooner or later. And not long after that,
you will be with me as well. It is not as if we are going to be apart
for long. Give it a couple of years.” She smiled and there were
tears starting to pool in her eyes.
“Dahlia,” was all I managed to croak.
My throat suddenly felt dry and tears of my own were rolling down my cheeks. I
knew very well what was going to happen. This particular moment had play backed in my head numerous times.
“Rahman, if you miss me or when you
are starting to forget all those memories of us together, get a balloon and
write whatever message you want to tell me on it. Then, release it up into the
sky. If God wills it, I will get that message from you. That is how you can
remember me, my dear Rahman.”
That was the last that she ever
spoke. She closed her eyes, tired from all the talking. It took so much of her
energy to say even the littlest things. And then, it all disappeared right
before my eyes. I was in an empty room again, sitting on the floor. It was all
still so real and vivid. The memories seemed so real when I entered this house.
Finally, it made sense. I had never returned to this house after Dahlia’s death all those years
ago. It pained me to enter the house and to see everything that I built and had
throughout my life with her. Just because of her death in this very house, I
forgot to remember all the other wonderful memories I had with her. In fact, it
was all those memories that came first, before it led to her death. Something has been
urging me to come here and after five years I finally had the courage to do so.
I was blinded by my stubbornness to accept her death that I threw out all my
memories of her out the window. I sat there in the middle of
the room and recited a prayer for her as I always did. I got up as my back was starting to ache badly
from sitting down on the floor for too long.
I smiled as I exited the
house as everywhere I looked, memories kept flooding through my mind. I stood
in front of the house for the last time. Images and memories were playing
vividly as though being played through a video camera. For the final time, I
turned my back on the house and out the gates towards the car where my daughter was waiting for me. However, I did not leave alone, as with me, I took all my
memories that I had in the house that I failed to remember because of my
denial. Dahlia will forever remain with me, in my mind, and in my heart.
give me your location
north east west
i’ll run to you
a thousand miles
acres of barren land
i'll run to you
I like how things are
with us
how things are going
how it all falls right
into place
I don't have to look
for (you)
come just when
I need you to
right when I need
you to
like gravity
you feel my pull
when I think of
you
I don't know how you
feel, honestly,
I don't know how I
feel
I just like what this
is; what ever this is
how ever way this
turns out, I'm ok with it
let's see how it plays out.
eyes can’t shut
mind won’t stop
words are rearranging
dancing, synchronizing
to the music
of the
heart.
heart.
As I sit at my desk, in this chilly Dublin weather -that in my two weeks here, I've constantly grumbled about though secretly love- I've decided to take a break from my attempts at poetry and write something else instead. Bear with me here as I haven't written in quite some time. If any of you happen to be regulars here, you would notice my few endless poetries about leaving and such. Or if any of you happen to personally know me, you would know then of the recent changes that has been made in the past year. In which case this post has been long overdue. I guess a big part of me procrastinating on writing this is mainly due to myself not fully grasping it either.
The big change here being referred to my move from studying in Egypt, where I was already a 3rd year student so close to entering my 4th, to studying in Ireland, in which case I'd have to start all over again from scratch. Literally all over again. It definitely wasn't an easy decision for me at all. It took me weeks if not months to consider all the pros and cons, the possibilities, the fear. I would say the fear got hold of me the most, influencing me so much that I was so close to turning the offer down. Ultimately, it was my parents that helped make the choice. Well to be honest, quite like how I ended up in Egypt in the first place, the final decision was really made by them, and I, simply just went with it. However, don't get me wrong, I did think about it long and hard, and for a while there, I was so caught up in it, that I wasn't concentrating on my then-current semester work. Eventually, almost as if it being a new year's resolution, if you will, the decision was made on that very day of the new year. And before I knew it, I was on the next plane back home. It definitely was a difficult process, what with all the farewells that had to be done, and all the packing -which I was never a big fan of by the way. I was caught off guard however, when in lieu of being ecstatic with the prospects of being in a place I've always dreamed off, I felt quite saddened by the whole thing. I couldn't quite believe it either that that sadness correlated with the love I developed towards the very place I never thought I would ever have feelings for.
What followed suit was 9 months of vacuousness, filled with people asking and saying to me, "What made you want to start all over again?", "Back to first year?", "Oh dear, sayangnya.", "Betul ke nak start balik?", "Three years gone just like that?" and many many more along those lines. Honestly, I was discouraged and fully questioned my own decision. Even considered going back to Egypt and sit for the end of semester examination. My mind was a wreck, basically. Here were the few things that kept running through my mind endlessly;
- Where other medical students would have to study for 5/6 years, depending on where you're studying, I would have to study for 8 years. (In reality, the medical field is a field that requires you to study until the end of time anyway, but let's not get into that)
- I would have to study everything all over again. Me being just an average student, if not subpar, I barely passed the first time round, and here I am having to do it all over again, in a much more difficult institute, mind you.
- What if, god forbid, I failed once I'm there? Refer to (2).
- What if I cannot cope with the system there? Again, refer to (2).
I guess by now you've figured out that most of my concerns gravitated towards no. (2).
But after endless prayers and pleas of guidance, I finally decided to shut out every negative comment I received, soaking in only the good ones. I reasoned with myself that the opportunity I got, was one of a kind and opportunities as such don't come rolling in every day. So, I seized it. I also recall a 12-year-old me, at one time, dreaming and fantasising of being enrolled into this very institute I am lucky enough to now call my college. If someone were to tell that 12-year-old she would be here one day, she would just be overcome with emotion. Also, don't people always say that experience is the best teacher? I've had my fair share of experience while I was in Egypt, and what I've got now, is the chance to gain even more. The bigger picture here being, allowing ourselves to learn more about life, about the world. I don't believe we should ever limit ourselves to what we find is commonplace.
