So...

I have just submitted the below three poems (Delirium's second draft, Interim and Renewal) for the Muslim Writers Award's Unpublished Poetry section.

If you're reading this, do make du'a that I attain success for it.
And what have I been up to?

Summer holidays. Searching for a place for next year in uni. Gearing up for a JFAC event for Ramadhan in the home town. Trying and failing to get a job here - been pretty difficult for a lot of us.

And I still have to start my preliminary reading for my dissertation... I'm sure a bare bones methodology and research aims/questions/etc shouldn't take that long to do. The reading is the main issue.

That's what's been going on.

Renewal

It begins faintly.
Almost touches reality,
as insecure and uncertain as
tomorrow’s emergence.
None can measure its dormancy.
It just... comes to pass,
intent suspended in greater hierarchy.

Breathing. It struggles alone
so it asserts existence by clinging onto existence,
an entity of crude function
going beyond the bounds.

It’s the genesis for everything to come – fuses.
Locked, and engaged.
Sleep. It lies in wait till subsequence calls.

And then an awakening.
A terrible
unplanned skirmish so hollow
that drones in waves,
hatred its most valuable blindfold.

Back and forth, back and forth it strafes
Thriving on conflict without a speck of
mediation. Is it an investment of emotion?
No, all else = mere collateral damage.

Continuation, it drags on until definition in itself is erased
 with ultraviolet scorch marks, lashed, hypothermic.
They burn into the surface.
And this dizzying warfare that screeches until one fades out -
- before everything, EVERYTHING is submerged in anonymity.

With logic deported, it is fluid in execution,
execution, oh the excruciation of deciphering a formless vessel
until atom by atom it all solidifies and becomes a
concrete image of despair,
crystallising
into
a sphere of glass that shatters; tearing into the
atmosphere’s flesh.

All this
before it
too
is lost in the darkness.
A return to nothingness.
The cycle revolves.

Interim

Winter
brings a fleeting cold that bites
and makes eyes weep tears.
A trail of salty, warm rivers brings
a subterranean freeze down
sullen, lifeless cheeks.

The dark commands a scope,
a retained permanence.

Architecture and engines
of no fixed abode rest, scattered, shielded under frost.
Streets lie flat, as if they await liberty from intermission.
They wait. Even the silence waits.

Sleeping, sleeping...

This town is in hiatus,
its inhabitants in espousal of darkness,
letting it flood through
their bloodstreams before
the submersion – cocoons them into slumber.

Elsewhere, I oversee amongst the horizon

dominions that have taken refuge from the rest.
Like an envoy of lanterns they illuminate

the strongest of light, contained in their fortresses.

Light, so bright!

Swathes of it flush; radiates desolate neighbours.

But those who consume it

know little the greatness of what they possess.

They too are asleep,

satisfied in their lofty sanctuaries within,

that the light is only spent on themselves.
 

Fearful of becoming their intimate other, it is locked,

and wasted on the evasive.
Come! Force the repercussions of
opposites

embracing
that they compel a defiant balance.
Until then, both worlds stay separated.

All is separated, united

by the universe
that holds its design together.
The design that hosts this paused surface,
a shell of recognition laced with neglect.

Afraid of becoming alternate,
keep assumptions of blinding

and exhortation when
all it desires
is a light’s delicate glow,
or darkness’ cooling shade.

Delirium (second draft, your thoughts?)

These four walls.
They are still - dormant; no exit.
Tranquillity smothers and traps me,
confining home truths unravelling.

The living room, now outlived.
They’re remnants of before.
Generations we’d rather forget,

short out that connection; discarded baggage.

Stench disperses
into a faint cloud.
It burns my vision.
Salty tears aren’t mine.

...Transcendence.

When I came to, it was now a matured home.

These walls again.
Stained with the
era of tribes before us.

Moss-camouflaged furniture is untouched, host to
a congregation of pans, pots, spoons...
all cutleries chipped and rusted.
Tools, all to keep a sinking ship afloat.

How long have I been here?

So much dirt. This used to be life.

