Querulous 

If you were to sit in front of me, and talk about the weather, it would take the turn of seasons for us to find and understanding. If you were to find me when looking for a canvas to display your musing on, then.. that’s what you’d see. All men are somewhere between white paper and mirrors, to those who know the right questions, we are but answers. So scratch the table with your fingernail, stand on edge of that cliff, and ask. We are two steps away at any moment from cabbages and kings, from ravens and nevermores, and irreparably broken wrists. Take the step and unsettle me, look for all the wrong words with the right intentions, stain your fingertips in my glass and for god’s sake, ask. I am an answer for those waiting to be rendered querulous. 

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(I blame my coffee entirely, for how full of myself I am today. 😄) 
Have a lovely day, my beauties. ❤️
-yusra 

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Rock and Sea

Rock, and stone, and hill. The first step I take, into the air- I know this air. The first step I take, onto the ground- and I know this ground. This salt, this earth, this dry, cracked dust, this is what I learnt to stand in. This parched sky is what i took my first breath to. This tract of land, shunned and forgotten, is what I walked out of, the last truly happy days my childlike mind would know. This is the ocean, that let me sail away. This is the shore, that brought me back. And every night, where I sailed the restless seas of the night in the ship my dreams builds, I’d come home to rest.

No, my country. I am coming back to you- but I was never away…

Electro-Cursive Therapy 





Electro-Cursive Therapy 

There used to be a beat, 

at the back of my head

A song that went somewhat awry 

And the words that used to dance 

At the whim of my demands 

Decided that they needed to fly 

So a-one a-vowel went up, 

A few inches ascent  

The other three slipped a verse or two 

And I told myself no, 

It’s internal, not infernal 

And well, poems don’t have to 

Always rhyme, you’re just learning

Your style’s still disconcerting

so what if the endings don’t match 

And fist meets pissed just fine 

No serious writer minds 

A sonnet that’s slipped off the tracks.

Well, now,

screw that. 

The problem with prose is 

It’s more ‘lose’ that rose, it’s 

Pretty, but just so wafer thin 

And I miss poetry 

The kind that sustained me 

Verses deep enough to drown in 

Of balls and ballads, I 

Cannot more defy, my

Visceral need to straighten, organize 

These six line limericks, these 

Odes epileptic 

Today, this rebellion dies! 

So please do forgive me 

if my renaissance is clumsy

My syllables are a little slow to revive 

 

But I’m treating this first 

This arrhythmia of my words 

Because- how else is a poet to stay alive? 

©yusra 

24.08.2017