How can I love you, darling?
Desire on desire,
longings on longings.
In the intensity of
this moment, this espresso
this sea, this sweet éclair,
all my causes die
one by one with
the tides that crash
on the rocks and
turn into foam.
I love you, I love you,
but oh, you are
so formidable.
Darling , I want you,
but be a good husband,
for that is the only cause
I will wound my desire for,
for holy marriage,
for another woman
in love. Another woman,
who gave you her vows
her youth, her children
and her love. I will not
take her heart and replace
with mine. I remember
what God wants. I understand
her pain more than I understand
my desire. Darling,
I am to die for but
the only cause I’m willing
to die for,  is another woman’s.

To Die for by Thamanna Razak

My good heart broke
in your good hands.
And I forgive you
for leaving it
behind, where it
could come together
without your hands
bleeding into it.
I forgive you for
leaving it where
it belongs, under the
lamp of our
memories. I forgive
you for leaving and
for taking your hands
with you. For my childish
heart would betray
itself in the warmth
of your hands, my love.
It would stay broken
for all of eternity to
be in the cusp of
what broke it.

My Heart is a Betrayer by Thamanna Razak

My mother sometimes forget
to pray good for me
and those are the nights
I let him hurt me and
I worship him. His heart
is my home
and he denies me of it.
My mother turns in her sleep
for the blasphemy.

-Blasphemy by Thamanna Razak

Creatures of Culture

I like to dream that
someday,
I would want to
be a wife.  A creature,
the myth and the truth
of my culture.
I would stand in the
kitchen, and
carry his honour,
my grace
and our children
on my widened hips
and for that,
he would call me his
omram. I would smile
and fill the house
with smoke from oud.
I would move from one
room to another
in long silk dresses,
a country to another.
I would pack love and
my mother’s pickles.
This creature, his name
trailing mine, a gift
to his ancestors,
a loss to mine.
But it would grace me
to be this creature
to be his creature
in his house, to be
worshiped in love,
swollen breasts
and long hair, on his bed.
Goddess of a home, mother
of beautifully raised children
but only a wife
to the world.

– Creatures of Culture by Thamanna Razak

Portrait Series; Mother

I ripen,
in your two palms
held together warmly.
I turn,
fruitful and
glistening,
growing.
Oh how the moon
must envy
you,
for your dirt,
your impure,
your knowledge of
life.
Oh how the universe
must envy
you,
for your mastery
to hold someone else’s
roots in your soil,
until they grow
beyond the darkness,
until gravity has learned
to let go
what it loves.
I rise
above the ground
and meet my sun
and my sky
but I will always
come back
to your two palms
held together warmly
to lay my body
back in your dirt.

– Portrait Series; Mother by Thamanna Razak

The World Waits on Your Beauty

My heart,
it endures pain like slow
burning ember,
a purgatory for
every man who
had the misfortune
to have seen
your glow
behind that veil
and desired for you.
At a seaside, families
wait for dusk, grow old
in its waiting
and lull into the sand.
At another end of
the sea , a boy
waits for the dawn
and his mother to
come back
and he never grows up.
At an end of a
water tap, a woman
waits for the next drop
of water. Her whole
life, she only knows
of thirst.
And I, wait lifetimes
consumed in sorrow
like no other to
find a language that
transcends this unbearable
spread of time. I, turn
into a poet
in hopes
to touch your thoughts
on the evening you fix
your tangles. I want
my sigh to be the
reason for your
blushed cheeks.
But Rabb, in his
selfish longing to
keep your heart
and beauty alive
have stretched
the string of time
and suffering.
Oh my love, how the
entire world stands still
and suffers
for your beauty.– The World Waits on Your Beauty (*based on Aah Ko Chahiye by Mirza Ghalib and sung by Jagjit Singh) by Thamanna Razak

*I would prefer if you could enjoy the music before/after/while reading the poem to really understand where the poem comes from. This is my father’s favourite song. I have had this song/ poetry as my backdrop music almost all roadtrips or drives and on early mornings on Fridays my entire life. The image of a woman untangling her hair unaware of the love and desire men hold for her is what this song brings to me. And I think I’m only trying to find my own narration for the image, in my own personal ways of knowing love and desire. And most importantly I am trying to tell a story of longing. I only hope I have done justice.

 

I Never Shut The Door Behind & My Father is Upset

I keep making mistakes.

I keep finding men like my father to love

and then to unlove

and then tiptoe my way out
of homes I built out of their bodies
of framed pictures of them sleeping
of an afternoon when they would
point and tell me
“there, that bathroom floor,

 there, the space behind the door,

 there, this entire room with broken glass

 stay, look at all the space I made for you,

 all the love I have for you”

And I would stand there measuring the distance

between my feet and the door

But I don’t get it right, I never get it right

I was five when he said ‘to the moon and back ,love’,

since then it doesn’t add up

how does then love feel so small

inside my heart, every heart beat echoes

the buzzing that comes with emptiness

my soul confuses it with butterflies

I lose my math, my concept of light years

I would stand there measuring the distance

between my feet and the door

measuring the distance between

what’s real, and what’s not

and I don’t understand

who the fuck are we

to measure love in distance

who the fuck are we

never teaching our children

to walk over to the door

to leave

to shut the door behind.

Thamanna Razak , I Never Shut The Door Behind & My Father is Upset