A Malang

Wearing a robe of broken alphabets
In the eyes filled to brim
with orange bangles in my hands
cracked enough to hold thunder of
Sentence lacking story
Decorating a jaded smile on lips
Like a famine struck sun
and walking with anklets of burnt moths
Which has snuffed out the last candle of my town
Bare feet and empty spirited
Like a moonless sky
I swirl with the beat of wild wind
Still you say
You have not consumed me?

Paras Ali/2016

Writers Block

Duveted inside the blanket of silence

In the hub of smog

Hush ... Dear thoughts 

Do not come near

In enormous peace they sleep

For his pores have caressed

My unharnessed words....

Paras Ali/ 2016

No Union, No Partings

I have made a quick exit to the sky                                          

 Fleeing from the thunderclap of Your world       

 I have pursued down the streets of my barren solitude                                                      

 To beckon only Your memories.                     

 and setting the clamor of the voices mute                                 

Away from the people of Your land                                            

Miles apart from the continents of your sand                                                

I stroll the boulevards of my Sky                                                

 Amid the darkness, I admire watching                

 the glow worms burning into fireworks over your bosom                                                           

 I have gone to the sky                                        

So not to blacken your sweetly scented rivulets                                                                           

Not to keep you choking in nostalgia's foggy blankets                                                            

But to live like a lunatic holding an immortal  craving of You                                                          With those infinite moments  of present which never turn to past.                                  

And far-sighted future ensuring no meeting of our shores.                                                                       

 I have gone to the sky                                       

Yes Leaving you behind                                      

With no union                                                    

 Can You and I                                               

Ever be separated ?

Paras Ali/2016

Wave after wave
The golden powder of sun's rays
Draws oe'r fleecy billows
lying by the side of diamond laden Willows
The Letters which the moon wrote
for the impish tides of the Sea
All those initials of love singing alphabets
Are common to the language as my own
Ah...the Post man sky keenly plays the tricks
to keep me chained in the middle of it's memories


Paras Ali/2016

In the midst of crisp
gold shaded russet berries.
Frosty growling breeze
tread upon my flesh less bony words
crackling nothing but your name...

Paras Ali/2016

With the straws of dusty petals
Bare anklet of berries
and ruined pieces of blue barren clouds
They create an ageless doll's house
I Autumn and my Pen


Paras Ali/2016

Ripping open my veins
with the munching storm of yellow leaves
And sinking teeth of your glassy gaze
inside my frosty eyes
setting me blazed
Till my bones to million snippets break
into blood drenched verses
Where fall blooms an immortal Spring
over my fragile country of paper
Dear Beloved or my tormentor
Who am I to you?


Paras Ali/ 2016

A Lost Battle

(Dedicated to freedom fighters of Kashmir. May Allah bless them achieve their cause. Ameen)

Collaboration work of Paras Ali and very talented dear writer Asma Mughal

"Rumors ran amok that this brawny soldier has been behind shaking off metals and shrouding millions of villagers in white coffins now what makes you stand dumb ? I can see your hands are quivering. The girl in a mocking pitch asked looking straight into the eyes of the soldier. A strange silence descended all over quietening the barrel of HK MP5 rifle held by the soldier. All he could see the reflection of his bleak and bony , black marble resembling eyes in her grayish emerald iris canopied by beady eye sockets. No wind murmured a whistle only it shut the jaws of surrounding cacophony. No sooner the twilight rays wearing anklets swirled and curled around her pupil's edges he saw an immense goddess in her writing with emerald flecks a book of myths. Everything was on its right place except the eyes that have taken the place of the tongue. The girl eyes were translating those dauntless notes which he has never heard in these twenty eight years of his existence .He made one more step towards her and she yelled. "Shoot me you coward but dare not touch an inch of hair of mine ". Are you not scared of death ? Lost in bewildering empathy the soldier questioned.

'Death! What the hell death is!, the monster that ends up everything, your plaything, savoiur of your pride...huh...you a soldier...kill as many as you want and get yourself drowned in the pool of contentment, if your conscience allows it. I ain't fear death.', they were eye to eye so close having a strange connection. He had fixed the muzzle of the gun on her throat and clutched hold of her body in a way that the hurt penetrated deep in her bones. But neither did she scream nor begged for mercy. It was as if she had already handed over her body to him. The soldier's mind was boiling with questions like, who wishes to die at such a younger age? Why wasn't her body resisting? What messages were being conveyed by those rather small and unattractive eyes? There was a pause on both sides, then she looked to the right and he to the left, he was crushing his teeth while she was breathing faster. both were hearing their silent speech. Once again they looked at each other and again he saw his reflection in her eyes. The girl had done him no harm but he was a soldier in uniform on the duty to kill, torture even rape anyone on enemy side and she was his legitimate prey. The ground was there to water all the beastly desires buried deep in any man but he was a man with the attitude of a lion. He wanted his prey to be afraid of him, he despised tearing the already a dead body like a vulture does. And there she was standing, eye to eye, showing the courage of a soldier_ like him. He could identify his own self through her eyes. A battle between whether to go ahead or step back went on for a minute and then he turned his face towards the deserted village when suddenly, a strong blow of some hard object was felt on his head, then a second blow and the third and the next moment he was lying on the ground shrieking with pain, not dead but in-empowered.

