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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
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
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
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
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. |
