Diary Of A Dervish

[email protected] (Arun M Sivakrishna)
December 18,2014

victimpeshawar

15-12-2014
Dear Diary,
It was fun the whole evening
Though towards the end, I puked
As my head was reeling bad.
So much I swirled to get that twirl right
The way it was shown at school today.
Nana said, I look funny in Tennure,*
Ammi cut and sewn out of Abba's white tunic.
But Abba told, I look fine when he
Made his cap, to a Sikke** and gave.

16-12-2014
Dear Diary,
Aman was giggling when he saw my sikke, for
His uncle had given him one in Camel's hair
He brought from Lebanon.
Shaheedji, our master told us of
Darwish Mahmoud*** and it was one of his best
That master had picked to set it to a chant
It was pristine and made us a bit sad too
But once we started, we were lost in it.
Remember seeing Shaheedji smiling and
Aman's face had an ethereal glow.
Guess, he had tears in his eyes.
"Oh Father, my brother neither love nor
Want me in their midst" and I saw
Aman falling, swirling round and
Round and round, squirting
Bobs of reds all across.
Others too, Sama, Khalid, Masterji, Ruhan, Ishmeil.
My knees, suddenly gave away and
I too fell, like a Tennure falling in heaps.
I couldnt feel anything anymore,
But I know I can dance no more.

17-12-2014
132 and still to go
" Oh Father, my brother neither love nor
Want me in their midst"****

*Tennure: The wide white skirt, a Dervish wear, a symbol of Ego's shroud
** Sikke: A Camel's hair hat, represents tombstone of the ego.
***Darwish Mahmoud, a Palestinian poet, ( 13 March 1941- 9 Aug 2008) was regarded as the National Poet of Palestine.

arun

Arun M Sivakrishna is a Mangaluru-based management professional, and when he is not selling trucks, is a poet and travel photographer. A compilation of his poems "Songs of a Solitary Tree" has been published by Partridge India. With 'Diary of A Dervish, he wishes to pay his homage to the children killed by militants in the recent Peshawar attack.

Comments

Aaditya
 - 
Wednesday, 12 Dec 2018

Love the way it has been written. would like to read more such poems!

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TO THE EMOJI FAIR

author
Muhammad Ayaan Yusuf Kolnad
July 23,2020

It’s day to the emoji fair

Where the fun begins with happiness

It’s day to the emoji fair

Where the fun ends with happiness

The water is waiting for you to come

To make you enjoy a lot,

The smooth – awesome slide is cool

That makes this park wonderful.

Be ready to laugh

Because the clown will

Tickle your funny – bone

Get ready to have fun

The funny coasters are here.

It’s a day to the emoji fair

It’s time to say goodbye

To the … emoji fair.

COME BACK AGAIN

Muhammad Ayaan Yusuf Kolnad is a Grade 7 student at Sudhana Residential School, Puttur

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HOMECOMING

Mafazah Sharafuddin
August 9,2020

My homeland does not exist
Except in my mind.

It sits among my childhood memories

Uses my ambitions as a toy
No matter what I do, it stands sentinel.

What is it, you may ask.
And I will answer. 

It is a long, long street.
I walk down it and I do not hear
The sounds of people crying in pain.

No fetus cut out of a swollen belly
No man with his hands pressed together 
Begging for his life.
There are no broken voices 
Singing national anthems in their dying breath.
No children crying for their dead grandfather.

No sounds of battering rams 
And falling debris 
And sacrilege.

I walk down the street and I do not see
The sight of ravaged souls tonight.

There are no children bloodied
In their once white clothes
No scarves being ripped from the bowed heads
Of hopeless women.
There is no little girl
In her burnt up frock 
Laying completely still on the sidewalk.

The taps run clear
And there is no blood
Not on this street.

I walk down the street and I do not taste
Ash and gunpowder
And the copper tang of blood.

No salt from tears and sweat from toil
No bitterness 
Matured over seventy years.

I walk down the street and I do not feel
The burning anger of the oppressed 
The hopelessness of the neglected.

There is no deep chasm of sorrow
When the sons of mothers once sat.
No rage where the daughters lay
With blood between their legs.

You ask me again,
What is it?
It is a place of peace, I say.

The window is open 
And we are sipping amber tea
Spiced with cardamom and rose water.
You look at me and I see it again.
You are yet another victim
And so am I.

The window is open 
And I can hear the chants from two streets away.
They scream for freedom
They scream liberty and revolution.

For a moment I am tempted to cry 
For lives lost,
For our lives 
That have turned black with the turn of the century
When our homeland turned against us.
No, not our homeland, our country.

My homeland does not exist,
Except in my mind.

But the voices are rising 
Like smoke from a forest fire
Burning up bigotry in its wake.

My homeland does not exist.
Not yet.

Mafazah Sharafuddin is a humanities student, studying BA Psychology, Journalism and English Literature

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