 Lying plagued , punctured in spirit and bitterly wounded the soldier hissed:
"so you have also tasted human blood the savage blind girl. You have thinned the boundary between you and me". 

The girl opened her ajared lips for the first time to reply
'No territory has ever existed between us, and you! for you are fighting the war with a skilled brain while we are battling with an armored heart. '

A Letter to Allah

When despotic hands were reaching my fluffy cheeks
When needles were being hammered in my woolly skin
When wolf was sniffing closely my blood
And silent stood around all the world
Why even then my roots are set to burn and bare?
When wide Awake Beloved you are there

They turned my streets a cursed city
 My rattles tone-deaf, tear laden and mute
Beheaded my Mother's lofty lullaby
And thwarted with roaring guns my sobbing sighs
 How ghosts still are letting orphans like me frightened and scared?
When wide Awake Beloved you are there

Their serpent's tooth dig deep the crust
of my olive-greened credence in you
They mock over my patience and my faith
They say my letters would go unanswered
To the seventh sky flies no bird
How swiftly they can caricature all my pious prayers?
When wide awake Beloved you are there

 copyrights reserved to Paras Ali /2016

Gladly demolished
into mocking silence of stainless paper
My words have crossed the ocean of 'Self'
They no more yearn
The fake mask of Identity

Paras Ali/2016

Your Departure

Do not mutter a word
Stay Silent, Cease to be a poet
Your rhymes knocks me unconscious by stones
Of those crimson rainbows, my sky does not belong
Hide your eyes with the heals of your hands
Look me not else my wax would melt
In that mould of soapy slippery stars
Which find my droplets mountain hard
Stay Away !Sniff not at my Jars
My chestnut fragrance only i know is here or probably nowhere
March out from the boundaries of my skin
You would paint me with the turquoise shades of sea
And in seconds the maze of my mirrors would churn inside me
Its not the loss
Of your hand built silky curtains around me that hurts
Nor the pangs of waking up at an ungodly hours of night
It's only the mortality of hope
Which fades to exist
with the fear of your departure
Each time you leave
Shutting my doors closed
 the fangs of reality bites me more...

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/ 2016

Identity Crisis

The sun has set
The ivory isle is an abode of bulk of nests 
The silver beads of sand are rushing to the sky
To their home the flock of pigeons are hastening to fly
The cotton candy takes bath at sea
The fairy tale's grumpy wizard is on the verge to sleep
Back to country , back to home
Crumb by crumb drowns the plum sun to its tomb

But the shades in my palate
For my last brush's stroke still waits

Where would my impatient heart go?
During this tidy purple hour dies too my wretched glow
This mass of bones go to pieces after day's long work
Do my soul belong to any road ?

My silhouettes sighing uncertainties resemble dunes of wilderness
Does my cottage reside in the East?
I too carry the cucumber twilight of jolting tides
Do my nest has its roots in the West?

Half winter , half summer
Half damsel , half demon
I am the autumn of the sun
I am the spring of the moon
Am I human? Or entirely no one?

My colour inherit those of universe
the galaxies , the planets and the mighty Earth
In the middle of nowhere my country is everywhere
Where do I belong to?
Where would I go ?
My own childhood streets smell to me foreign and unfathered
Am I a non native citizen of my own world?

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

 What still matters he is a Writer

Is he a doleful lunatic , a promising gentleman or a half-hearted human ? I do not know nor I will dwell in those judgemental inspections of his personality as I have met him in words ----the words underlying his numerous abnormalities, eccentricities and complexities. I somehow know a writer let loose his painful pangs inside the writings but he is different in so many ways I can not count on fingers.His each word is veiled in wires of sanguine suspense , the more I read him the more I loose the grip of atlas of my own thoughts. We have no spacial dimensions in common all I know reading him flowers my petty imaginations. I at times picture him holding a pen in between his plump fingers or other times I paint him setting off his dusty lashes on the pages of Dan brown's thrilling fiction . I so much long to see how words oscillate on his starched paper when stormy breeze sews hails at his pores. I wish one night I explore His wonderland like Alice and sneakily see his eclipsed soul squeezing downpour from the pomegranate sky.  He often calls himself in his poems 'A Man of steel' or a citizen of "Vampire Land" where human corpses are cheaper than ashes but still his syllables carry the enticing flavor of divinity. What keeps his emotions equilibrated I wish I could ever know.

