Sunday, February 21, 2016

Sheikha A.- Three Poems


Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Over 200 of her poems have been published in 60+ literary venues and several anthologies, all of which, that can be accessed on her blog sheikha82.wordpress.com, She edits poetry for eFiction India.



Yank

The neck of the ragdoll hangs
out in a mass of thin threads,

the head limps to the side
hanging on ragged veins;

it looks like a robot head
with multiple loose wiring
clogging the windpipe 
of its metal neck

and you’re plucking away 
all the blue wires first,
those that might carry blood

through my body, of the veins
turned yellow you leave alone

and continue forcing the tongs
with blunt ends to cut into
the threads, I can see the doll

in my mind, its eyes looking 
like mine, bent up, disappeared
into the lids

as my voice tells me to hold on,
the pain is just her playing 
with the doll once again;

she stopped poking pins
when she discovered the way
to stretch neck bones 
without breaking any,

from just a room away, I can hear
her singing

as the pain in my head explodes

and my neck becomes a detached
substance, my hands holding it
together, letting my body divide
the pain in all its parts

just so consciousness doesn’t leave,

she stuffs the thread back
into the open socket
and stitches me up

this time to ensure I don’t hang – 

Yank!


Allergy

My breathing ties up in my throat
as the night turns young at 2.00am;

she told me about watching a snake
chase an emerald,

and, here, sleeping between a pair
of unperturbed faces, as her back burns

from a night of tossing 
like on a bed of thorns,

my chest fibrillates each breath
released like a whistle

from a quaking spout of steam
pressed water pot

the walls rising and falling
with my trembling vision;

it is one thing to want to own
her hurting 

and another to become the enigma
the snake pursues,

she has survived far too many
ailments of the body to now know
recovery

while, for me, every minute labours
like an hour

forcing my mouth to breathe. 


When nothing remains

hear the wind squall,
vicious in speech,

chuckling sadistically
at quandaries of humans;

this epidemic of iniquity
scrapes the howling sky.

Emerges the one mighty
from the bowels of hell;

rocks crumble to ashes,
clouds thunder & roar,

snakes slither & hiss,
the earth spits all its gore.

Bowed in queue are
humans thieved;

their blood is hot
with greed, tasting sin 

off sore skin. Spirits offered,

the torch is lit – 


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