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"God owns heaven, but he craves Earth" Poems from NaPoWriMo 2022 Day Seven

The Creation of Adam Painting by Michelangelo

Almost is a bigger bridge than hope by Nameera Anjum Khan

there is a sun shining inside the pages of a

notebook that speaks of love letters to a stranger,

there is a sun pouring into a leaf trying to hold on,

there is a sun falling into amma ji's low tied bun as

she buys sabzi for dinner. there is a sun swallowing

the smile out of khala's lips while she bargains over

the nastily priced lemons to prepare shikanji for

iftaar. God slips down amma ji's brow, a bead of

swear. God grows as thorns inside khala's throat.

God laughs in the frail leaf breathing oxygen into

the world when the letter inhales it and flies away

into the lap of a stranger, loved and loved dearly.

God owns a perfect heaven, brimming with honest

Angels but here He is. Craving this earth, made of

dishonest worshippers. Craving the little faults.

Like the mad obsession of an artist with a painting

that is bound to be in ruins because of the language

that it has learnt to articulate in. the language of the

d i v i d e.

Dear God, I know you love poems on a summer's eve,

But do you also love the Politics of being human?

amma ji turns around the corner,

khala turns around the corner,

both bump into one another. lemons running amok

like khala's wild nieces. what a waste of fortune!

amma ji hesitates, whispers haye Ram. khala gives a

glance, Allah Khair. Gods' save, it is people who

honour the devils.

amma ji extends a hand, khala takes it,

two hands that spell a household waiting

for their touch. two hands wanting to work

their magic in the rasoi. two hands warming-up to

the same fate; to write poems in the form of

a tick against the to-do list hanging on the

fridge, to figure out what rhymes best with

raat ka khaana / iftaari / sehri / shaam ki pakodi /

pooja ki thaali.

amma ji and khala have soon collected the

lemons, the sabzi, the melon; a smile is also

exchanged. the act of a charity in ramzan has

a tick against it on the to-do list. God's to-do list.

the language of injustice may yet have an answer,

in some amma and khala out at the sabzi mandi,

the language of divide, of ghoonghat and niqab,

of surma and bindi and sindoor and burqa- of a

God-fearing violence that make Salaam and

Namaste sound like heavy words that weigh

our pride down: of violence that exceeds any


the only true worship there is, is that of the

God who comes down on one summer eve,

and everything almost goes wrong. but it doesn't.

because almost is a bigger bridge than hope and

much smaller than certainty. but uncertainty can be

a pretty ugly (oxymoron) or peaceful (figure of speech: manifestation + hope = absent in the language of literature, present in the language of the pen).

Fighting Fare by Nikitha Vincent

The god of big things stares out cloud tops

tears of pity swell in his cataract-clear eyes.

Hailstorms and holy rivers form in their wake,

the common metaphor freezes dry.

Sulphur in the sheets,

screeching in the streets,

under the skins of demons and wraiths

souls resurface - boiling and blistering.

The poor march in - jute sacks full of desperation,

the poor march in – yearning for air.

the god of middleman things stretches out his arms

- all helpless shrugs, and bellows to his assistant,

"I can't keep up with 7 billion dreams,

so I'll just sign off the first twenty-five."

Twenty-five miracles were born that day

and the god of middlemen resigned that evening.

he's a millennial man who craves responsibility

but believes rightly in workplace burnout.

Still, the world tumbles onward,

And the dead sip tea with tired almighties.

They discuss the world with benign pity,

leaden the hierarchy, of the good and the god.

In the false prophetic dream, every man is a God by N Sehar

The same dream re-occurs-

my mother's conditioning,

a woman.

Its body; petit, fragile

like the last leaf

of her Tulsi-

clung on

to the stem,

against the wind-


Fine lines, wrinkles-

a portal,

a quintessential

portrait of time.

And the mundane prayers;

her moral tenet,


*Filial piety

'Gham khaana,

Kam khaana'

passed onto by generation

before her.

Like garments,

ethnic recipes

with saunth and spices

to enhance a specific


khaki taste-buds.

Men, the sacred prowess,

in the kitchen table

and your holiness


in a seat,

right below


The woman hangs

around the verandah

stairs, wooden bench

almost like air

absent but not quite.

Talks about names,

etymology, God, origin

stories of prophets

and makes a man

sits on my parched throat-

A false *Hafiz,

*Pharoah or Firaun.

In my tongue

the word dissolves it's

bones like

crumpled pieces of


But to my ears


A verse; satanic.

in a language, not Arabic

or Persian.

A language rooted in


Immoral mysticism,

masked violence.

A language self-build.

Hence, I present an

argument - valid,

written, rational-

of how God created

the heavens

but craved the earth,

both man and woman


more than djinns,


created us from the

best mould-



And no man dare

claim to be one-

a god,

a prophet in the crux,

genesis of this poem.

My stare- sharp, piercing



on the iris.

And the woman

suddenly weeps,

steadily like always

melts into chunks,

unfolds its body

into lesser space.


into a tree-unearthed,

xylem uprooted,

gulped by thirst,

shifts beneath the sea

and submerges

In vapour, smoke.

At this point, I should

have known that

to step into this dream

was to plan a funeral

in advance

before dying,

before making

out of this alive.

I don't blink.

Wake up and

spit at *Iblees.


(*Filial piety : An attitude of respect for parents and ancestors in societies influenced by Confucian thought. *Hafiz: Guardian *Pharaoh: An Egyptian ruler who considered himself God. *Ahsan-e-taqweem: The mould from which humans were created (according to Islamic belief) *Ashraful-Makhlukaat: The best of most creations; humans. *Iblees: Satan)

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