How he extracts meaning from the grey whiffs of wintery frost? I really know not. There is no match between I and him as He sees what I can not see. He thinks desert hides a blue berry walled cataracts while I find desert a valley of cactuses accompanying scuttling snakes , canopied by the gender less sky.
 I shiver with a thought if someday he ever asked me to write on Fall I would take a decade to write only one inappropriate sentence that it is a season voicing funeral's symphony of bare maple tree. In a jiffy he would reject my sentence and instead write back to me heaps of meaningful poetic phrases. He would say Fall's dawn caresses its dusk with golden towel of fog-wet leaves. Probably he would ask me to wear binoculars or keep my eyes squinted to explore parsley-hued and lemon-veined carpet of buds during encroaching summers. When I won't learn a bit he would stop mentoring me at all. God how he takes the weather so personally when thousands of people like me can not? To seek the answer some night my system would blow out. He with ease compares his tidal pull of emotions with shrieking , splashing and jolting waves. Sometimes he calls clouds as a sky filled with snow or at times he tells his readers that stench of puddles is sweeter than the aroma of lavender. If his similes are exported from West , his metaphors are borrowed from East and the final product , to my surprise ,turns out to be an identity less piece of art resembling none but Him. To be honest I often parade with poise my treasured diction to match his aesthetic skills but sweat clutters beads upon my forehead and then i realize even my body has given up. I muster up my courage to write a review of his work but then I coil back burying  my fright beneath the bulks of roaring silence. A strange writer he is ,his words rent my air and grabbing his writings I make sure my ferry veer straight into his sea with a silent prayer that may it stay there forever.                                    

The myth is writer's soul is wedded to a Scorpio which has fangs that punctures heart. People say they are drugged-out, long-haired and Long-shaven and their lackadaisical eyes sunk in the sockets of dark circles reflect their numb and cold hearted spirit. They destroy the virginity of papers by spilling ink and fill to brim bundles of them. Others think they are lonesome creatures who inhale solitude and exhale broken dreams. Even if he is of any kind or he lives inside the inferno of haunting serenade or if he is a member of thundering and hammering heaven I bother least. As what still matters he is a writer.




Copyrights Reserved to #Paras Ali/ 2016

Idaisle: The flight of a bird trapped in the wrong cage.

Inked in the shadow of words while duveting his lashes in-between the pages of A Man into Woman by Lili Elbe, Nehaal lulled his tempestuous desires to be a Helen at least and clamped shut his eyes leaving behind the tortuous snaky streets where Identity was the sole question all above.

In the Hours of idleness I often sketch you 

with the paint of my blood

with the strokes of my love

I wonder do you do the way I do?

He knew he was about to enter IDAISLE-- his most favourite resort where only Neelum ruled his territory and no Nehaal stood in between them.
He stretched his limbs and found juvenile droplets had already awashed his sobs amidst tears and balmed the swollen marks which he had carried after severe beatings from his peers after being mocked as a hermophrodite . He stepped forward and a lake of white crystals reflected his face having all-male side whiskers and pitch-black moustaches hiding his mole glued to the apple curve of his lips. While touching his brawny muscles , He realized the lithe suppleness of willowy feminine muscles had extinguished and he had been transformed into a herculean man ,whose thought he always hated even in dreams.
Buttering with bemoaning frenzy he muttered. "Neelum Neelum where are you?," the word curled up all over the amazingly masculine voice. He found her laying there, gazing up into his eyes as the sun melted in them.
His dilated pupils had worn a wreath of honey fire and the two tiny orbs were devouring on her very soul. Finding her shadow beneath the lake he instinctively ran a hand over the water bubbles, curved those blue dews of his another self around his neck and filled his pitcher to its brim to get baptised in the aura of Neelum . Neelum moved forward and stampeding gust of wind hung open her rosary pink veil, disclosing to his eyes ,her burnt skin scars, ragged holes. She smiled and behind her beautific smile there were cuts, welts and wounds.
The searing intrusion made his eyes roll in their sockets and the moment the water of IDAISLE's lake grabbed him, "Neelum," from a shadow transformed into an echo rising higher and higher above the frothy herd of clouds Neelum flew upwards to some world he never knew. She flew higher and higher until she was a tiny speck of gold against the clear blue sky and then came parachuting down.
By now he could see only Nehaal's reflection in the frozen ice-blue stream where pulpy crimson berries had doodled these verses

After conquering my desirous zones

Or even if I fail to hold my shards

Or if Ganga of this ephemeral love turned me impure

Or if I lost my identity In the transfixed moment of mortality

I am very much sure

With Blind eyes I will to your country come back

Nehaal's surroundings slowly materialized in front of him: the stream, the fresh grass, branches laden with red apples hanging over them. It was as if he was recovering his sight after a blinding flash. Nehaal didn't want to move a limb - or even a muscle. Under his closed eyes, he could vividly see the apples hanging in bunches over them. But he could also hear a cricket chirp somewhere far away in the night. The heavy breaths he heard were his own and nobody else's. He had a mattress underneath, and no grass. He reluctantly opened his eyes into the darkness of his room and wiped his sweat on his sleeve.
Slowly his lips curled into a smile: he had finally found Idaisle where he was Nehaal, a firm man , the way he was born. He could defy human differences and confrontations but he was not supposed to forget that he was created to maintain equilibrium between his masculine brain and a feminine heart and dominance of either could end up into chaos

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali and Maaiydah Aslam /2016 (The story is a work of collaboration by the two writers mentioned above)

Poesy under the thunder of Sanity

That night I the Hermit decided to visit your abode
Mustering up my words I rushed towards your roads
But you a saint, thought I was a mere miscreant
And he supposed
I am a sinner holding a chalice of forbidden fruit
No sooner his lips spelled mantra
Than dashed open sky's vexed beads
Salt hung open over the pale blizzard
Tearing the dermis apart of the serpentine sea
The needles started to drizzle
Hearing the saint mourn, the droplets chased me
And smashed to smithereens my  tiny bits
My white-collared dreams mutedly crackled
Like Fall does with the dearest melodies of wet leaves
Scattering my notes inside the void
The saint called me a 'Punished Paranoid'
An Eden of hell descended upon his streets
Setting me topsy-turvy making my heart bleed.