Glass strewn across the table,
midair fragments motionless.
Like diamonds at the touch
or that’s what my fingers tell me.

Amidst the grime,
a hilt in the corner.
Its shine mumbles about change.

Relic of hidden sagas, when the past tense waged war
with the future, a conflict pumping ammunition with metaphors
and proverbs not quite palatable to these tongues just yet.

We were still ripening.

When I draw the sword,
heightened voices enclose me.
Their mourning descending into screams.

The dull blade in my hand ripens; wilts
as the wound in the wall ceases to wail.

Everything is a marred synthesis.
The house veers into a cardiac arrest,
crumbling, returning to adulteration.
Whence they came, these four walls... 

This used to be sanctuary.
Now it’s my scented grave.

Delirium

I’m in a house.
It is still - sleeping; no exit.
Tranquillity’s bosom
has trapped me.

The living room, now outlived.
They’re remnants of the past.
It’s empty, now devoid of verve.
Relics now manifest.

Stench disperses
into a faint cloud.
It burns my vision.

...Transcendence.

When I came to, it was now a matured home.

The walls, stained with the
time of tribes before us.

There’s furniture untouched, camouflaged with moss,
a congregation of various cutleries, chipped, rusted.

How long have I been here?
So much dirt. This used to be life.

Glass is strewn across the table,
midair fragments motionless.

Amidst the grime,
I see a hilt in the corner.
Its shine mumbles about change.
Hidden sagas.

When I pull it out,
heightened voices
enclose me. They
descend into screams, crying.

The dull blade in my hand ripens; wilts
as the hole in the wall ceases to wail.

Everything is a marred synthesis.

The house crumbles, reverts to adulteration.
Whence it came, whence it came...

This used to be sanctuary.
Now it’s my scented grave.

Defect

A portfolio piece for university in a module entitled 'Narrative, Character and Voice in Prose Writing.'

8^th February 2011, Cairo

At almost midnight, I stand in the temporary Masri Law Enforcement headquarters in the Mugamma. Plain-clothes officers buzz about, hovering in and out of the building. We leave from the back exits, a conspicuous detour that will take us into the streets. I look out at the window and survey the foreground. You can smell plumes of smoke floating into the oddly brightened sky. Fire flickering into buildings, poised to quiver and crumble.

A mass of people gather outside the once-glorious Tahrir Square. They are faceless, an obstacle in the path of survival. And I survive alone. My colleagues ask about my wife and child, who have joined the congregation of the enemy. What of it? I survive alone, and we do not act like this by choice. I wish to survive, by any means necessary. If those people who opposed us understood our civil plight, the sharpness that cuts our flesh and souls foregoing our conviction, then they would do the same as us. Throw them into the throngs of our lives, and they will do the same.

Still they persist outside. From my view, the collective mass of people pulsates and fluctuates. The ground is a bubbling canvas of people clad in different shades of clothing. At the epicentre of the assembly, tents and slogans are prevalent. An ambience fit for ‘revolution’. Revolution indeed. The words of a certain philosopher ring true. The natural state of man is that of war.

We receive the order to infiltrate. We begin to come out of the building one-by-one in casual clothing. Cloaked by the night sky, I see my colleagues join the crowd, nonchalant and camouflaged in the gathering. The enemy is far too immersed in talks of change to notice our presence from a few metres away. The press reports that about a million people have come to the Square. It could look like a football ground from here but the people are covering the roads, covering all corners of the area from the roundabout. We have all heard stories of older times when this Square was filled with uprising’s roar, but never in my time did I believe it would happen again.

Our operation begins, as abrupt as it was delivered to us by our commanders and leaders. It is a simple assignment with no theatrics. All we need to do is disrupt the crowds anywhere and everywhere. The more we persist, the more likely we can deter the rest. A chaotic formula to a chaotic situation. And our efforts are realised early on, as I hear screaming and see the fluctuated crowd ripple like a wound-stricken deer, immobile and barely breathing. We are armed with small batons, ready to charge at the nearest dissident with stealth.

