Three Poems & Art – Afra Ahmad

Regret

Ask a man
on a ventilator
with scant moments
left in this world

he'll let you know
how severe
the flame of
regret is. Don't
tell me you learn
from heartbreaks.

I wish I had not
invested in them:
tell me, what must
I name this wail?

Its enervated flames
keep expanding,

these flames
resemble
undesirable cells
in your brain
that smother frangible bones,
that prick shrivelled flesh,
that jab and
then draw the sabre out,
again and again.

Regret is a
cacophonous fire
louder than cries
of blood dropped
on the ground
during war,

competent enough
to render
you deaf
for the rest
of your
life,

it fails to
extinguish, even
when pails of
cold water
(a sip of which
could save a dying man)

or soft-salmon joy
like zephyr,
is poured on it,

slowly and tenderly
the same way
physicians clean your
wounds and
drape them tightly
with milky gauze

shower them with
a sprinkle
of care and a week's rest —
they will heal,

but the pain of regret
is lasting,
this ache
never halts.

I have grieved
enough to know
you learn nothing,
you slowly devolve
into a living embodiment
of numbness.

You say you know everything about me

You say you know everything about me
almost, but not everything, here’s a courageous confession:

you don’t know what distresses me the most,
the magnitude of how terrified I am to harm a man

so, I go out of my way
down the stairs of comfort and freedom

to be an empyreal pillow
for everyone to dispose of their tears on.

but some days, this feeble pillow
is so engaged in
combatting its own spectres and fevers

that its actions stab some hearts,
unwillingly, unintentionally.

In sooth, I do not want to hurt anyone.
I want to be kind, tender, and soft.

who wants to share the bitterness of
of the leaves of Azadirachta indica?

I want to help by building an encouraging raft.
I want to be kind, tender, and soft.

but what is mere wanting,
if not converted into action?

The heart knows

To become a poet,
they say you have
to learn the correct
spelling
memorize
the complex names
of all the delicate herbs
of all the tiny seeds
of all the
captivating flowers.

What do I do
with
the deep-rooted
softness of a poet,
but with frustrating
maladies, named
ADHD and Dementia.

I strive to
focus on ruddy roses,
just them, but
my mind
moves to
faraway lands, where
placid daisies grow,
and
no one gathers them
for their beloveds.

Sometimes when I’m
rinsing my face,
I plan
a whole poem
with a
terrific rhyme scheme,
even if I may say
so myself.

But when I sit down on
my battered desk
with a pen
and a sheet,
I’m unable to
recollect even the
remnants of the concept
I was supposed to
execute

So, you keep warning
me: you can
never become a poet.

Maybe I don’t desire
to be dubbed a poet
by the world.

My aureate heart
knows I possess
the genteel soul
of a poet.

The heart knows.
Isn’t that enough?

---

Afra Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist and calligrapher.  Based in Saudi Arabia, she holds a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature.  She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of the society to problems faced by teenagers to imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories and write-ups.  Her works have been published in various magazines including Her Hearth, Melbourne Culture Corner, Iman collective.  Instagram: @zaraapens (Link of the handle: https://instagram.com/zaraapens?utm_medium=copy_link)