I wish dear Saint you could never have judged me on the scale of sanity
I wish you could sense
I came to your town to write on you a piece of poesy

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2016

My Mother vs. Nature

(The poem is inspired from the writings of Khawaja Musadiq , the talented voice of Kashmir)

The Duchess moon stands speechless
Inclining it's mighty head over the rivulet of my tears
Beheading from my flesh the crown of memories
The stars I assume sing high
Mine and her devastated folklore
To the children of sky
And the comets like flying lanterns
Flutter its feathers ever so hard
Knowing even my forest of dreams has recently burnt
Why i can not see wrinkles on the cloud's face?
Why the hair of maiden night are still white?
Why no downpour could reshape the sequinned night's curves?
Is nature an inborn immortal princess?

There are two women in the world I have closely noticed
One turned old in her prime youth
Counting drop by drop my droopingly dying dreams
And the one is still young
After drinking from my veins the anguish of my wounds

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

I wish the Flower could Fly

No snow flakes had buried it's lustre
No dews had left it's vision blurred
No spring had compressed her into a nectar
No fall had imprisoned her in yellow fetters
If the fuchsia flower had Falcon like feathers

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2016

To the West

(It is sometimes the people we work with, change our perspective towards their entire nation and the momentary encounter with them makes us see the other side of the picture. I like to dedicate this stanza to the brave citizens of Afghanistan)

Thirst has left my throat dried to death
But you would find me distancing myself from your lake
Hunger has set on colander my starving flesh
But you would see me throwing back the crumbs of your tempting food
Birds are preening their wings while bathing in your pool of jewels
But you would see me holding my roughly trimmed feathers to myself
Do you know?,
what stops me move ahead?
That is indeed, as a bitter matter of a fact
Your avaricious eyes gazing towards my broken being with sympathy

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2016

Perplexing Notions of Self Image

What is life??

It is probably walking vehemently on the maze of bewildering questions with a soul of a drunkard who is too tipsy to comprehend how things happen? what they turn out to be? and when this drama oscillating between knowledge and ignorance would get fixed?

During this grand journey between bigotries and clashes few things weigh us down to its pinnacle that is the awareness of our own image. The image we built around us becomes so much a public property like our dreams. We can not escape the fact that the howling truth of sustaining this identity within us seeps deep in our skin and inwardly the anguish of lying to ourselves keeps us drained. We wear a closed jaw smile but does it escape the echo of of neither dying nor living ego?

I suppose never.

Beneath the veneer of steel teeth, guarded by the semblance of copper ribs and cloaked by the best façade of human history  the wounds of injured self image yowl like a trapped wolf bicker with its bars in the hours of solitude. The powerful claws of rumour, slander and verbose attack hang on our galaxies as if they are ominous  dark comets, magnetically pulled by Earth. We are forced to turn Earth, no matter how strongly we know the mirrors of our character run deep in our course and this is how the pointing fingers take hold of our scattered ego

When I was a child I thought answers followed me every where I travelled. I thought Dove out of acute helplessness asks the cat to stab on her neck. I had a firm belief that carriages on their grand migrations were robbed because they spilled open to the dark stars , their magical mysteries. I used to think a multicuturalist was on the verge to lose his idiosyncrasy because he himself opted to linger among unknown zones.

Then I grew up and the notions of  free will coining our fate changed. I saw two wars: one which I fought for my Image and other which I battled with "What People would Say?" . This battle was not confined to our faulty actions rather it was something else, something undiscovered.

Did I outwit or conquer the laws of conformity?
My answer is " I wish Life could answer the knotty Questions"

Copy rights Reserved to Paras Ali

I will return to you

I a forlorn wayfarer have gone far
High above the latitude of gravitational altitude
Of my ever changeable self
The ostentatious glimmer of desires have
Made me cross the bounds of my realm
Demons are on my right and Satan on my left
My east wears a mask while plastered stands my west
I know Beelzebub mutters mantra around my doors
With this saturation
With this evaporation
My body is still not a slave
My Love !! After winning all the wars of my soul
After conquering my desirous zones
Or even if I fail to hold my shards
Or if Ganga of this ephemeral love turned me impure
Or if I lost my identity In the transfixed moment of mortality
I am very much sure
With Blind eyes I will to your country come back

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2016

Take Me to  BAND-e-AMIR

Hold my hand
Take me to the roads which never end
Roiling in the river, I am but a splinter of wood
Or a clipped feather, wafting on the winds
The amber flecks in my grey eyes
A mirage it is, which merely beguiles
For Patience is nothing but a town set on illusions
A thorn is lodged in my nostrils
I suffocate inside the bait
Blow me a kiss of life
Teach me ways to breathe
The Thunderbolts are sickening
The thud of starts rip my balance apart
Help me catch the glare of Nowroze
My immortal colours are still inside the Aluminium urn
Take hold of me
Let me hear my bones crack
Let me feel the flesh of my own knuckles
Take me to the cherubic tides of Band-e-Amir
Baptise my mermaid self
Turn me nothing
 but a living Human

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

Do you Do the Same?

