Poetry: Selections from Afra Adil Ahmad

Beg

On the day my daughter turns three

old enough to understand fragments of

the intricate theory of love, I will unfold

my prayer rug and proudly confess to her: 

this is where you beg

beg as if there's no tomorrow

beg without the hesitation of hoboes in front of the porticos of affluent businessmen

beg like a gale that would sabotage the plans of his perpetrators 

beg with a belief that you will be awarded what you're striving for

tell as if you would perish without telling

and then continue telling your Most Benevolent friend 

how your day went, how someone fibbed to you

what makes you burn in delight, what are your darkest fears

cry as if 

you have something

to cry for

this is how I will help her practise

for I know the intense years that will unfurl

she will have something or someone to cry for

this is not a curse, I swear

this is prayer in its purest form

for I know this world will break her too

the way it broke me, the way it broke my ancestors, so I have to 

help her long before she begins believing she's irreparable like pearls that know they can never go back to their celestial shells

but with God by your side

even the moon can be halved 

I will help her 

the same way my lovely mother did.

Limbs

A man without limbs

grapples with negativity

to function properly.

 

She is not

just my mother.

 

The voracious nooks

and crannies

of this house

have been nudging me:

who will tend to us, now?

whose smile will

warm us up?

 

In response to

their plea,

I holler:

who will lull

my insecurities to sleep?

who will wipe

my profuse tears?

 

An obsession

with a mother

is different than that

with a lover –

you wouldn’t have

arrived here

without a mother,

 

you have dwelled

near her heart

before entering

this realm

of murkiness and exhaustion.

 

Without her

every magical thing

that encompasses me

becomes meaningless,

 

without her

the synonym of

everything

is

nothing.

 

She is akin

to my limbs.

 

In her absence,

I resemble a man

without limbs;

 

In her absence,

I resemble a boat

adrift on the sea.

Candle

The wax of my life's candle has melted

and I find myself utterly incapable of reconstruction.

Childhood traumas drone over my head:

my unhealed wounds bandaged with makeshift dressings.

Watch me attempt to replenish the veil of my hope

and fill this heart with alluring tenderness again.

You had whispered once:

"You possess no other skill but to douse in love, 

anyone and everyone - angels or enemies.”

But love is better, more peaceful 

than the thirst for vengeance

that Heathcliff nurtured till his death:

you will be left with nothing.

In the messy trench where hearts are hurled,

on closer inspection, you will find 

my quixotic heart floating too;

screaming 

weeping

struggling.

Which pyre will be suitable to roast all the letters

penned and glued with the costliest adhesive in town

by a renowned scrooge, only for you?

I can share with certainty, you will declare this piece

as another puerile work of poetry.

Even though you're an egregious liar,

we're finally on the same page here.

Look at which forlorn juncture,

we’ve both agreed for the very first time.

Loss

For you to get over

the loss of your

mother's mother

I know it is so

hard as if asking a 

man without hands

to hold a 

bundle of timber

to lose a love

that was vaster 

than the Caspian Sea

I know it is so 

hard, for you are

used to a fragrance 

not many have

had the chance 

to savour

but when you 

move on, for once

spare some time

to consider the 

magnitude of my pain

and let me know 

what is it like to 

be caressed by

crinkled hands

and just continue 

holding them

for hours 

when you know 

the edifice of the

world you had 

assembled carefully

has disintegrated

yet again

what is it like to be

cared and loved

for who you are 

not for what you 

can do, not for what 

you can lend

what is it like

to place your 

vulnerable head on 

the safe lap

of your grandmother

and dauntlessly let

the tears drizzle

the way they prefer

even when everyone's

watching with 

eyes like eagles

I do not know 

for my mother's

mother died before

I entered this world.

Willow baskets

I wish I could offer you willow baskets 

fat with the treasures of love that stream inside my ailing heart

in return for everything that you

do for me. There's so much ruined

inside me

each portion requires 

weeks to thrive again. I can't care 

about you now.

And sometimes you have to make peace 

with the fact that you 

cannot force yourself to love every Magnolia that drops near your door no matter

how much you adore Magnolia flowers.

Leave if after learning this fact, your life becomes unendurable. Or wait

if a few bubbles of patience are left in your dainty satchel. 

Pardon me for saying 

but you cannot compel a bruised person 

to heal quickly and 

bring back her blithe spirit for

I am not a bottle of cooking oil to be opened whenever you desire. I will be taking 

some time. But my grim windows are open for you 

to hop inside. They are also open for another reason: you can leave if you find it tough to bear with me. There are bleeding corpses 

of agony inside me

until I bury all of them, I am not ready to scatter

any new seeds.

Afra Adil Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist and calligrapher. Based in Taiwan, she holds a Bachelor's degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of the society to problems faced by teenagers to imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories and write-ups. Her works have appeared in various magazines including Iman collective, MYM, Rather Quiet, Euonia Review, Olney Magazine, The Malu Zine, The Sophon Lit, Blue Minaret, Melbourne Culture Corner, Her Hearth Magazine, and The Hot Pot Magazine.