Silkworms, Swathes and the Dead

So...
It feels, again, like being a silkworm
Cocooned in a shell built upon its own saliva,
Reflecting the memory-aches,
With one thread hanging out of the shell
Living beyond time and space,
Which might be inferred as a calculation inside the cocoon.
The illusion, that it isn't dark, inside, could be smudged easily
For darkness always stays in each corner
Wherever there is the name of a god.

(1)
The 'Roza' felt betrayed for the first time, in the naïve summer,
When the caramel of your lips was offered, a prerequisite.
The religion had died many years ago, in my dry womb,
Before it could see the light of day as an infant,
And, before it could suckle the usual fluid
Of naivety from the nipples of slumber.
In retrospect... I feel, I can do the same again
For that ride to the wonderland. For one kiss.
Feet intersecting, mine placed upon yours,
Souls worshiping the void while standing
In the middle of another void,
With number seventeen at the end of its name.

(2)
The smell of the neon light grows stronger,
More and more intense as time transforms...
I could feel the gangrene
Growing in your stomach
Gesticulating omnipotent.

(3)
The blues stay with us
In the saliva of that one kiss
Which remains our first and last
Ride to the wonderland.

Previously published by https://wordpress.com/post/escritura415.wordpress.com/201

Ramsha Ashraf is a Pakistani poet who tries not to let any tradition confine her individuality. She has one poetry collection, titled as Enmeshed, published to her credit.

BRIEF INTERVIEW - My Creative Process: I think, silkworm could be considered, or at least it appears to me, the most potent metaphor for creativity. It provides you a cage of paradox to live in; a sense of liberation yet a Promethean chain keeps you tied to an unknown responsibility. I write without knowing any legitimate reason to why I write... But, I guess, this is why art and literature is considered an apt barometer of mirroring and measuring what is called, and known in a much simpler context as, life.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of this piece and why you wrote it?
Well, the Muslim month of Ramadan has been observed all over the world. So, it brings a few sweet-bitter memories spent in the arms of a not-so-religious yet pious lover.

Why write?
I guess, I write because I just cannot accept the fact that time is going to erase my voice from the surface. Although, I am fully aware of the futility of my act.

Chained Dusk

Voices murmur, in delirium:

'Too easy it to fall in love
Every now and then,
Every now and then'

They grow harsher:

'Too difficult to hold on
To one love, 
Grow,
Grow, 
You must withdraw'

I start chasing cars on pavements
Hawkers come and cross
Selling newspapers
And at times mottiya-threads.

These are fragments?
No, 
I am no Saphho.
All is lost.
What I remember is that strange face
Holding my neck with cold hands
Kissing my face lightly yet strangely
Hands that grew tighter and tighter
Face was drawn closer and closer
Dream choked, died of suffocation,
Dream that is no longer there, 
Not even in bits and pieces. 
It rests in the grave of my memory, 
Silently.

Ramsha Ashraf is a Pakistani poet who tries not to let any tradition confine her individuality. She has one poetry collection, titled as Enmeshed, published to her credit.

Silkworms, Swathes and the Dead

'Epigraph'

So…

It feels, again, like being a silkworm

Cocooned in a shell built upon its own saliva,

Reflecting the memory-aches,

With one thread hanging out of the shell

Living beyond time and space,

Which might be inferred as a calculation inside the cocoon.

The illusion, that it isn’t dark, inside, could be smudged easily

For darkness always stays in each corner

Wherever there is the name of a god.

(1)

The ‘Roza’ felt betrayed for the first time, in the naïve summer,

When the caramel of your lips was offered, a perquisite.

The religion had died many years ago, in my dry womb,

Before it could see the light of day as an infant,

And, before it could suckle the usual fluid

Of naivety from the nipples of slumber.

In retrospect… I feel, I can do the same again

For that ride to the wonderland. For one kiss.

Feet intersecting, mine placed upon yours,

Souls worshiping the void while standing

In the middle of another void,

With number seventeen at the end of its name.

(2)

The smell of the neon light grows stronger,

More and more intense as time transforms…

I could feel the gangrene

Growing in your stomach

Gesticulating omnipotent.

(3)

The blues stay with us

In the saliva of that one kiss

Which remains our first and last

Ride to the wonderland.

Ramsha Ashraf is a Pakistani poet who tries not to let any tradition confine her individuality. She is the author of the poetry collection Enmeshed (Sanjh Publications, 2015).

MY CREATIVE PROCESS
What drew you to this subject matter?
I think the silkworm could be considered, or at least it appears to me, the most potent metaphor for creativity. It provides you a cage of paradox to live in; a sense of liberation yet a Promethean chain keeps you tied to an unknown responsibility. I write without knowing any legitimate reason to why I write... But, I guess, this is why art and literature is considered an apt barometer of mirroring and measuring what is called, and known in a much simpler context as, life.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of "Silkworms, Swathes and the Dead " and why you wrote it?
Well, the Muslim month of Ramadan has been observed all over the world. So, it brings a few sweet-bitter memories spent in the arms of a not-so-religious yet pious lover.

Why do you write?
I guess, I write because I just cannot accept the fact that time is going to erase my voice from the surface. Although, I am fully aware of the futility of my act.