In my hours of idleness I often draw your sketch
I wonder ,Do you also do the way I do?
I imagine brown prancing heels of fairy-tale Lamas
Decoring sliver hues around your hair
I see you in the breath of sun
Snuffing out the dusk's tallow pots turn by turn
I stroke your silhouette with juicy dews of Peepul tree
I colour you with the saliva of waterfalls, picturing you asleep
From the fleecy bubbles of tangerine summer
From the pied toned flock of fluttering feathers
I try to gather , the ways you Lisp, the way the words you utter
I wish to see how with the ink of moonlight you scribble
Stars on the sea of your tears, devoid of slightest ripple
I draw you often from the brush dipped in those words 
Which you only wrote, to let you know I read each bit of yours
I like to keep you with in me imprisoned
As a slender necked crystal flask cages the last wine-drop in its imaginations
In my hours of idleness I often draw your sketch
I wonder Do you do the way I do?

Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali/2016

                  I swear by the book..!

( copyrights reserved  to very talented friend of mine +khadija Amjad and Paras Ali/2016)

I wriggled my finger-tips over its apparently hard forehead and mildly sniffed in its balmy fragrance to subdue each droplet of myself in its commandingly authoritative aura. It asked: “Would You Bear me like an uncut Kundun in your Soul? Would you mind deluge yourself in my reflection? Answering none of the questions I gave a leathery blow of my boggling lashes to its subtle cheeks and planted a quick kiss to brush away its anguish and turmoil. I switched off the hurricane lanterns and slammed shut all the torches of the candles to let it know how hardly I felt its displeasure. I was cocksure I have vowed without words and bricked its trust on me. Flooded with ethereal radiance and intoxicated in shimmering self-assurance, I mapped the euphoria of last night orgasm inside my Kohl. I walked an astute gait leaving behind prudent foot prints as I was carrying with in me a sturdy promise towards it; the promise of being different from rest of the world
Does life ever give you an opportunity to prove oneself? I assume yes....
I progressed down a lane behind the thickets of a bamboo tree and found the whiskers of the grass thatched with tinges of fresh human blood and the pages of the area fully stencilled with acidic scent of screeching tears of some bleating human. I rushed towards the tree and saw he has been hanged topsy-turvy like a clipped owl over the trunk. His wounds split tsunami of blood and his eyes narrated the story of butchery, inviting clan of mosquitoes, centipedes, beetles, fireflies, spiders and ants. Like a gutless fraidy-cat having a weak chicken's heart, I escaped. I could sense he was still alive even then I disappeared.
I a commoner cannot deny that during uncountable foray into hallucinating visions created by amalgamation of words, ideas, notions into a heady mix, one just cannot come to deny that for a moment howsoever fleeting, one in completely consumed by an insatiable urge to step into the shoes of the character we associate ourselves with, which surreptitiously hold us captive. In our solitary moments of unceasing contemplations, we swear to stand out and be different. But hardened is the incorrigible soul, and our resolve has feet of clay, crumbling and perishable! Ideas germinating in the crucible of mind, stirred into activity, die a sudden abominable death, when faced with situation. Our innards bustling with a crescending clamour for self-change bites dust and the fortress of changelessness is never breached, quelling the Resurrection

I do not live on Approvals 

Time changed the relations I met in my life. When the steep mountains were throwing me down, I looked for your hand but you were no where. I dived deep to the sea of the world while going against the flow to let you know , I got the guts but you never put your trust on me. The southern sun's heat dried all the vapours with in me , even then you passed like you never knew me. I thrived in front of you like a toddler does to gain momentum in his steps, but each time We crossed roads, you averted your gaze. When acute rejection, pain and trauma was weighing me down, you put more load on my back.
Today, seeing me shining like a diamond, I can measure a thousand hands patting on my back.  My fellow humans , love to change with the intensity of my gravity but my objective is still solid hard: 'What I have become, What I intend to achieve, Its my own Journey . Nor I feed on Approvals neither on Sympathy.'

copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2016

The Adversity of being grown up

My own Voice echoed back inside the empty rooms
Of my Ostentatious castle of wealthy dreams
Assuring my Soul;
Those crimson wounds who used to weigh me down
Are now unchained and Unbound
Their ghost have flew way from my case
I am now a living  vacuum
The stillness inside me has grown so giant
That a trillion miles meter long Earth
Excuses to accommodate my inches small demeanour

Copyrights are reserved to Paras Ali/2016

A Question Mark

Should I incise my granite lips?
Or stab at the clattering diamond teeth
Or should I throw vipers of human disgust over me?
Or you want me to gulp down the hemlock of poison?
Or to weave a pendant of my waiting eyes
Around the jasper ringlet of your neck
Or to chop down each vein of my nerves
Or to cut open the flood gates of my heart
Would you then respond to my Plea?

