The Window Serves A Cause - Poem by Sadiqullah Khan
Whether Rene Magritte fixes in the window,
With the greens' rapidly changing hues
Oft to give up to the sun's brilliant gaze
Or animated to a diasporas of plantal reminiscence
Of some palmed shrubs, but the glare is grass-hopper's paradise.
Least accompaniments, the singing larks tweet through
Brazen rest-room's torn gauze and a right sided tap for warm water,
Colored bright white. In the room hangs lantern like tornado light
With low roofs, made off course not for dwarfs,
But we happen to be seeing tall concretes lifted by cranes twenty stories
Therefore the anteriors and their antecedents, and their typewriters
Junk on sport, weighty and will never be put to any use.
Downgrading to the awe it strikes,
But again, for a breathier air, you could smash the glass window
And be on the other side of canvas. John Miro would laugh at the surrealism
With effort maintaining a form of sobriety and evoking a thought
Which goes with any decent poem and you will find that one line at least,
Is related to the single, not juxtaposed item, like egg for a bird,
Or like the woman who below her bust is a spiky tailed fish.
Subconscious brazingly produces unharmonic archestrated and chaotic order.
Violence in dealing with your subjects,
Comes with age, and an enormous distaste for the ordinary and plane,
I would better dismantle the rest of everything,
As I overdid the tap of the bathroom, till its nickel were crushed
And the original brass came out, which act I kept hiding from my wife.
Art is mould, reshape, destroy and remake,
And when you remake, you like the cave-man-poet,
Come to know that art and poetry has deteriorated immensely from that day.
Beat the bush several times, and the grass-cutter machines,
Taking blades from grass, mulling over the genius of the gardener,
The great mughal gardens did not save them, the very order of things,
Is disharmonic, no leaf is a square, and no flower is a triangle.
O that what I made was a waste,
That what I wrote was binding others to hate each other,
That what I invented was to kill and then escape as a mass murderer.
For love did not need all these things,
And life has become a pitiable exercise, forced upon the humans
Themselves by humans, and the supple growth of human intellect.
The window serves a cause,
I recommend not to demolish it, when you let the rotting building fall.
Do preserve the green, which I think I will not see next year,
Otherwise, the window was effectively blinded
By starched, half plastic and half paper blinds.
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