Knitted Lives

A series of poetic combinations of life experiences and spoken words..

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Her Sun Sets in the East

When three; emerald carpets embrace her as companions, Silver stokes of pointy blades tug the cloth of her dupatta. She draws an open life, two irises in the mud, “Eyes are God’s to make,” says Baba jaan, “Not yours to re-invent.”

 Four; the water glows orange. Its noisy layers caress the surface of her toes. She digs her fingers into its blue & fishes for rainbow stars. Baba jaan, come look. Look what I found. Too late. It’s time for prayer. She throws the stars away. 

Five; she knows namaaz by heart; Baba jaan recites a strange string of Arabic in her ear, What does it mean?

Six; wood is purple & trees a crisp form of pink, A melody of colours reside within her room’s walls, Inside becomes her refuge; closed & open. Baba jaan, I made this. Look, I made magic! He tears the sheets she had whispered to, “Don’t do this again jaan.”

 Seven; she sees red polka dots in the sky, But Baba jaan says  they are silver. The wind allows a comfort warmer than the one at home. She dreams. Baba Jaan brings her back With crushed pastel colours he found beneath her bed.

Eight; she hides the paints behind curtains; Secret canvases of her own refuge. A green sunset glimmers in her palette, Silenced with Baba jaan’s love, “Jaan, wear your dupatta.” “Jaan, stay in the house.” “Jaan, the sky is blue.” 

No– The sky is not blue Baba Jaan, The sky is twilight’s shade of purple songs. Why don’t you see that Baba Jaan?

Why?

Nine; though she begs her eyes to stay awake, By now the sky is blue & that is that. The dupatta is straight & that is that. Baba Jaan knows, She is a girl, & that is that.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Sunrise to the Sunset

Twilight descends to strange layers of deep purple blue

Somewhere, the east calls the west to let light bloom,

And his call is answered with frozen sunlit streams askew.

Somewhere, he wishes the orange shades to stay,

Yet the west drowns each red droplet, into night’s water bay.

Somewhere in the east, light rejoices in humid sun,

And the dim lit moon closes the eyes of everyone.

Somewhere, east prays the eternity of the crimson sky,

Yet each orange droplet is swallowed by nightfall’s closing eyes.

So every day, new fiery rays of the morning globe

Vanish into clouds of midnights robe.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

It is MY passion; MY drop of love. It is MINE. You have no right to take it away from me

A.Bilal (via raindropsandbulletwounds)

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Kaleidoscope of Echoes

She takes hold of my hand as my eyes dissolve the forest’s colours into curtained darkness. She runs my fingers through the mahogany trunk and I breathe in its brown aroma. She guides me into the lake’s waves of dulcet blue, singing in my ears. She then rests my hand on the soft dew of wild lilies as their pink fragrance engulfs my nostrils. Slowly, my senses wake to the sound, feel and scent of each colour. While my eyes still remain cursed with blindness by birth, the black forest now becomes a beautiful array of bluish green hues.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

To every ficitonal love story, I say:

Guided by drumming hearts and

movies of soft kisses caressing pink skin,

I dreamt of midnight escapades with tinkering

bottles & messy sandwiches.

Love was alive within a heart that

knew not what love fed with.

Subtle senses of virgin breath fogged

the mirror of orange tears,

I believed it was to come:

Body warmth and murmuring

Hidden in monologues of Augustus,

Silence of Charlie & eyes

of every worded boy

clasped within the pages I read.

All unreal and yet manifested

a hope without life, a love

so unreal.

This love commanded me in flowers and

screaming reds, to say yes and

yes and yes again

to every smile received.  

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

identity.

She raised a glass to

glossed out perfection, defined definitions and

hyper real futures. She

vomited remains of her inside;

Shaped her resting flask to

what they wanted, but

killed rounds

into squares.