I sift through the crowd, grappling with people, shoving them out of the way. My colleagues are lost into the sea of people, so I focus on my own immediate territory and charge at the most rambunctious. A quick swipe downs a youth. As he falls, people scatter apart in horror. I have since pressed on a few metres to subdue the next person. The sounds around begin to intensify and adrenaline begins to take precedence; a whooshing sensation in my ears as I decimate and startle the dissidents with baton charges.

By now the protesters have realised our existence and are seeking us out. We stand at ease, scattered but blending in like chameleons. Besides, their attention soon drifts from us as I see horses galloping. I am not sure who the riders are. Plain-clothes, or perhaps genuine right-hand men of this soon-to-crumble kingdom. The crowd gets the message too, as the shrieking mass open up various paths to avoid getting trampled. I march onwards, insistent on finishing the mission.

This whole spectacle leaves me unguarded for a moment when I am knocked back by a force that sends me flying to the ground. I cough into sand, my breath soaking the ground with a ruby patch. It glimmers in the dark. I land with my palms kneaded on the ground, and I drag them up to face a startled youth with his fists raised. His knuckles are glazed with blood. My blood. My face begins to ache and I advance towards him, baton unsheathed. But my cover has been blown and I am circled by more angry men. One of them snatches the baton from me and sends a kick my way. I arc back and crumple towards the ground, the rusty taste of blood fresh in my mouth. A few from behind restrain me and produce my ID card, throwing it into a pile of other ID cards. A dog tag collection.

I am hauled up to my feet by two of them and slammed towards the nearest wall. One of them approaches, our eyes delving and inquiring into each other – mine the lifeless pair, his, exhumed with fury. The adrenaline within me dies down, the weight of pain now unadulterated. And by Allah, that is the moment I begin to truly hear everything around me. The sounds of screaming and chants of revolution, topped off with the light beating of the daff.

I am not listening to the roars of the man in front of me, but I push away from him, light enough to indicate my forfeit. I stand back from the small crowd amongst the whirlpool of people tonight and uncover a glint of steel from my pocket. A 9mm Beretta M1951. They bristle and jitter like rabbits knowing their predator and I pull the trigger towards the ground. With a click, I discard the magazine and throw the handgun to the side and ask for my wife and child.

Tonight, we make history. I want no part of being the unfavoured. 

Trains

Snowflakes twirl downwards, blind.
I draw butterflies on the carriage’s window,
leaving a temporary mark on glass. An engraving,
made of my cold fingerprints.

They’re my vantage points
as the other windows obscure the outside.
Sunset peeks in, the horizon undeterred
by the snow that has bedridden Britain.

Another train floats past. I hear
its drone, the locomotive just visible
with lights. Commuters huddle inside;
they look like an oil painting.

I hiss hot mist on my window.
Winter lives on as my breath melts;
undoes the wings
of a butterfly
that fingers once drew.

Most of the time, it's really difficult to avoid being wordy in my work, so this was a test in simple language, borne out of one of my regular journeys towards Waterloo on the South West Trains carriage...

Lunchtime

A scorching village in the desert
wishes for a cloud in the sky.
Sunrays shine on dry land
and hammer its inhabitants into submission.

Travellers come from afar,
fatigued, painted with
a matte glossing
of sun-beaten sweat.

They draw closer to
their shack of relief,
here to quench their
thirst slash hunger.

It’s opening time.
We’re expecting droves
of hungry pilgrims.
It’s a greasy blur.

When their voices bray out orders,
we retreat to the backroom to
work our magic. Chopping, marinating; mixing.
Cooking! The AC whirs as
we lick melting kulfis.

This is food even
momma would be proud of.
Served are the steaks and pies
and the last single cranberry in stock.

Families struggle to control their flock
and oily platters crash. The mother
must cry over spilt milk.

Work’s never unusual.

Some of my random haikus

Haikus are so cool.
I like that they make no sense.
Refrigerator.

Must bump this thread.
Brothers need to haiku more.
Yes, we do. Pen; paper.

Praying Sunnah once.
5p on neighbour's mat
He worships Queen?

Birdie on window
Sing my song to wake me up
Time for Fajr.

What the heck was I ingesting?