Desert-Born, Monsoon-Roots

Allow me Oblivion

Tight-lipped leaders fly private jets

in the same sky that houses the military drones.

A country that begs to be understood,

or saved, or loved,

goes missing on the maps of our

busy schedules and under ourmoney machines.

The needy look at our luxury bags,

and we pluck a ten-rupee note for them.

A broken neon sign on a house whispers

of flickering human bonds.

Tears painted as flowers on the walls,

rusted sometimes, retouched sometimes.

How often does money make one happy

after grief has slipped under the doors?

When the ceiling is leaking with gunpowder,

and the windows can’t keep the rubble dust away.

How many donations will it take to seal

a bleeding heart, to unbury the child?

Did the flames of the falling metal bird

smell like the firecrackers lit

in the slums for the Indian cricket team?

Fire kills fire, after all.

But does it really take death to remember —

remember that we are not to be killed?

If my poetry shall only be read on my grave,

then allow me void,

Allow me oblivion.

Desert-Born, Monsoon-Roots

Purring airplanes of the Arabian sky

carry the sound of my childhood life.

I was born in the middle of the desert

with my palms open to the fleeting world.

My mother shaded me with her broad head,

and I wondered—where did the ocean begin?

In the arguments of the window pigeons,

I woke up a few dozen summer mornings

to chase a school bus I never could outrun,

to study about my foreign home city.

I slept to the bite of the unhappy cold,

dreaming of my parents’                home.

And when I chased paper boats

in the puddles of the Indian rain,

and ate sweets from the street vendors.

my friends were nowhere to be found,

and my school was an ocean behind.

I grieved for a city that did not recognize me;

I held the passport of another.

My childhood spent flying between them,

my memories belong to none.

I was born in the middle of the desert,

and I wondered—where did the ocean begin?

Which land shall call me hers?

Where can I come               undone?

Mother Tongue

My tongue thick withthe colonizer’s language

I write my poems, betraying

my freedom fighters.

I am ashamed but I cannot refrain,

they fed me English phonics like water

on a scorching day, promised me

freedom from myuncivilized cadence. 

I cannot write

in my mother tongue.

I cannot right

my mother’s tongue.

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About the Poet:

Juveriya Nazneen is a poet and writer based in Qatar, with roots in India, whose work explores Islamic faith, diaspora, and identity. She holds master’s degrees in English and Business. Juveriya is currently completing a debut poetry collection and serves as the Editor-in-chief of Tasbih Literary Magazine. Her work has been published in Consilience Journal and selected for the upcoming Issue IV of Candle Chronicles.