This is a little unorganised, but now referring to no. (1); in the end, I realised that it did not matter how long it would take for me to graduate with a degree in my hand and a mortar board perched on my head. It should not matter that most of my friends will be graduating a year, some even two years before I do. Not that I haven't been bitter about it, I definitely have and still am sometimes. Especially when I hear people say, "5 more years?! Wow!" But, again I remind myself that this is not a profession that I can take lightly. (What profession is, by the way.) By choosing this profession in the first place, I had pretty much already decided to take the long route. There are no shortcuts in this field, as there are also none in life. To borrow a quote from a friend of mine, "It doesn't matter how long it takes for you to get to your destination, as long as you do get there." Pretty sure she quoted that from someone else too, probably Confucius, but I'm not too sure. I admitted to being subpar, so why not take the time to improve now, while I still can. There is no definite evidence that I would be better at what I do if I stayed in Egypt, neither is it definite if I study here. But there is that possibility, if I allowed it. You won't know how well you'll do until you've gone through it. I also wouldn't want to beat myself up in the future for not taking the opportunity and wondering all the "what ifs" that seem to always creep up on us and haunt us. Regret is never an option I would want to have.
I have an ambition, or a vision, if you will, in my head. As of now, I know what I want in the long run. It might change sometime in my clinical years, or it might not, I would never know. But for now, I have a goal. And if by my coming here widens the likelihood of that goal, of that dream, becoming a reality, then with open arms and an open mind, I embrace this opportunity and hope I can do it justice. Besides, why settle for comfort and familiarity when the world gives you more room to grow and be the best.
 |
| Photo cred: http://pilarzeta.tumblr.com/ |
I find that I gravitate
towards your saturation
the hues of your disposition
drawing me in, soaking every
drop of color you have
to offer.
Bland, dull
when your presence
is no longer felt,
vanishing in the blink of eyes
albeit noticing
your rainbow of colours
change
to grey.
lives it has not known
and this heavy heart weeps
sorrow for souls
it has not met.
Another, has tears for
a loved one's life and
another, feels crumbs of a
residue from a shattered heart.
What happened to mercy, humanity,
peace, love?
Where has all that gone?
Let us stand united as one nation
instead of pointing fingers and making 'smart' remarks.
#prayersforGaza
#prayersforMH17
like being graced by the presence
that of a butterfly.
brief, short. but
ever so special.
so beautiful that for
a moment you believed
you were, too.
simply because
it picked you. how could it
something so delicate think
to even alight upon a trifling floater.
a nomad. vagabond. meandering through this
loaded heart with such apathy.
pity. such an enchanting organism chose
to settle for a soul with
a zest in life so minute,
akin to a futile microorganism.
but 'twas brief,
as the butterfly fluttered away
you become insignificant once more. not
special neither beautiful. you lost
your spark, remaining lackluster throughout the
wreckage of your feeble heart.
the brain specifically stores all these smell to memory somewhere along the lobes, the
valley and trenches, along the cortex of the pisiform. A bulb that switches on as that
of a light bulb when a single whiff passes by the cavity, the tendons, the cartilages
of your nose.
I know this smell that is so familiar to me that when I do smell it, it brings me back
to a time when I was no more than 18 years old, still in high school, among all
those lockers and double-decker beds, waiting impatiently for the weekends, just
so I can see my parents and threaten to never
let them go.
How there was this one time when I couldn't wear a certain deodorant around my brother because
I knew it would bring him memories of a girl that he loved like he'd never love before. His every cell,
pints of blood and all his soul emitting the same love for her whilst she
took it all for granted. Giving him a quarter of hers when he gave her all of his. How did I know? He simply
told me.
-That's the deodorant that she uses. Get that, it smells good.
-
That's how I knew he was a goner. Wanting to smell the fragrance of a lover as a constant.
That was love.
That was love.
And also how you associate a certain smell to someone. My mother wears this one perfume all the time.
She has so many but she still
She has so many but she still
uses the same one every time that for me, that was her smell. To a point of
sheer stubbornness that when I smell that same smell on someone else,
sheer stubbornness that when I smell that same smell on someone else,
to me it was still my mother. That's my mother.
-So what do you remember most about your mother?
-J'Adore. My mother smelled of J'Adore.
-
-
Now isn't that beautiful.
With a heavy heart,
I let you go.
I press play. I see
a big screen. I see
our memories. I see
our stories. I see
our dreams.
But I have to let go.
I need
to let go.
I shall rest, for I know
you are in His embrace.
You are in good hands, for He
is The Guardian (المهيمن- AlMuhaymin).
You can rest easy, for He
is The All-Compassionate (الرحمن- AlRahman).
I press stop. Instead of
replaying. I press stop.
You are forever
in my memories, forever
in my heart, forever
in my prayers.
I am letting go.
This is my farewell.
"To the Almighty we do belong,
and to Him we shall return." [2:156]
P.S:
I may be slightly late in posting this,
but this is for World Poetry Day!
Writing poetry the best way I know how and falling more in love
with poetry day by day;
exploring, experimenting, and learning new ways to express myself
through poetry.
This is for all those poets and poetry-lovers out there.
Keep the love going, keep those words flowing!
I humbly hope you've all enjoyed my writings so far :)
P.P.S:
And while we're at it, my heartfelt and deepest condolences to all affected.
-prayersalwaysforMH370-
P.P.S:
And while we're at it, my heartfelt and deepest condolences to all affected.
-prayersalwaysforMH370-
-FNI
