BLIZZARD

Meet Amir Sulman
He comes with free bitch slaps, hugs and kisses and unexpectedly awkward comments in public.
Goes by the name of Zyn Del Mar in the literary circle, Jennifer in the 'male' circle and Lorenzo in my favorite druggie circle, he is many a souls in one.
In a hate-hate relationship with one Medusa, he is currently single (not unlike a Pringle) and quite ready to mingle.

Everybody say 'MashaAllah'

He  is the winner of KELS ENGLISH Story Writing Competition 2015, KELLOGS Blog Writing Competition Tragedy 2016. And a regular columnist at KINGSPEAK as Zyn Del Mar and *news flash* Aunt Agony.
His most epic piece of work has been Harry Potter and The Shit That Got Real


It's his birthday today, I hope everyone reading this, leaves a comment wishing him a very happy birthday! He is very excited because his Uncle visits him on his birthday and brings him lollipops and sweets!

 Here is the most epic poem you will ever read. Get all serious and in the mood and don't let my senseless babble ruin it.
Okay.
Go ahead.

BLIZZARD    

     

I paint the sky black

I have a sea of dark chocolate flowing out of my head,

A biblical circus of Babylonian crimes dances in my left eye,

Eyeing my right eye, blind and bare,

Contrasting shades of depression and loneliness in either cheek,

Allies but not friends.

And the tongue sings primitively rhapsodies of scepticism and desire.

Both of my hands are made of solid gold,

I drag my stony fingers along the cool walls of the dark corridors,

while I dream of dying in a blaze of metal fumes and grey smoke,

or being silently murdered in a roadside motel by an old lover.

The first cut is the deepest, the rest merely hurts.

And I raise them while I sing hymns of divine providence.

From there onwards and downwards I am half and half.

A reflection in my mirror smiles the crooked smile of a demon,
I pop a candy coated Percocet and I break into an oxycodone trance,
I wait for the solstice from winter sun to summer snow,
A rabbit hole sprouts in my room every now and then,
A priestess and a seductress share a drink with me,
The mockingbird in my clock has frozen to sleep,
Wishing on the lesser bones,

Dances clumsily to its heart's desire,

My heart quickens before it breaks uneven,

And the rosary breaks in my hands.

And then I see my own reflection,

Like Lucien Carr's suburban nightmare.

Pull my daisy, tip my cup,

Chock me steady when my time is up?

A million empty orchestras playing the most melancholy of all tunes,

The mermaid vs the sailor, while Ursula watches over from the balcony.

And I keep slipping between dreams until I am stuck in between two.

I draw ink from my head and I begin to draw a chaotic grotesque,

Intertwined with my own existence.

And from the half and the half, I am complete,

Like some self fulfilled prophecy.

And I sit by my window looking out at the palm trees that grow outside,

Imagining them in black and white or sepia, recorded into b-rolls,

Wishing for times to stay and making the day last forever,

Lying at the bottom of the pool with seven crystals placed on my neck.

Suddenly I am in the middle of the sea,

Punching holes with my fists into pirate ships,

desperately awaiting Saturn's return.

After all it has been too calm in a while.

My arms are above the sea level and they can't tell,

If I am waving or drowning.

I jump down it to find a black hole and a question comes burning through,

A different shade of red, but whose head this time?

There's a mad hatter in my tub and he offers me a butterscotch,

I suck on it till my teeth fall out.

The glass goes around in an equivalent triangle,

And three mimes follow me around the city,

Lusting after the golden dragon in my breast pocket.

Lights are low and passions are high,

A bloody rose lays among 22 magazines of bullets.

And each of us suck on our words till they are bitter.

A shadows eyes me from the shadows and I wink,

At the one legged ballerina in my glass.

And I begin to pace in steps shorter and shorter,

To make the distance appear longer and longer,

Nothing grows into nothing and now I am going nowhere,

I see all the faces on the covers of magazines,

and compare then to mine on the freak show fly poster,

One minute I am there and the next I am among the crowds,

With mean green eyes and degenerate style decaying into decadence,

Sparks flying, shinning like a lightening rod,

Cold and unsure, like gun metal,

The oracle with opulent vision broods obsessively over my fate,

Did I stay too long?

She is not quite sure where I belong.

Never mind, at least I pull my own strings.

I grow a backbone out of them.

*Hi, Sania here again. This is my absolute favorite piece of poetry by Amir. For more awesomeness and poetry that makes you jealous and uncomfortable and emotionally stunted at the same time, let's request him to make a blog. Please*

It's Not Deja Vu

 Masjid Wazir Khan
Photo courtesy: Fatima Qayyum

To anyone having trouble leaving this city

Know that you aren't alone

Millions before you have seen this time
Millions are going to face this in days to come


But the truth is even if you leave the physicality of this city, you won't. Really.

There is this character of Lahore that I haven't seen anywhere else

Trust me, I know.


