"The silence doesn’t break" — Two Poems by Kamran Bashir

What is Hell?  

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not dead,
They put so much energy
avoiding this fire that drove

them into the void.

Your palms ragging a human touch
I did not steal the keys to the door

of their hell.

Beneath his well-wishes he hides
sour soup and thick blood,
his soul burns as he awakes.

I cannot be a victim
for I hide nothing but

my own dissatisfaction / my own hell / my own dirt.

I clean up everything
I pile up his books
—even the ashes from his hell.

I cannot be a victim
my prayers cannot turn into threats.

—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not dead,
their moves are metaphors—

I did not steal your legends
I did not sneak into your coffins,

my soil gives beautiful odours
—It is not meant to extinguish
the fire in your yard.

Hairfall

The crown is almost
visible
I ….             ……………….
I …        …………..     receding line
I …                           thin hair

Try Rosemary water
try a mask of Castor oil and aloe vera gel
try Bhringraj powder
try Derma roller on those bald patches and massage Bare Anatomy serum into the scalp
You should go for PRP, GSM therapy or head cupping
Nothing works. Maybe, try a hair transplant.

Try Pumpkin seeds and Omega-3 rich foods in your breakfast
It is the DHT. You have to block it. It is in the genes.

Falling

Falling

Falling

on the white tiles
pillows
mattresses

It
       is
               falling
                                  persistently.

I intended to write a poem on hairfall. With a striking honesty Instead, I ended up making a list for its cure.

It is a failure.
It happens. I am not a poet.
I have to reassure myself of the absence
of an alter ego
or a poetic personality.

I adopt a foreign language and
a foreign existence.

I can count the strands now
I am a parasite
I am Gregor Samsa too
My father is Samsa
My brother is Samsa
Everyone somewhere on an isolated mound
A Samsa! A parasite!

I crawl toward the kitchen sink
to relieve my thirst
and
I hear that
this world is not done
the truth is not done.

I have wasted my days taking notes
making wish lists in shopping apps
applying coupons,
trying hard to remember the Weatherman's forecast.
I should have watched the snowflakes instead.

I watch the gleaners
gathering the harvest in their fields
my days have ended
with the rosy hue over Wusturwan.

In Autumn, I look for an anchor
a poem that resembles the dance of a woman
or the woman herself.

A friend says,
“You need some purgation, and then you are good to go.”
I have been there,
I’ve been Ghatak’s Nita
Who so much wanted to live
any life
even a short-lived dandelion’s
life blows up in a moment of thaaa...

I so dearly wanted to live
even among these bades
c****ys and
the ay s*****t near our home.

I might sleep well
even though their aes
crawl through our windows.
How unruly. Truly, how uninvited
Alien, Ou*er, S*****r.

I will shout,  “get back, get back
do not forget to turn the c**p’s circling lights off.
do not forget to take your *** with you
This was our lad once.

Srinagar is changing its lights
from the dormitory's top floor
I cannot stop looking at the lights crawling up the hill.
It is the C*******nt!

I hear
Home, home, home
circled in a thousand be c*s and
Faiz's verses ring aloud.

The silence doesn’t break
anywhere in this city.

Our days are spent well
in libraries, cafes, in lonely rooms
malls, marathons and mosques.

I will shave off my head
walk miles and
stop by lonely bridges and cliffs
to hear your screams.