Poetry is the last stage,
of contentment or despair,
contemplation or repentance,
or simply of brilliance sheer.

Tis a culmination of passion,
that spills on to paper,
soul searching transcendence,
amidst crisp and raw emotion.

Oh wayfarer dear,
be not quick a judge,
of the poetic soul and its lamentations,
for seldom a word of poetry escapes those lips,
except that it’s ripped the heart clear,
and laid it out bare.


I am not Rootless


A student of science in body,
I know in my heart that science,
is but just a part of the answer,
in search of the meaning of life,
and my identity.

A Muslim Bangladeshi by birth,
Bengali by mother tongue,
Middle Eastern in upbringing,
Ottoman Arab in musical tastes,
Nothing specific in cuisine and culture.

An Indian throughout education,
a Muslim of the subcontinent in historical orientation,
Ummahtic in weltanschauung,
And yes overwhelmingly English,
in arts and literary expression.

Warped up in identity you might say,
but no I don’t care;
for it is not me who is rootless,
but the notion of modern secular nation state,
and I am but a Muslim in modernity.