It has been only five years

But as I walk upon my favorite pavement

The dust on it recognizes me

The air embraces me

The mud moulds itself to make me welcome

Then again, maybe it is Lahore's loyalty to those who are born here

Muhalla Delhi Gate
Photo courtesy: Fatima Qayyum

It's not even a question


If you come to Lahore, before you even realize that it is, finally, what is home, will be

You become a part of the air

You are what others breath in

And others are what you breathe in

Is there a bond like this, anywhere?

Bagh e Jinnah
Photo courtesy: Fatima Qayyum

What I feel is not nostalgia

I feel the clashing of a memory with an emotion

It is the color of the emotion that Lahore invokes in me that I shall miss the most

Not the people

Not the time I have had here

Nor the heart and tears I have lost here

It is that color

Color not to be found in any palette

Yet it is so real

Take a walk
Stand on the sidewalk of Mall Road
Opposite GPO
Near the pigeons
And close your eyes

You will feel the color

You will be drenched in that color

You will look like that color

Mark my words

Food Street, Gawalandi
Photo courtesy : Fatima Qayyum

Also
I will miss the way the city makes me feel when the Bazar is full and bustling

It is not a happy feeling
Neither a sad one

Well, a rather sad one if I am honest

I look at women and men, stores and vendors and they appear black and white to me

It is not deja vu if you think you are peering through a window of your future

But in my future, I am still a part of this air

In tinniest particles

Breathed in and breathed out

In the simplest of gestures of love, this city becomes one with you.

I finally understand what Mansoor meant.

Jade Cafe
Photo courtesy: Fatima Qayyum

Come, be my friend

Come,be my friend
And I will write you a pretty story

I will tell you of all the stars I know
And the love that is there to find

Come, believe my words
And I will tell you a pretty lie

I will tell you of the heart
And the secrets it will take to grave

Come,be my confidant
And I will tell you all there is to

I will tell you of my wrecked soul
And the cracks in it, that you can't see

Come, be my guide
And I will give you the treasure map

I will let you lead me away
Away, astray, anywhere; I don't care

Come, be my light
And I will put you on the highest pedestal  

I will let your love wash over everything
For the days are darker for some

Come, stand by my side
And I will do the same for you

The shadows, the lights, the rain, the sun
The world revolves for our sakes

Come,be my friend
And I will write you a pretty letter

I'll tell you all the words again, that I lost
Drenched in the dew from the mountains

Refuge of Womanhood

Why is there no wrinkle on your forehead?

Nor a question on your lips

Why did you nod and walk away?

Why have you gone to sleep?

There is a man out there who ridiculed a woman

by using words that even an illiterate would know are wrong

in a company that is higher than all

and what is sadder is that men around actually laughed at the jest

Why aren't you mad enough?

That man has no shame still, on what he had done

for the reasons known to his psyche, he insists on denying it all

Why do men think women are stupid?

Do I look stupid to you when I demand respect, 

not greater than anyone

just basic respect that you would grant a fellow man?

Do I look stupid to you when I have a frown on my forehead

and an objection on my lips

for what you have done?

Do I look stupid to you when I say that I am a human being

That I demand the social security

and voice?

What have I said that is so shocking?

Why are you mad?

Th dilemma is that, that man is a representative of our grass root level psyche

and as he sat on a t.v show blamed the woman he had previously insulted,of "taking refuge in her womanhood."

A laugh escaped my lips

What refuge?

What safety?

We live in a country where a constitutionally redundant committee has the power and audacity to propose legalization of beating women.

Say MASHA'ALLAH

We live in a country where a young teacher was killed for exercising her right to refuse to marriage with a man twice her age.

We live in a country where an honorable Senator from JUI-F had nerve and frankly, permission enough to not only verbally abuse a woman but also attempt to physically attack her as well on television

We live here among rapists and arsonists and murderers who walk freely because who cares about a few dead/abused/crippled/burnt women?

So I ask you, oh-so-honorable Khawaja Asif, what refuge of womanhood?

Is there any left?

I drowned in despair when I saw the Muslim men of Lahore protest against the only piece of legislation that treats their mothers, sister, wives and daughters like human being with rights.

 That finally after nearly 70 years of being a country, Pakistan had realized that women aren't cattle.

Being a woman

I feel like a Muslim stuck in America after 9/11

Because whatever safety and hopes of safety my juvenile self had assumed/hoped for evaporated when I heard that 14 men of a jirga who strangled, raped and murdered a woman are likely to be set free.

Where is the refuge of womanhood when 7 women in Pakistan die daily through some form of abuse?

The problem is not the the problem

the problem is why aren't we mad enough?

why is it okay?

As I sit through a nikkah ceremony of a friend and see her uncle unthinkingly cross out the paragraphs that Islam provides for woman rights, I realize one thing

We, women of Pakistan, can all have a doctorate in a million subjects

and be richer than all men alive

But we will always be kept to be treated like we are stupid

Why do you send your daughter to school when you will always think of her as a being one less than your son?

With this, I rest my case.

Mr Khawaja Asif sir, there is no refuge whatsoever in womanhood

I feel threatened mentally physically and psychologically living in the environment created by your most precious and righteous men.