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2016

I am indeed Born Special

And you ask me what makes me self-assured?
It is indeed the soldier spirit shielding the corners of my brilliant soul. An apparent statue of clay, I was moulded in such unique texture that I survived the blood isle of my mothers womb for nine months. Did not I sparkle all the reasons of hope in my parents eyes? Yes I did ever since I was just a mere clot of blood. The time when a million babies could not make their way to the world, I was asked to do it in a perfect manner. In short I was born, not only born alive, but born with a million best neurons, a pumping heart, erect vertebral column , fine set of eyes and an inspiring pair of ears.
Some higher authority helped me complete my journey of being a crown of creation.
I am Chosen to live beyond imperfections, I have been opted to breathe the carbon rich oxygen. Trials are for me few small scars beaten each night by the full silver Moon of my hopes.

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

A Tribute to my father

( During the grand race towards our wishes, we forget some one silently sells his All self to buy our dreams. With the birth of a child, starts the story of an ultimate sacrifice)

My dear prayer!!!
Borrow few feathers from the hawk
Sue my breath.
Ask on loan the wings unknown
Trade my writings , all I have
Get some lightly laced birdie's body
Make rush, run fast
Request the sun to elongate its hours
Seek for the key
From the treasures of Valkyries
Unlock the scriptures which Prophet Suleman wrote
About the art of flight
About the techniques of reaching heights
My dear prayer make a little haste
Fly to the sky
Above the mansion of clouds
Before the snow flakes turn to Zarkol
And Autumn drills holes inside the mountains
Before the cold zephyr tears apart the leather pockets
Of a zipless hood
Faded from the right
Burnt from the centre
Half bald from the left.
Bow to prostrate
Tell My Allah, reveal this secret
My Father's only  Jacket is elder than his daughter
It can no more protect him from cold


Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

A Heavenly Romance

And then it drizzled, the cloudy dews drenched my whole being in the colour of the violet sky. After being left drowned in the scent of rainbow, I learnt it just loves the way I look at it. The subtle vibrations of heavenly wind jolted my frozen senses and then i learnt Nature wants me to feel the rhythm of Living. Dip drop, dropping the drops commingled with the rustling of yellow leaves, leaving the message behind I can still hear and I am not yet Blind. Then approached the dusk, my dreams muttered a sigh but suddenly a silver lustre of moonlight made me see the Sky again. After this heavenly romance, coiling over my book I asked my pen who am I?
It replied :
'No one but a Heroine of your own story '

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

To the World

I wish to write numberless words
From the ink of Mist
On the curls of Smog
I whim to envelope the strings of poesy
In the musical notebook of ash-laden smoke
Then I yearn to see you fall
To see you Insane
To let you drown in the gravity
Of mine verbose electricity
And then I love to get you entangled
In the watery web of my watery words
I like to hear you
Yelling, Screaming
To escape
And then giving up to the pinnacle of helplessness
Tired , panged and punctured
In the satin womb
of my silky hub
Just like a frosty
Window-pane
Magnetically pulls
The apparently numb
Frozen fist of fingers.

Copyrights reserved to Paras ALI

To My Grand Lord

Sailing towards the path of primroses
My unrighteous soul is on pins and needles
Red testy tempered and forbearing heart
Has fallen for the silver river of galaxies
Where Roman silver is the milky way,
Silver-tongued are the beads of demon's wit
And chalice Silver are the footprints of lacy leaves ,
Lying on the colourless thrones of sky's waves

Oh my Lord!! That Satan silvery landscape has tempted me
Enticed an angel inside me
Sextons are on their way to bury me once and forever
For the sin cloaked Sky my heart rushed for
I know my Lord With yellow dwarfs
This silver trance of a mirage would disappear far

But still if My Master You ask from me my last Wish?
I like to extinguish colourless in your microcosmic mega-cosmos
The pious people of earth no more belong to me

Paras Ali / 2016

Let me Sleep to Let you Free

I am inside the arms
Of the quietening soporific balms
Analgesic drugs
Deadening pills
Of somniferous Codeine
And snoozy morphine
Trust my love
It hurts no more
To see myself fade away
Lost and strayed
Numb turns my muscles
Tongueless is now the pain's rustle
I am on the verge to sleep
I breathe but i can not see
The despondent being with in me
All I remember
Beloved Thoughts you once wished for freedom
Once you encounter my duped senses
Fly to the Paradise of clouds
Flutter against the blue sky
Like a winged bird does
Till Dawn to Dusk
Do not look back
Or turn for me
Fly above the words
Fly above the rhythm
Keep me in deep slumber my dear thoughts !!
My flesh and your freedom are of same substance
One has to die, to keep other alive
It Hurts no more
Flap your wings fly high in the sky

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

Ask me Not

The climate of your town is not salubrious
The paleness of the wind gathers me
The lassitude of the sun-shower cuddles me
With what account?
On which note of relation?
My Dear friend Ask me not
Please Ask me not
All I know, I have to go

