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<h2 class="wp-block-heading">This Is Not a Curse</h2>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">On the day my daughter turns three
old enough to understand fragments of
the intricate theory of love, I will unfold
my prayer rug and proudly confess to her: 

this is where you beg
beg as if there's no tomorrow
beg without the hesitation of hoboes in front of the porticos of affluent businessmen
beg like a gale that would sabotage the plans of his perpetrators 
beg with a belief that you will be awarded what you're striving for

tell as if you would perish without telling
and then continue telling your Most Benevolent friend 
how your day went, how someone fibbed to you
what makes you burn in delight, what are your darkest fears

cry as if 
you have something
to cry for

this is how I will help her practise
for I know the intense years that will unfurl
she will have something or someone to cry for

this is not a curse, I swear
this is prayer in its purest form

for I know this world will break her too
the way it broke me, the way it broke my ancestors, so I have to 
help her long before she begins believing she's irreparable like pearls that know they can never go back to their celestial shells

but with God by your side
even the moon can be halved 

I will help her 
the same way my lovely mother did.</pre>



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<h2 class="wp-block-heading">Limbs</h2>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">A man without limbs 
grapples with negativity 
to function properly. 
 
She is not 
just my mother. 
 
The voracious nooks 
and crannies 
of this house 
have been nudging me: 
who will tend to us, now? 
whose smile will 
warm us up? 
 
In response to 
their plea, 
I holler: 
who will lull 
my insecurities to sleep? 
who will wipe 
my profuse tears? 
 
An obsession 
with a mother 
is different than that 
with a lover – 
you wouldn’t have 
arrived here 
without a mother, 
 
you have dwelled 
near her heart 
before entering 
this realm 
of murkiness and exhaustion. 
 
Without her 
every magical thing 
that encompasses me 
becomes meaningless, 
 
without her 
the synonym of 
everything 
is 
nothing. 
 
She is akin 
to my limbs. 
 
In her absence, 
I resemble a man 
without limbs; 
 
In her absence, 
I resemble a boat 
adrift on the sea. 
 
</pre>



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<h2 class="wp-block-heading">Abba</h2>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">Abba says: 
You're the light of my universe 
 
So when the ache in the crevices of my lungs is filled to the brim 
He says: 
Why is my daughter sad? 
How can my light be sad? 
 
My beloved Abba 
The days when your daughter forgets to don a smile 
Are the days when her excruciating past decides to strike her charred brain 
And remind her of everything that gave birth to her insecurities 
Everything she has been trying to dispose 
But memories are not disposable teacups 
In which she pours her tea frequently 
For she has this peculiar urge to dispose of everything that she has loved 
And life is but a turbulent highway 
 
Ergo, on those days, your light switches off 
As if she never existed in the first place 
But that lasts only for a few soul-shattering hours 
For after that, she fills herself with the ambrosian fuel of optimism and forgiveness 
And bounces back with increased vigour. 
 
___ 
 
<em>Abba: Father in Urdu language </em></pre>



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<h2 class="wp-block-heading">The Struggle of the Patient</h2>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">Life is an unpaved road 
intimidating 
and enormous like an elephant 
and I am 
wandering in it with invisible crutches 
under my jaded branches 
 
One crutch is scintillating, 
a shaft of 
inexhaustible hope - 
Ø¥ÙÙÙ٠اÙÙÙÙÙ Ù Ùع٠اÙصÙÙابÙرÙÙÙÙ 
(Indeed, God is with those who are patient.) 
 
And what am I 
if not a blob of congealed blood 
refusing to whine about my 
trials? 
 
The other crutch is profound, 
a rod too arduous 
to clench - 
ÙÙبÙØ£ÙÙÙ٠آÙÙاء٠رÙبÙÙÙÙÙ Ùا تÙÙÙØ°ÙÙبÙاÙÙ 
 (So which of the favours of your Lord will you deny?) 
 
And what am I 
if not a boulder instead of a heart 
refusing to count my myriad blessings? 
 
I have learned 
while perusing the books 
of knowledge by 
righteous luminaries 
 
Being patient 
cannot be likened to 
being grateful 
 
This conscientious soul 
desperately 
awaits a morning 
 
When this timid beauty 
can hold 
both the crutches 
 
with a wide smile 
as a jewel 
on her visage 
and sweetly whisper, 
" اÙØ٠د ÙÙ٠عÙÙ ÙÙ Øا٠" 
(All praise and thanks are only for God in all circumstances.)
</pre>



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<h2 class="wp-block-heading">Laughter</h2>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">I wish to share with you, 
every minute detail regarding how you kindle my dark soul on fire 
or 
the fragrance of gratitude that wafts in my lungs 
once inundated with grief 
after meeting you 
 
 
 But how do I tell you about your laughter?: 
that which distracts me the most. 
It is more satiating than water for a traveler in a desert. 
 
I know 
it is your exterior that could've easily been a subject of this poem because you're insanely charming 
but 
nothing compares to the rawness of your laughter 
and the delight it bestows upon me. 
 
When you laugh 
 I forget about the gnawing agonies of this brutal world 
 
But once your laughter fades, 
I'm reminded of everything that is broken in this world, 
everything broken about my heart. 
 
 
Beloved, never stop laughing. 
 
</pre>



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<p class="has-text-align-right has-background" style="background-color:#f1f1f8">Afra Adil Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist, and calligrapher based in Taiwan. She holds a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of society to problems faced by teenagers, imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories, and write-ups. Her works have appeared in various magazines, including Iman Collective, MYM, Rather Quiet, Ice Floe Press, and Olney Magazine.</p>
 
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‘THIS IS NOT A CURSE’ / ‘LIMBS’ / ‘ABBA’ / ‘THE STRUGGLE OF THE PATIENT’ / ‘LAUGHTER’ | five poems by Afra Adil Ahmad
Photo by Joshua Mcknight | pexels.com/