A humming word

  Sip a Pinkie in the corner of a bakery When an old friend misses returning your call  And when life throws a curve ball  Sip a pinkie in the corner of a bakery  When someone you once loved returns to hurt you  Or when an old bruise returns as a ache, new  Sip a pinkie in the corner of a bakery  The pinkie doesn’t blow away your grief But the bubbles let you breathe with relief  & some space to think  For things happen in a blink  But there’s always room for: A pinkie in the corner of a bakery PC: Edward Hopper FB Page

B e Strong.  F ight back. If you disagree with the above two ways of living then say Hello to Sensitivity and Vulnerability! Whoever said vulnerability isn't good, must never have met a poet or an artist. For a long while, the definitions of Strength and Fight gave me pictures of Combat but only when I began reading poetry, I realised strength is holding each other gently - being there for one other, no matter what (my grandfather endorsed the same) and giving each other space no matter how urgent it is for you to barge in to the corridors of their space. And understanding a poem with a sensitivity makes your understanding deeper.  Padraig O Tuama, from Ireland, is a shelter for sensitivity. A theologian, a poet and the host of the podcast  Poetry Unbound,  he unpacks poems -- rather, he takes us with him through a poem, understanding its essence, its scent, its meaning, its rhythm, the thought behind it. His process is not perfunctory but like a poem in itself....

She was rain: the silvery shimmery drops that trickle into crevices. She was rain:  Soft and gentle,  drizzling progressive thoughts that would alter our being, wet our hearts. She was rain: drops that touch your face; wrap your being with grace     

  We are each other’s business – Gwendolyn Brooks   Title: My own   Growing up, I found my tribe among the blind They never laughed at my flab or my bob cut hair They couldn’t see it and were busy being kind   They needed a friend who never showed pity And I needed companions who wouldn’t pick on me   I recorded lessons and noted their needs in my book And they taught me lessons -- my whole being shook   Several disabilities do not meet the eye The blind have only lost sight but have a vision for their life   Many who suffer from other disabilities that provoke one another to hurt each other But the blind are abled; they taught me: Your thought is everything. Close your eyes! Nothing else, matters.        

No, I am not a native. And no, I do not belong here. But I am overwhelmed by the city’s wind that blows pallus and duppattas , skirts and stoles. And skinny women and men.  When the wind blows the city laughs a nd then smiles with boats that row among towers, on architectural tour. The guide, a medium built Caucasian who rolls her silky hair in a ponytail speaks aloud to 50 curious strangers, busy covering their chest with winter coats and shawls. She asks tourists to be seated when they insist on standing with her. She has to focus on the Fire Accident and the city’s famous Pizza in the same breath. The stories she shares fade out  when my aunt begins to whisper. She chooses this time to tell me about a distant cousin who lives across the lake. But I excuse myself to stand at the edge of the boat, where she is afraid to stand. The majesty of the city sparkles in the night when the lights reflect in the lake and the tour guide’s voice becomes clearer and  I learn that ...

The hustle-bustle and hush-rush; traffic lights blinking and city lights, blinding but... shhhh... close your eyes  listen to the dong at the Mozamjahi clock tower --  any hour, short or long at the Salarjung museum, you'd be decked in your best here, wander at the Karachi bakery, jostle with the traffic;  at the Mozamjahi bazaar, you rest the bazaar that once sold attar, pans, groceries, hookahs and fruit Is now a nest of ice cream made of dry fruits close your eyes and be swooned once at one o clock twice at two o clock and 12 times at twelve o' am or noon PC: Live iconic

Fear is an uninvited friend who visits me, occasionally by the dining table he narrates tales of caution – some true, some fiction but we recount together things that once caused bother and we weigh it against reason fear raises its hand, guilty of treason Since he is seated in my home - i smile he hugs me till we forget everything for a while