A Poem: Ageing Aches

oldhnads

forgiveness is no longer a choice.
it is a given,
for there is no other way left
to live.
so close to the end of the
longest walk.
all you have left to give
is goodness and hope,
and all the memories that crawl from
the folds of your aching skin and
latch onto those who once held
such firm hands
are like sunlight caressing the
curves of a tree that
withstood endless seasons and tides,
that has yet so much life to give,
and yet has nothing to give at all

A poem: Burning skin

fire 1

perhaps the reason
our skin burns so bright
when it meets
is that it craved a touch
not of this body
but of something that would seep
lower and deeper
until the core that was always
so lonely and detached
from everything would finally have
a chance to reveal itself to someone
whose flame sways the same

A poem: Grace Fervour

blog image for poem

My limbs are piled on top of
one another.
But it is not messy or unclean, it’s
the mysterious, alluring tangle of the
roots
of an old, robust tree.
This is the only place I know now,
where there is no
shame.
And the stretching of my redbud arms as
the sun caresses me, to prosperity,
is not pride; desire; greed, but
prayer and
grace fervour.

Anam Iqbal 

A poem: Swaying Water

blog picthing

Come, dip your
feet
in the cold, swaying water
with me.
Allow it to fill you up
and leave you:
cleansed, soothed, renewed.
Let it wash away your
anger and envy.
Let it drown your
grief and fear.
Let it liberate you;
for nothing,
no matter how vast,
beautiful or horrifying,
survives the power of
the sea.

Anam Iqbal 

 

A poem: Blood

anam blog post

They told me:
‘endless blood must be spilt for peace’
and you are naive if you imagine a
different world.
You must wake to bitter gun shots, and
the soft chirping of birds, alike.
You must find tranquility in the:
indebtedness of your time,
labelling of your body,
exploitation of your beliefs, or
you will never know any at all.
But I told them:
softness is rifled
when there are sharp, unforgiving
bangs.
And bleeding dry won’t bring us
freedom only war.
And they said I would stand alone,
among the perilous bridges
that I’d tirelessly built from our end to theirs,
so there would no longer be ours or theirs.
I waited… waited… waited.
My longing hope painted across my face
in flashing lights.
And then, I saw their dancing silhouettes.
They had come.
And my eyes glazed like the surface of a
thundering ocean.
And then, we were like branches, reaching for the
blossom-strewn sky and humble truth together.
And the only blood that was left
was the one in the sunset
we beheld.

Anam Iqbal 

A poem: Oh, fear of mine!

blogpost anam

Oh, fear of mine!
Come reveal your sharp edges on
my crumbling skin for perhaps then
my feverish soul will witness –
by the dusky whispers of the sky, and
the blistered hands of my father, and
the softness of your deception –
what you are in your truest form:
A haunting, acidic lie, that I may use
to excuse myself from this life.

Anam Iqbal