Poems by IInam Hussain Begg Mullick

Night

For S.

Dense
as a song,
your body moves;
you become
the night's breath,
your gaze now holds
the night's fire.

You touch
the mirror of miracles,
I desire your mind.
Supernatural trees fill the city.

The streets drip
eagles
and lunar jazz
among the everglow
of your arterial stories.

My body becomes a deer's body.
My memory is a forest.

The tongue rots, the earth rots.
All is corrupted but you.

 

Winter

1.

The sky is a falcon's signature.

A golden seraphim dances
on the rims of winter.
The sparrows are chirping.
The guitar of ribs is strummed
by revolutionary fingers.

I hear children's laughter coming from the sun's kitchen.

2.

The night's palms are tinted with mehendi,
the caravans answer the call of stars within my bones.

A nightmare catches fire and melts.
The saint clutches a burning prayer.

Winter, stay.

3.

There is a war in the garden of black roses.
The raven roams the viscous alleys

of death.
Lunar radio,
where shall I find love?
I burn, I burn but I do not stop singing.
I burn but I do not stop praying.
Some day my loneliness will end.

 

The Kingdom of Golden Dreams

 

1.

The street sings a requiem
for departed soldiers;
a little cormorant dives
into the lake,
swims subaquatic,

and discovers a kingdom of golden dream.

The street is a forest

where past and present meet in secrecy.

2.
It rains in the city,
the soul flies past
skyscrapers and song,
the prophets dwell
in my heart—
the shepherd walks
with enchanted sheep.
The rag-picker tardily lifts the clouds
at the concert of sand.

3.

The lamp creates silhouettes of leaves

on the glass,
it is peaceful;
blue horses

weave into the velvet piano night.

4.

The ballerina of dawn
speaks to a gazelle.
Inside my ears,

a waterfall breathes.
Afar, flowers bloom
in a field of wounds.

5.
In the house
covered with moss,
past and present meet again,
I write to you letters
on a nectarous afternoon
and gather the flotsam
that we could not forget.
Your name has a limpid sound
that I could not forget.

6.
He has lost
his crampons
and now unsteadily
climbs;

in the mesh of his dreams,
even the snow
is encrusted with fire.