2 poems- Sameera Mansuri

A prayer God won’t hear.

Vietnam Memorial architect Maya Lin with her cat in her New York studio, 1986. Photo: Michalel Katakis
The rain is suffocating inside the clouds
The leaves are burning in agony
I pluck flowers often
and place them in my books
wondering anything beautiful needs to be preserved.
My eyes have begun resembling a museum
because every time I close them
death falls like an art.
Sometimes it hangs above my eyelids
and researchers introspect in awe.
Everything that was once alive
has touched the sand or wood
before embracing death.
Everything we love is protected by touchwood.
The skin I carry isn't dark
but a fair shade of brown.
Maa never told me to apply cream
until I was down with fever
and started looking like a wilted flower
a lover holds my hand often
and memorizes the marks on my skin.
He says it looks like a fallen autumn leaf.
We both smile at the connection
and weep at the metaphor.

Maa tells me to apply cream
the fever hasn’t left me yet.
eyes/skin
I have nothing to show you more than these two things,
I have nothing to carry on my spine.
My back is a coffin
where flowers bloom sometimes.
A graveyard isn't dead
but full of life that embraced
peace too early.
Life is a great job until it starts to underpay,
We regret what we don't choose,
we cry for what we often choose.
The rain has begun to fall
I hear Azaan mixed with splashes of water
petrichor diffuses in the air along with
the camphor from the temple next door.
I close my eyes when I hear the Gurbaani
and wish for the brother who works in the Church.
My skin is a brown country
My eyes a forgotten history
The steps that lead to the prayer
are often heavy and lost
God was last found in a dead fetus.

2-Losing voices like blood

mother stitches wounds into poems
her words buried deep under the sky
sometimes when it rains
I hear metaphors knocking on my door
a faint petrichor diffuses in my room
choking the paper flowers I made yesterday.
the origami sheets lay like autumn leaves
this marble floor beneath my feet
is no less than a graveyard
I often pluck flowers,
one by one.
this summer appears like monsoon
taking its first breath,
my arms almost shed the pain
but winter is all about aches
and that's all I await.
If mother ever comes back to the earth
to take her pride
she will encounter it hiding in a closet
behind the collection of summer dresses
the floral ones she once stitched.
I would allow her to take everything
she loves
in the hope that she will take me away too.
But the walls of elegy have already started
building up grief around my house
my room,
her garden of words
are forbidden territory.
we often write about loss as again
but no one cares to look beyond the clouds
that brings rain
no one knows that at midnight
they often weep and wail
but thunder falls like a judgment
and silence spreads itself.
in this way or another

there’s always a loss
we never express.
tonight
I am wearing her floral dress
the last one she could stitch
her words hang like a necklace
around my turtle neck
her poems adore my waist
no one cares to touch my skin
I am her poetry
and at this hour
the world will never get metaphor
the sky outside is bleeding
I remember mother's silence
over the last phone call
when I confessed that I am not happy
her sobs hid themselves
behind the sound of thunder in my ears.
tonight
I am slowly becoming a poet
she would have fallen in love with
but you should not search for the spark in my eyes
A poet always burns her muse alive.
mother stitches wounds into poetry
while rain falls as a metaphor in my palms
silence echoes in the paper flowers
and unstitched wounds lose their voice
like a blood,
like a memory.

Sameera Mansuri

A mystical poetess with a straightforward style of writing. Her poems
question norms and portray naked truth, sometimes subtle sometimes
clearly evident. Sameera took up writing as a means of escape and never
looked back. She is on a constant lookout for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favorite
pastime.

Grieving the grief

 

Take a shower, wash off the day. Drink a glass of water. Make the room dark. Lie down and close your eyes. Notice the silence. Notice your heart. Still beating. Still fighting. You made it, after all. You made it, another day. And you can make it one more. You’re doing just fine.

grief,

a shout in the void

where birds chirp and sing

meaningless songs of love

and heaven swings

to it’s highest position in prayers

but nothing is left,

at least it looks like this.

 

my mouth is an empty vessel

with a porous bottom

agony slips swiftly

bleeding the red of anger

from my chapped lips,

grief is too thick to slip

still.

 

my fingers are needles

of my mother’s tailoring toolbox,

I weave threats into poems,

and make sweaters out of pain,

it’s a comforting effort

for a dying soul,

grief can’t be woven,

it’s fibers are delicate.

 

my legs are nocturnal,

I take night walks

talking to the merciless moon,

I count dead bodies on stars.

sometimes the sky smiles at my strength,

sometimes it weeps heavily,

but grief doesn’t leave my eyes,

it’s too frozen to melt.

 

grief,

is a poem burning on my lips,

is an intricate thread scarring my fingers,

is a suffocated tear crawling inside my eyes,

is an aglet that keeps pain from unraveling

is a loss you kept coming back to.

 

grief,

is an epiphany,

too divine to be rejected as the present

and

too earthly to be asked in a prayer.

A mystical poetess with a straightforward style of writing. Her poems
question norms and portray naked truth, sometimes subtle sometimes
clearly evident. Sameera took up writing as a means of escape and never
looked back. She is on a constant look out for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favourite
pastime. She blogs at https://poetryblog320.wordpress.com/