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By Ahmed Latif
A ballerina in a music box spins herself into a frenzy, A pious, dervish-like frenzy. Drain the light so the children could play. By Ahmed Latif
If you, my dear, are to know anything then know the curvature of your ribs. I don’t know what I know. I am uncomfortably comfortable with this unknown, but not the other unknowns I do not know. By Ahmed Latif
Blue like the azure and profoundly deep seas of antiquity. Red like the vermilion and earthy caves where the walls are decorated with the myths of our mad forefathers and our disappointed foremothers. Such a beating it was, blue and red, not black and blue as you would normally bruise. There was a bleeding poeticism to this violence, it appalled me. But it appealed to my maniacal sense of rhythm. By Ahmed Latif
She is fluent in dialects of ugly written in beautiful ink. A touch of sand-kissed skin and greasy fried food lips. The spirit of timelessness washed up on this shore, but it didn’t have time to stay. We are robbed before the arrival of riches. Shipping not included. Neon bags of money in nooses hanging from plastic palm trees. All these shrill thrills but no escapades tonight. By Ahmed Latif
A pigeon perched on my concrete windowsill. It’s been there since the days of the Pharaohs, I think. Or more like two long Orwellian hours of a heavy late afternoon. In the dying summer of a city stuck on loop. Hours that coax us out of our skin and into something a little lighter. By Ahmed Latif
A fluttering smoke dances coquettishly. Motes, in absence of light, float foolishly. The smell of dawn thickens the darkness. Timorous thoughts tantalize the tigress. Epics and laments enliven the tale. By Ahmed Latif
From a circle to a sphere. From inadequate to incomplete. From freedom to fear. Now that my love is obsolete. By Ahmed Latif
This poem is dedicated to, and written with the help of, Rahman Ismail. The Ole Tavern lies lit beyond barren hills. Life doesn’t taste the same without as many ills. Weaving gold into language, the goldsmith led us astray. A trinket in an angel’s hand is still an object of clay. By Ahmed Latif
In the shadow of the Jerusalem Tulip, Every melody is broken and inadequate. Every scar is a triumph over a nightmare. And every dream is given a proper burial. We stumble into the library to die on the shelves. By Ahmed Latif
The people, condemned before the revolution commenced, Perched on their balconies watched the city burn all around them. Blood drips from the altar and floods the sinfully silent streets. By Ahmed Latif
A funeral attended by sculptors, composers, and the soulless. The choir have no notes and no hymns to read. The tenor grows meek when the aria begins to bleed. A sarcophagus etched into the contours of my face with tears. By Ahmed Latif
As playful as the morning, witty and wistful, I saw your ghost twirling in the day moon’s light. I lazily conjured a cozy little dream for us two. I plucked my harp to songs of Leningrad in the spring. Your ghost and my spirit danced on the terrace. We spiralled and spun Like concentric circles drunk on straight lines. There is nothing to regret, The pain will leave such beautiful scars. By Ahmed Latif
A lugubrious aria Held in glowing chains. Days drum like tachycardia, Imprisoned by growing pains. By Ahmed Latif
This is commissioned by and dedicated to Ibrahim & Aisha. It was read at their wedding ceremony. In 1797 Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote Kubla Khan, a poem he got in a dream. The dream was about a paradise, a heaven on earth called Xanadu. The poem was published in 1816. By Ahmed Latif
First read the books of Bushido in ascending order. Toques in the summer taunt the delirious weatherman. Lobster dinner and a novel, approach freedom at record speed. Sharks have an impeccable sense of self-loathing. Not a game, it’s the manifestation of practice. By Ahmed Latif
The Seven-Arm Octopus or Haliphron atlanticus is one of the world’s largest species of octopus. This mysterious giant of the deep possesses a hidden eighth arm. It only becomes visible when the octopus finds a suitable mate. The eighth arm uncoils from under the right eye and reaches out for the mate… By Ahmed Latif
A residual of a memory clings like sunrise on a dirty street. If you could hear the horns howl, you wouldn’t mind it. But it’s all too dangerous, colouring outside the lines we never drew. Clichés and inevitable turns of the screw mock everything haphazardly. I hate sprained ankles because of their lack of coherence. Trying to function as an urban soul is a challenge to linguistic metrics. By Ahmed Latif
Not a history lesson but a street corner rebellion. Alternate between the current and the untold. To be immersed in truth, first we mirror malice. Expose the underbelly of a thought to make it complete. Hunt for anarchy but dream of the Republic. By Ahmed Latif
A flannel shirt revolution politely asks the sun to shine. The moon drowns in the ocean of consensus, So this discord is a tsunami of independence. Directionless antagonism is still meaningful. |
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