She saw to their satisfaction,

covered ankles and arms and breasts

and hands and a head and hair and everything she

called her own:

shattered and

shaped into those fucking glasses;

pink and lush and square and as crystal clear;

Like blue skies meaning freedom;

Like raindrops meaning rebirth;

Like two pints of alcohol

telling her everything was normal.

She sucked in heated glares, fixed

her own mirror’s mirror and all

windows and phone screens and

cameras and

misty sunglasses damned

in winter’s summer escape.

“Identity” was

funneling her ear and mind and

perhaps

her heart too.

She grew then.

Grew she to curse

squares

with defined definitions and

perfect sounds and lullabies and music notes and

Everything that was

like freedom in blue skies;

like rebirth in raindrops;

like all that was normal in a mix of

two pints of alcohol,

disaster,

and her.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Her Sun Sets in the East

When three; emerald carpets embrace her as companions, Silver stokes of pointy blades tug the cloth of her dupatta. She draws an open life, two irises in the mud, “Eyes are God’s to make,” says Baba jaan, “Not yours to re-invent.”

 Four; the water glows orange. Its noisy layers caress the surface of her toes. She digs her fingers into its blue & fishes for rainbow stars. Baba jaan, come look. Look what I found. Too late. It’s time for prayer. She throws the stars away. 

Five; she knows namaaz by heart; Baba jaan recites a strange string of Arabic in her ear, What does it mean?

Six; wood is purple & trees a crisp form of pink, A melody of colours reside within her room’s walls, Inside becomes her refuge; closed & open. Baba jaan, I made this. Look, I made magic! He tears the sheets she had whispered to, “Don’t do this again jaan.”

 Seven; she sees red polka dots in the sky, But Baba jaan says  they are silver. The wind allows a comfort warmer than the one at home. She dreams. Baba Jaan brings her back With crushed pastel colours he found beneath her bed.

Eight; she hides the paints behind curtains; Secret canvases of her own refuge. A green sunset glimmers in her palette, Silenced with Baba jaan’s love, “Jaan, wear your dupatta.” “Jaan, stay in the house.” “Jaan, the sky is blue.” 

No– The sky is not blue Baba Jaan, The sky is twilight’s shade of purple songs. Why don’t you see that Baba Jaan?

Why?

Nine; though she begs her eyes to stay awake, By now the sky is blue & that is that. The dupatta is straight & that is that. Baba Jaan knows, She is a girl, & that is that.

-A.Bilal

[raindropsandbulletwounds]

Land after land, city after city, street after street, Home is always changing. Frosty summer hues travel to harmony’s destination, Trains dip past nostalgia, to cloud-flecked catastrophe, The map to hope leads to a dead end.

-Amsel Bilal, Azamat Omuraliev, Claire Adler, Mostafa Irfan, Grace Morse

[knittedlives-blog]

She whispered smiles through her words And spoke to me of her favourite food, Her favourite colour, Her story. She grinned as she spoke aloud her happy moments And in those small instances, I could see her tired eyes sparkle, For someone to talk to Someone to share her own self with.

Give someone a reason to speak to you; you never know what you may learn.

This is one of the upcoming series of video portraits that reveal how one can connect with others through the simplest instances of life.

Please do share and spread the word!

(Translation to be uploaded soon)

[knittedlives-blog]

I’m Tired.

I'm tired You know that feeling When you feel so tired, Exhausted, That feeling where you don't know what you're feeling, When you think there's no word in the dictionary Which could describe the circles in your mind, The confusion in the time. So when I think I've reached this point Where I stare just sit and stare At the wall in front with no butterflies or textures or fascinating colours. I realise I'm just tired, of nothing. So yeah I'll just drag myself, Change the clock's time move it backwards, So that I can sit and stare at the same colourless wall, At nothing, And say that it's just the time, This wretched time, which just won't pass. I know I'm fooling myself, But I'd rather stare at the wall than see people Stare at me, At my foolishness.

[knittedlives-blog]

“When I was young, you painted a world of lullabies and dulcet waves of water blue. Now I am old, and see the same picture with silent screams and raging shores askew.”