I wake cold, I who
Prospered through dreams of heat
Wake to their residue,
Sweat, and a clinging sheet.
—THOM GUNN, ‘The Man with Night Sweats’
Outside, “Allah-u-Akbar”
pierces the dawn air —
It is still dark.
Inside, electric light
powers strength
to my feverish body.
Mosque minaret
radiate prayer-calls
all around —
like coded signals
emanating
from old radio
transmitter-towers —
relaying the dangers
of heat in this stale air.
˜
A bare body
sleeps peacefully
beside me —
her face’s innocence,
and generous curve
of her eye
lashes, try to sweep
away my
skin’s excess heat,
one that is fast
making my bones
pale and brittle.
˜
A brief lull
lingers outside.
I cannot hear
the heavy lyrics,
their rhymes
trying to invoke
peace and respect,
their wafting baritone
instilling faith.
Such things
are luxuries
for me now.
I lie, trying
to piece together
the eccentric song
of my own
inadequate breathing.
It is a struggle.
˜
It is also a mystery.
Mystery of a body’s
architecture,
its vulnerability,
its efficient circulation —
they are perfect
models I remember
from school’s
very early lessons.
They are only
how things ought to be,
not how they are.
˜
Only now, I realise
the intent
of prayer’s persuasion,
its seductive expression.
I also value
the presence and grace
of the body that willingly
lies next to me,
as her breath
tries to realign my will’s
magnetic imprint, and
my heart’s irregular beat.
My vision is awash
with salt
of her night-sweat.
My hearing is trapped
within diaphragm’s
circuitous drone —
in Arabic’s passion
that etches
its parabolic script,
sung loud
so that no
slant or serif
can be erased,
altered
or misunderstood.
˜
Religion’s veil
and chiffon —
its sheer black
and translucence,
its own desire
to give and want,
its ambition
to control
and preserve.
Such songs
mean nothing
to me
if one’s own
peace and privacy
remain unprotected,
or, are not at ease.
I want
the chant’s passion,
its heat
to settle
my restlessness.
I want the song
to soothe
my nerve-ends
so that the pain
subsides
and faith’s will
enables to rise.
I also want
the beauty
of this faith
to raise
its heat —
not body-heat —
but the heat
of healing.
˜
But for now,
the diaphanous lull
is a big boon.
Here, I can calculate
the exact path
of my body’s
blood-flow,
its unpredictable
rise and fall
of heat, and
the way it infects
my imagination.
˜
I step out
of the room’s
warm safety.
I see
the morning light
struggling
to gather muscle
to remove
night’s cataract.
˜
Again,
the mosques threaten
to peel
their well-intentioned
sounds —
to appease us all.
But I see
only darkness,
and admire it —
I also admire
the dignity and gravity
of heavy-water
and its blood —
its peculiar
viscous fragility,
its own struggle
to flow,
sculpt and resuscitate.
˜
In quiet’s privacy,
I find
cold warmth
in my skin’s
permanent sweat,
in its acrid edge,
and in my own
god’s
prayer-call.
˜
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem