In Two
by 
Jibunnessa
|
Posted: Tuesday, June 6, 2006 Word Count: 238 Summary: Most of my life, words dripped off my fingertips, so I wrote them down. Sometimes, these grew into poems, and at other times short stories or a partially-completed novel. Last couple of years, have been peculiar. Words stopped dripping, and my fingertips grew silent. This is the first poem I've put up in ages. I'd love to know what you guys think. |
In Two
If you cut
my face
in two
Would my nose
sniff the air
of a
secular street
soaked
in alcohol
and party shoes?
Or incense
and
rose water
wafting
through an
open window
of
ghee
and cinnamon?
Would my mouth
speak out
against
injustice?
Would it
console
the wounded
with its softly spoken words?
Or just
weave banter
through
transient moments?
Would my ears
suck
the shifting tapestry
of
Camden Town?
Or
the call
of the muezzin
early
in the morning
through
a filter
of
half-sleep
and
partially-remembered dreams?
Would my eyes
read philosophy
travel the world
with
Ibn Battuta
And wonder
what shapes
were made
by thousands
of years
of
women’s silence
Or
would they
just
catch fragments
of news
and
gossip
off
the metro
and
the internet?
If you
tied my hands
with kindness
And
burnt my fingers
with
your tears
If you
fructified
my confusion
with
your gentle smiles
If my heart
beat
to the rhythm
of
so many
conflicting
aromas
If I
wander
in
and out
of different
breaths
as a flimsy chameleon
If my feet
grew on sand
and
vanished
below
the layers
of
anaesthesia
If you cut
me
in two
and
half of me
sat
on top of a
banyan tree
If the
picture
was
just bigger
not
clearer
What
would you see?
What colour
would
my
liver be?
---Jib, 10.41am, Tue 06 Jun 2006. In my room in London
If you cut
my face
in two
Would my nose
sniff the air
of a
secular street
soaked
in alcohol
and party shoes?
Or incense
and
rose water
wafting
through an
open window
of
ghee
and cinnamon?
Would my mouth
speak out
against
injustice?
Would it
console
the wounded
with its softly spoken words?
Or just
weave banter
through
transient moments?
Would my ears
suck
the shifting tapestry
of
Camden Town?
Or
the call
of the muezzin
early
in the morning
through
a filter
of
half-sleep
and
partially-remembered dreams?
Would my eyes
read philosophy
travel the world
with
Ibn Battuta
And wonder
what shapes
were made
by thousands
of years
of
women’s silence
Or
would they
just
catch fragments
of news
and
gossip
off
the metro
and
the internet?
If you
tied my hands
with kindness
And
burnt my fingers
with
your tears
If you
fructified
my confusion
with
your gentle smiles
If my heart
beat
to the rhythm
of
so many
conflicting
aromas
If I
wander
in
and out
of different
breaths
as a flimsy chameleon
If my feet
grew on sand
and
vanished
below
the layers
of
anaesthesia
If you cut
me
in two
and
half of me
sat
on top of a
banyan tree
If the
picture
was
just bigger
not
clearer
What
would you see?
What colour
would
my
liver be?
---Jib, 10.41am, Tue 06 Jun 2006. In my room in London