Poetry book

Sentimental You take us back to a familiar place. Where fond memories were made. When we were forgiven for feeling this way. And weren’t so harsh on ourselves. With the aroma of French toast filling our kitchens. We were up the junction, weren’t we? But you also remind us of what was left behind. Of why we walked away. Perilously going through the motions. As our love was so fragile that the slightest misunderstanding led to its demise. The shadows of our inadequacies remained unfazed. Neither clarity nor closure lasted. Honestly, the past gave you no reason to stay. The constant pressure to make our experiences more palatable for others is exhausting. Autumn Leaves I say goodbye to May, June, July and August, The four months of tender breeze, Evening strolls, picnics, And rays of sunshine. Early nights bestow us, The evergreen turns burnt orange, With the aromatic pumpkin spiced lattes soothing frost-bitten fingers, Trees lay bare, Yet sherpa wool jackets lounge over slumped shoulders. Summer birds are in retreat, The heating is cranked up, Fragrant chestnuts and cinnamon are omnipresent, Rakes gather fermented foliage. Cosying up by the fire, New music from Paolo Nutini is our desire, Mother Earth is calling, So these leaves won’t stop falling. When we don’t process our traumas, we begin to: · Work them away · Eat/drink them away · Peloton them away · Scroll them away · Yoga them away · Shop them away · Vacation the away · Annual leave them · Procrastinate them away · Romance them away April Showers Pattering my window pane. The heavens open. Misspent summers await. Blusterous mid-afternoon winds dampen prior obligations. Infinite droplets submerge. Nourishing angelic transparent crystals align the sky. Tulips, daffodils and bluebells perched amidst the torrential downpour. We don’t know until we go outside. Its taste and the delicacy of its touch. Things can never be painless. So, don’t run from the rain. Everything is permanent until it isn’t. Runway A temporary visitor, Not one to hang around or stay, Dozens of us nationwide, all so different but so similar, Used when useful but we prefer it that way, Yearning to be treasured; when we click, we click, Located in no man’s land, To be loved but not in a way that’s, well, platonic, Check-in, pass, check out, Arrivals and departures are pre-arranged, First-class or economy, I still had my doubts, However much the emotional jetlag set in, I stuck to this lane, You see, when you catch flights, you gotta deal with the baggage too. There is loving someone and then there’s loving the things they do for you that made your life easier. There is a difference. Survivor Why is it always the case that I have to be the one to step away? Then to be the bigger person as you slip, revert your old ways? I’m sick of the insincere apologies, Then there’s the lying, love bombing and suspicion of being seen as an anomaly. Why do I always have to take the L? Then you get to prosper as I’m forced back into my shell. Why do you keep self-projecting? Then covering up your tracks by self-deprecating. Why do I have to justify your inconsistencies? Then challenge anyone who points out your deficiencies. Why aren’t there any answers? Why am I never valued and why do you get so many chances? Why is my pity on display? Then clinging onto the hope this was just one of your ‘bad days.’ Why do I keep falling for toxic amnesia? Then ducking a response to ‘what did you see in him/her?’ There will come a day when we pluck up the courage to sell up, buy a VW Camper and gather our favourite vinyl collection. To spend the rest of our lives on the road with only the stars to guide us. Sod’s Law When they finally felt at home, the landlord hiked up the rent, As you began to open up, the well-intended words ended with commotion, Kind of like when you are brave enough to open up by they were determined to avoid emotions, To when you went above and beyond but a colleague got that promotion. Joining a queue but the cashier was done for the day, Left the washing out when the weatherman made assurances it wouldn’t rain, Then every junction decides to cause unnecessary delays, The warden hands you a ticket when you were 30 seconds late. You didn’t think to ask why it all went to pot, When the other half had other ideas when the penny dropped, Of all those you trusted and thought had your back, Some put the blade in, some got us to pick at the scab. It probably was just bad luck or an act of God, Perhaps it’s just you; the unlucky sod. It should have come with a warning in advance, that people will let you down if you give them a chance. Our Mo. Did you not get the MO, Mo? The secrets that you were keeping, Now appear in the mirrors that you’re peeping. The mirrors changed but the reflections did not, Cracks reoccurring in the façade you were forced to adopt. They say you suffer from road rage, Or he’s petulant in his old age. Ran out of luck, And didn’t get much bang for your buck. With chapped hands and a bad posture, Sore joints, chronic discomfort and a callous demeanour. Between a cynical combination of painkillers and puns, Out of ideas and out of funds. With all that charm and wit, Deep down, they were bourgeoisie aspirations on blue-collar budget. Mastered the dark arts, Chipping them cigarettes you’ve sparked. Societal burdens got him to crumble, Man, you weren’t built for the urban jungle. Was it worth the hassle, Trying to become the king of this castle. In the trenches, you swung for the fences, From heavily armed, to totally defenceless. How did it go from seeking perfectionism, To being shackled to tribalism? Begging that the two spheres of endurance and hustle could be separated, Ring fenced and demarcated. Can mine be double, Mo? We know you didn’t mean to cause any trouble, Mo. Quit being a nomad, Mo, Let’s have a chinwag, Mo. As a champion without a title, Mo, Are we going to see your revival, Mo? Mo, you weren’t wrong, But right to keep things ticking along. The bad times are worse than what shows up on our timelines. Think of all the milestones we don’t share. The ones that sit silently with us but we keep to ourselves. Sticks and Stones Sticks and stones won’t break my bones, But words, well, they take on a life of their own, They say that words can only go so far, People’s perceptions play a big part of who we are, Depending on how much we internalise, Words are everlasting, they elevate or cut us down to size, I vowed never to give you another penny for your thoughts, But your words own an indefinite piece of real estate in my head, as they clawed, they stalked and they thwart, From a young age, I was taught to have thicker skin, Let the naysayers say, and not to give them an inch, Made me develop so many idiosyncrasies, Now engrained in my psyche; their cynicism I would believe, Sticks and stones won’t break my bones, But words. When people imply that you have a wise head on young shoulders, they don’t understand that this wasn't really a choice. Some of us weren’t given the option of when to grow up. We inherited responsibilities beyond our years and adapted. Mortar and Pestle My mother only ever let us taste the homegrown, Sowed roots in the land of the unknown, She was obsessed with us getting to discover about our own, To swap our jeans, Air Forces and vests, Trade them in for salwar kameez, saris and indigenous dress, In Urdu, Pushto or Sindhi; a return to our native dialect, Educating us on the partition, Noor Inayat Khan, and debunking colonial myths that were incorrect, Lentils, okra and desi tea, The staples in a diet that has worked wonders for centuries, She pounds the cardamon pods you know as ‘elaichi,’ And wears the leather bounded chappals on her feet, To peaks of K2 and miswak sticks, Clay houses and rich cashmere fabrics, We can’t rely on presents from our aunts in Pakistan, Calendared voyages to meet the motherland, ‘Welcome me with that gentle Punjabi tone,’ ‘Son, there’s always dhal at home,’ Completing Fajr as dusk settles, Anything to restore some pride and order, she turns to her trusted mortar and pestle.