Falcon eats not the left over morsels of vultures
A sky lark's breeze rents never the notes of nightingales
A dove doodles dreams in the depths of dust
It's muse would starve if you force her to write on rust
Why a featherless bird darts from tree to tree making no nest?
My dear friend, Ask me not
Please, Ask me not
For All I know I have to go

Cartographer scribble no map for me
I am a damsel of flaunting  mystery
Averred and approved by the law of mirage
Why my spirit mourns wearing the guise of humans or Draculas?
My dear friend Ask me not
Please Ask me not
For All I know , I have to go

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

Universe will bring her back

I know narcissist moon mirrors in her eyes
She reflects the dreams of electric violet skies
Black pearls lying on her braid bask in shaded noons
At her bosom collapse and melts the iron edged wombs
The willow of the southern sea cuddles her tight to openly mourn
During Autumn, In her arms a horde of orange petals are born
Spring constructs its castle with the bricks of her prism
Deserts smile with her as she is for them a hailing drizzle
Still I have let her go
For all I know
From the single toned nature
She can not escape
She can not hide
The downpour of the universe will someday bring her back

 Copy rights reserved to Paras Ali /2016

Sold

The diamond-dazzled
Alphabets of yellow streets
Caress too often--gently
The lisping and floating punctuations
Of molten phrases
Meanwhile Velvety-gowned clauses play violin
In the silky nocturnal midnight
To Keep awake the leather-heeled
Red-lipped,
and
Lavender-scented
Books of few hundred pages

When the books have well amused
The bronzite bodied libraries
Then tread upon them
Dead roses,
Cigarette ash
Faded photographs
Ink less pens
and a storm of frozen tears

For the book was  written to be sold...

Paras Ali /2016

The Golden Casket of Memories

Who says the bygone moments fade?
He opened his bronze casket
Lingered his fingers across the crystal Jar
Removed  it's tightened lid
And here she was
Least Smothered
Least Exhausted
But still an untamed beauty
Parallel to the one
When the first time they had crossed their roads
She was still wearing the pendant of wet green leaves
An anklet having bells of clouds
A musk of rain- soaked- droughted- earth
And a Kohl of frosty smoke

How could he let her go?
When he has promised her timeless immortality
He made her abode in the temple of his verse
Where merely the statue was of  his words
But beneath those poetic marbles
Her soul dictatored alone...

Paras Ali 2016

Sinned Against Sinning

Inspired from King Lear by Shakespeare

Write on my soul
With razor-edged syllables
Pick alphabets and plaster them with viperous fangs
Buy the needled morphemes from the vendor of Butchers
Sale my bones but get me charcoal stones
Of immutably wounded Hillocks of Blasphemy
And stab me hard with bee-infected verse of yours
As the Saint says
No Furnace of fire
Can wipe my metallic tears
No Erudite scriptures can kiss away
My Chapters of disobedience
For I am a creature 'more sinned against Sinning'

Copyrights reserved to Paras Ali/2016

A Hypothetical Observation

The Demon Regretted
He rushed back
To the Country of Water, Air , fire and Earth
White banks of sand,
Flickered his shadow  over the several-lipped river bank
The lizard like wolf met on his way of purgation
Spidery sword of stars
Wish-washy voltaged Moon bulbs
Fire flies folding lanterns,
Ice-blue neon flames of Jaguars
and Violet Orchirds Echoeing abundant Light
Still death leapt in his pulse
For the world
For you even
The Demon died out of repentance
But I say with faith
He died out of the Fear of being Exposed

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

Ode on Sky

The sky in seconds adorns itself with hue
Some pint of golden and pastel colours few
A glimpse of scarlet and crimson chunks around barren waters
Sun departs while weaving threads of amber in cloudy cue
The abstract designs conceals Creator’s image
But what exists behind such damson view?
If beams are reflected by palette spectrum
Then how sad songs are kept in tiny dew?

Many galaxies are born under your lap so warm
Sky preens the free wheeling bird with air so calm
Cherub gaze the bowing angles with wide eye
But fail to measure the echoing damsels psalm
The azure Aerial prophesy the treacherous wounds
Crave the name of aniseed and saffronic balm
Yet some mote in the dusky gossamer is undefined
Where the speck sinks why it gives you no harm?


The Chromatic patterns dethrone the majesty of volatile time
A canopy that encloses the mythical godly shrine
Whittle the smudge of inherited bloodshed
Its symmetric horizon is a tacit elegy’s watershed
Not superfluous neither limited is its area
Robust philosophies codify its ethereal substance
Exemplify an eternity of gross mystic Romance
Sky thy profuse aura is esoteric like deep eye
Whose translucent sheet alloweth no pry


Parallel to the sea, boundless and sullen fellow
Sky, all commotion engrosses and swallows
Prolific centre of dreams, lord of utopian society
Its seven layers teach the thinkers piety
The same is its aura and archetype is its colour
Its purity is untouched by the ardent earthly lover
Simplicity wins the war with glamour that pretends
The owner of new Era, yet from transience it can’t defend

Copy rights Reserved to Paras ALI/2016

Until and Unless

Unless and until enrapture the discourse
Emollient balm to the inflamed wounds
Beholding a titanic journey, long and hoarse
Pope’s satire to check mundane faith
A toothless tiger in the imbecile forest
For the surge unless and until wait

