Poems by Lily Swarn
You never worshipped
at my altar
like a thirsty pilgrim near the Sarovar (pond)You trudged into the fragmented realms of my fragile Wajood(being)
Like an invader brandishing his sword
Demanding ransom for his unquenched love
The sounds of prayer in halls of devotion
Chanted in sonorous Buddhist chants
Was my choral refrain
My naqaab(veil covering the face , mask )was Kashmiri crepe
It never stretched enough to tear
The chinar leaves embroidered painstakingly by ageing eyes
Danced like Sufi dervishes
Round and round
Never once falling down
Your plea of being human ricocheted
Through all the six ascents of heaven
Your petulant ire stamped its feet
It whistled though the tulip garden
It touched the ripples in the Dal
The cherry blossoms smiled and blushed
My fate had been sealed by that
Ancient reed pen that broke soon after it had embossed my ledgers
The veil remained shimmery green chiffon
Like the oceans that love needs to cross
Swimming against the cold currents
Braving chills along the sharks
Hark! Do you hear the bugle call ?
It’s calling all ships to port
Our sands of time are running out
But you never held my hand
It’s Roohaani Ishq , (a form of spiritual love )the sacred one
It will live long after the pink fades from my plump lips
If will live through Kalyug, marching steadily into Satyug
It will need no witnesses or qazis
God himself walks with platonic love
Whispering sweet nothings in place of you
Copyright Lily Swarn 21.8.2017
O My Hand !!
The palm of my hand is absorbing
The dimples, creases ,lines
The mounds of Venus allure
Can it really be holding my future
in its soft grip ?
My destiny of distress
My fate of fortitude
My kismet connections ?
Or is it the turbulence of toil
The trauma of transactions
The vicissitudes of volatile vagaries?
Do I sketch my own dreams
My nascent niggardly nightmares ?
Do I shade in the hypnotic hues of heaven
Delicately blending the cobalt and Prussian blues ?
A stroke of burnt sienna here
A deft brush of moss green there ?
Is my palm not the soft cuddly thing that my childhood friends remember
The tiny little helpless looking palm adorned with nails made from flower petals ?
Is it not that hand that held daddy’s finger as I skipped alongside him ?
I fear it is rather potent now
It often dares to defy destiny
Foolish little hand pretending to be God
Pretentious enough to write its own safarnaama ( travelogue )
Whilst the Master’s magnanimous hand pulls me like a puppet on a string !!
Copyright Lily Swarn 23.8.2017