ASIF SULTAN MATTA

Words and tears Asif Sultan Matta 01-01-2017. My pen, a sickle, that slits my veins Muck of despair it always drains Bled-muck dances and sings with me A song of delight and harmony They say, "the tears are heart's blood". Why then still aches when all been shed? The two wells dry and poetry cries Words do revive my heart, when dies. Verses and lines I adore to craft Lighten my onus, when none is left My pen does leak the obstruction And flows the pain of destruction Nàive am I in drafting the poems Do I learn from my own glooms.

Lost in a subtle metaphor Asif Sultan Matta 31st December 2016 Battling to compare my laden heart's weight with which that could show its state I fail to link it with that you're familiar, To reveal it's shrewd hiding traits How would I show a kid, how Noah's flood seemed, Rushing rivers and raging seas can't such intensity create; Should I compare it with tumbling trees in gale? Or shaken with wild deluge, a dashed flood-gate? Lost I am in subtle metaphors of life Too naive to portray my abject state...

Rhyme and harmony Asif Sultan Matta 30 December 2016 Oppresed heart, fatigued eyes and numbed soul: Regret on fury, or pain of betrayal; Struggle to win, always I fail Plenty love gestures play no role Days of blossoms fade very fast, Motifs in 'em seem no more bright, Sweet lurid day turn scary night, Guilt: desire, of now; or remark, of past Desire: should I be loved the way I love; Remark: love not the way she had been loved, They bring fury and turn him wild, Remorse and pain beneath him and above. May fire of my love burn her all remark And rhyme with my desire, harmony it embark.

Fateful Part... Friday, 28 October 2016 Asif Sultan Matta To part is their a loathsome fate, Their fond-regard, a hapless 'late', Lament on this or scoff at stars Or they'd die in unending wait? She visits past like sacred shrine, He, bevvied by her love's wine; Tussle of times rifts them away, His present warm, her past so great; Her deep remorse for then and now, Wasn't he mindful of time's know-how She rubbled under her bygone errs he battles, bleeds to change her state; The course of love never was smooth O'er thorny woods eye-catching bait. To part is their a loathsome fate, Their fond-regard, a hapless 'late'.

Henna, A Memory Asif Sultan Matta           Sunday, 26-06-2016 Her hands spread, cupped in mine. Henna was being painted in them. I wished it took longer time to get her done with that, as I loved to fix her scarf--often without a need-- and itch her nose when it felt so. Her perspired face--because of hot weather or perhaps her nervousness--I wiped with my hankerchief, though my naked fingers were more involed than my hankerchief, intentionally. Best ever time it was to care for her as I desired. Like those, it was, who flank with a bride or a groom embellishing them  too much carefully, even to wipe a tiny vapour on their face or streighten a wee wrinkle in their dress. I had the full previlege. The privilege to carress and care. The privilege reached its zenith when, I, compulsorily but luckily, held her feet and carefully slid them, one by one, slowly, into her shoes that she'd taken off because of sweat in it, before she sat. And she was relucta...

AS I RECALL Pinches, tender-nudges, hand rubs and smiles; Reverie of day, longing arises; Darkness of night, my tears daubed face, Foster in me a strange solace; Forget I not that cruel storm, That tore my heart and wretched my charm; And shook my world, and dimmed the shine, Ruined love of yours and dreams mine; Do I recall those days and nights, Everyday’s trysts and talking delights; Do I recall those tears of yours, Harboured I for a deep remorse; That I could not wipe them off face Which had faded your grin and grace… ASIF SULTAN 19/04/2016

Feelings Died Asif Sultan Matta 12 am, 12th April 2016. I'm lementing, not because we lost eachother, but for the death of love I had been carefully but passionately nursing and cherishing for you. Near or far you were, doesn't effect me much as long as those beautiful feelings palliated my heart. My heart seems barren now. Dead and withered it is! Feelings have died, thus I lament- lament most vehemently. The moment I resolve to sow the seed of your love in my heart again, the withered tree's pitiable existence scare me. I truly feel that an another 'you'-- the one I loved and who loved me, ardently; longed and who I longed for--hindering me not to dare. Your soul, which you left in me, the another 'you', certainly or perhaps the real you, is so possessive for me to give me away to anyone even to your current being, which to me has turned entirely different, mysteriously, from the one I had feelings for. Alas! They're ruthlessly dead, which I must...