Unless and until are mute like willow tears
Distant as galaxy cluster around heaven
Mutter and chirp when wind blows yellow grass
Nip the sullen violent waves in a drop
Ominous like a thorn in the garland of jasmine

Of paramount importance for love
The plaintive call of baptised dove
Sham rustling of zephyr around scholar’s files

Unless makes the until and until the unless
To plunder the bee around cobweb’s furnace
God resides in the jugular vein
While unless and the until is the theory of sane

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali

My Words He Never Read

He was looking for the keys
In his knotty imaginations
To earn me freedom
To emancipate me from the iron barricade
As i was encumbered,
As i was trammelled
Behind the bars of my never written story
He wanted to turn my eyes kaleidoscopes
By wiping the sweaty despair
Slipping past my thoughts;
Forming a pool against my unsettled paddling heart
He collected Falcon's feathers
To help me dart from branch to branch
He begged to the Spring
To hue again my depleted plummet
But Fall turned to his wishes
His desires to see me flying ruined
As he never knew
All the keys of my rusted lock
Were in his Eyes
For i was caged in the words
Which he never read

Paras Ali/2016

An Unlettered Soul
Muffled Alphabets muttering from beneath
The heavily layered cacophony
Of animals, insects and birds sounds
Sneakily and Silently,
Vibrating in my solitude
To be a poesy
Or a tune of a mesmerizing flute
Thriving impatiently to write a song of their own
On the unlettered soul of mine
Which was born deaf and blind

Paras Ali/2016

Aren't I and thee both Alike?

I thought I had lost your image
While residing in the grey thickets
Of eclipsed snow-bitten numb orchards

I thought I had lost  you
Among those dried woodlands of my misty self
Whose ghosts guise in the shadow of copper elves

I thought I had left you behind far away
When I was attempting to untie the knoose of falsehood and reality around my eyes
But I was much wrong

As I sat to gaze upon you
After a journey of a million miles
Like skinless fingers feel the touch of dew-drops
Like a wingless-bird smells the scent of a drowsy dawn
Like a thorn flushes while accompanying a crocus
Like a worm inhales the first droplet of clouds
And like a sunflower's bride bares it's bosom to the sun

I found you
I recognized you...

After years of segregation aren't I and thee both alike?
As you are still a wandering wave exasperatedly waiting to touch the soil
And I the drenched paper boat
On the fathomless stormy sea learning to float

Paras Ali/ 2016
Photography by Joana Kruze.

You are safe in my blood

I am exiled from the Earth
I am banished from the seven skies
Laid dejected....
By the sputtering , coughing wind.
Grumbled by the thunder,
I am split asunder.
My wet words have leapt off
Of my rain soaked pages...
No landholder i am...
Accused ,
Punished,
Fallen I am from my mild meadow.
The butterfly sun has teared my shadow
The pangs churn my wings
No nightingale inside me sings...

My Love.....
Take my Word...
I won't scream
Reds are swallowing my greens
Pangs and cramps
Mowing me down
Disfigured and disrobed
I am ostracised in my own town
Still I won't scream
Still I won't squeal

I am afraid the echo of yours
Would come out of my whispers
You are safe in my blood
Swaddled and encased by my veins in blue
Each day my thousand dreams worship you...

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

 

Painting Credits : Dilawer Omar

A Muse Murderer

My incertitude insecurities and precarious fears
Of an unfixed feminine soul
got alarmed when a spine-chilling  shadow slithered across my forehead
I felt pomegranate seeds were curling around me opuline beads
Before i could name it Elathan, Apophis or any other demon
Dressed in the demonour of a hellish duke
I guillotined it's head, hackened it's breath from my battle-axe
I slaughtered the shadow's eyes from the worst tear gas
of my scared being I had kept dormant for years
The blood shower of this unknown existence
Reached atop a silver howling moon
The universe all together mourned and thundered
The silver streaks set the reality unleashed
It was no man, no beast, no demon
I was mislead by my own faulty illusions
Alas Alas Alas another Catastrophe another Murder
I killed The Muse , I slaughtered the daughter of Zues
I martyred some one of my own Kind

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016

The World as a Void of Nothingness

Sanity is on the fag end
Logic is on the posterior hindmost shaft
Of the mountain where the victorious hero stands.
A black nimbus forms an aureole
O'er the coronet of this Sphinx
What he is writing?
Frozen patterns other than vowels and consonants
His Digits between zerO and One
Layers and layers of Invisible blacks and whites
His ink floats in equilibrated stillness
Of Vaccum at it's apex
No imbroglio, No catastrophe , no Armageddon
If not hell then it could be a heaven?
Or is it equator of elliptical crust where snow sprouts fire?
This is the pinnacle of human understanding
Godlike maturity,
Not lunacy, not ecstasy
But a silent Silence of topmost growth
Has begun.
Do not beckon to him
As he can not turn back
He can not move forward either
The Hero has now stepped
To the world as a void of Nothingness

Copyrights Reserved to Paras Ali/2016