Homeward Bound. @mah-e-tamaam - Tumblr Blog

لاعب النرد _ محمود درويش The Dice Player by Mahmood Darwish

Animated Poem by Nissma Roshsy

The urge to write in my mother tongue haven't been more. It's in my chest now, every time I utter, the words felt need, that the belongingness of my own self has to be part of them. Who do we write to in those micro blogs? What do we convey? If I am honest the more I write, the more personal I write about my self. The more I shed the shards of my being. Does it help? I know it does, I don't know how to articulate how it does. One of my favorite poems is دریاؤ (Daryaav), River. It goes about how a river would word it's journey as it flows- cutting rocks and carving ways, through towns and wilderness, through woods and meadows...than it compares to us humans, which helps it even more to make a point. There is a couplet that translates into the river saying to us, that I don't need to make a home or kindle a nest, and that I am happy in what life throws at me while I cut through rocks and lurch through cracks...

#mountains #river #winter #spilled thoughts #life goes on #people #frozen #kashmir

mah-e-tamaam

Home. You know it's that cold within, with that cold morning.

Our years in school, and writing essays about the 'Winter in Kashmir', I wonder what I used to write - what I wrote the first time and the following years. I would give anything to return to those essays that are somewhere on some shabby to neat note-copies, brown-sheet covered was never a thing. Now when I reminisce about those days, the little me is those vivid memories is covering and preserving them. For now I know they remain preserved.

I am sincerely praying, and in a sense working about, that every kid of Kashmir gets to have those calm memories, numb a lot of them, a frozen frame in far fastened frame of life, both detached and stiched to us. And that someday when they grow young and old, wherever they are in the world, perhaps after or maybe midst all the troubles of life, they will remember too, and let it all sink in. Maybe return Home 🍁 and seek that notecopy with me. ❄️

apoemaday

Anxiety I

by Tove Ditlevsen tr. Cynthia Graae and Michael Goldman

Anxiety is old it reeks of childhood it has no object is awakened by glances, words and sudden noise lives in recurring dreams where the one you love shows the deadly hatred he hides by day.

People’s eyes are yellow they are too close together and they have no lashes over them their menacing eyebrows run endlessly together the corners of their mouths dislocate and twist, watercolor-wet do not look at them slip away from any dangerous and keen attention.

Wrap yourself in rhythms and rhymes from the old bygone songs hide with the troll and the dragon the pure evil shy away from all affection even from the child who plays with and caresses the cat shy away from his expectation his memories his blocked future.

Seek the company of those who peacefully turned away want nothing from you libraries waiting rooms railway stations people with suitcases in hand have firm contours unknown goals in a world that is not yours.

All the others are transformed under your stare as if under windswept waves they know that you see their secrets and innermost thoughts hate your lurking and waiting you do not know the day of the catastrophe approaching by the hour.

Anxiety is old your father and your mother are safety and danger staring through your lover’s eyes and are not dead. Do not watch them. Lay flowers on the grave light candles at night fold your hands and hum in devotional horror the old forgotten songs.

urdu-poetry-lover

ہم تو فلک کے لوگ تھے ساکنان قریہ مہتاب تھے

تیرے ہاتھ کیسے آ گئے ہم تو بڑے ہی نایاب تھے.

likeahauntingmelody

before sunrise (1995)

mah-e-tamaam

Prayers for all days, prayers for health, for a warm home to return, prayers that you all wake up to a blessed EID and have your share of peaceful breaths too. 🕊️🤍

Eid Mubarak ✨️

#life #kashmir #life goes on

7thblacksheep-deactivated201907

I’m so much more than what I let people see, but oh well

apoemaday

After Apple-Picking

by Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there's a barrel that I didn't fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn't pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear. My instep arch not only keeps the ache, It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round. I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load on load of apples coming in. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.

mah-e-tamaam

❤️