Caskets

By Nazaneen Kaliwal

How many words have perished before being birthed?

How many pleas were buried before being heard?

A poet is always a weary gravedigger.

A poem, an eternal casket for a lover.

Heavy caskets get lowered into the ground,

as though one day they may be treasure found.

I dig deep graves with memories contained,

and visit them to honour the ache.

I even unearth them at times,

looking for wings to gift to rhymes.

I have grown so comfortable with these cemeteries,

that I now fear the living desires in my capillaries.

What is a poet to do when all around

are timid mouths agape with no sound?

There are still hundreds of confessions waiting

to be spoken and even heard each evening.

The splendid moon brings with it some calm,

but it pales in comparison to our poetry's balm.

I am still kept awake with a pressing question,

of how to give a steady voice to my affection.

The one dearest to me remains unaware,

of how great a journey it is from silence to prayer.

After all, the boldest words to slip past my lips,

are the ones that seemed to tear flesh from ribs.

Only few have managed to leave the cage of bones,

while the remaining ones are etched on tombstones.

It must be a graveyard riddled with skeletons,

this wretched path between the heart and lips.

I wonder how many stories are waiting

to be laid to rest before another morning.

There are rushed burials after burials,

lengthy eulogies and quaint memorials.

My dear, I cannot bear to bury us.

A shared sky, not dirt, should cover us.

Bones of bygone sentiments litter the soil.

A shared roof, not a coffin, should shelter us.

Blades

We tend to praise those who can walk into a room,

and spill some words that sound so perfectly groomed.

Often we criticize those who choose to stay quiet,

thinking they must be bland or perhaps the shyest.

What is it about noise that is heartily applauded,

when it stems from a heart that is jaded and clouded?

What is it about silence that is fearful and daunting,

even when it stems from a heart that is full and accepting?

I am not cursed with the gifts of charisma and appeal,

nor am I gifted with the fluidity of a mystic or their zeal.

I converse, in the harshest of tones, with my own mind.

I scrutinize the words I speak or share in a rhyme.

After all, the greatest critic must come from within,

lest we fold like origami for others on a whim.

If I cannot satisfy my own crude expectations,

what hope do others have in keeping my attention?

There is always more than I can find the words for.

There is always more than I can hide from the world.

An open notebook seems to me much more enticing,

than an open mouth, speaking for the sake of speaking.

Little of me can be discovered if not in these verses,

for this is where, generously displayed, lay my secrets.

I have yet to, and perhaps never will, learn to speak

in a way that would make lush silence appear bleak.

You ask why I remain silent,

but I have a blade for a tongue.

If I did not swallow my words,

I would choke on my own blood.

My blade may not have struck in a while,

but I assure you, it is hardly dull nor less agile.

The taste of blood is still imprinted in my memory.

Often, I can see the red spilling onto my poetry.

It colours more than just your lips or my fingers.

Often, it leaves behind a stubborn stain that lingers.

Poetic Personas

Not every metaphor finds a poet -

some just swirl around in the pen,

some dry out before greeting paper.

I think of all the wilted poems in my palms.

Even then, I revere poetry as a balm.

I think of all the lonely poems waiting for a poet.

I wonder if they look like the equally lonely poets

patiently waiting for a muse.

Some metaphors follow me into my room -

they stumble onto the carpet,

dragging heavy feet, tripping over heavy hearts.

They climb into bed, nestling between my fingers.

Some pry open my notebooks

and messily bleed onto the margins.

Others flee out the window, as though

the sky cannot be as darkened as my mind.

But the night has all the stars, all the time,

and I only have some dreams behind copper eyes.

Even copper can tarnish, and dreams can rust.

Until they do, I braid optimism into my tresses.

Happiness is a thorn using my spine as a lattice.

I smile even when I am bleeding -

it must be by force of habit.

When I come across a metaphor that hardly belongs,

I am reminded of every sore heart

that threatens to sneak its way into my art. 

The same hearts that come shrouded

in poetry like a second skin,

the kind that should have been shed

a couple of heartbreaks ago.

They leave me without words

but they ask me for a sonnet.

I often retire to my blank pages,

and thank my tongue for keeping its silence.

About: Inspired by her father, Afghan poet Sultan Jan Kaliwal, Nazaneen has been writing poetry for over a decade. A University of Toronto alumnus currently working in the field of neuroscience research, she aspires to continue writing poetry as a means of introspection.

Keep in touch with Nazaneen Kaliwal

Instagram @nazaneenwrites