No one had ever asked the ocean to hold its flow,
To indefinitely open its arms, its heart, its water
For passerby who loves the shorelines,
But doesn’t love the tempest in its soul.
The ocean ebbs away until it is safe within itself.
No one has ever asked the ocean to halt its ebb.
So why do they ask that of me?
Part One: Oil Lamps
Scheherazade knew the only way to save herself was to tell stories.
Every night she sat burning oil and lamp,
Embroidering the most elaborate of tales,
Oh, Sultan of darkness
Let Scheherazade enlighten your heart.
Part Two: The Storyteller
For a thousand night, she sat,
Letting her hair down.
For every lock of hair she unraveled,
She weaved a story so enticing…
Oh, but Scheherazade, never finished her tale.
Every dawn the sultan let her live
Because every night she trapped him
A little more with her fables.
Part Three: Sultan of Darkness
And why wouldn’t she?
After the one thousandth and one night,
Oh, great Sultan of darkness,
Fell in love with her words.
And how could he let her die with stories,
So wonderful and yet left unheard?
Part Four: Warrior That is You
Every morning you wake up and do your hair.
For every pin you weave,
And every twist of your wrist,
You tell yourself a story –
A story of struggle and ownership,
A story that gives you hope to live another day,
Fight another day.
Part Five: Reflections
Tell me,
Oh reflection on that mirror,
Why are Scheherazade’s stories tales,
And your stories lies?
Why don’t you believe,
That after one thousand nights
One morning you will wake up and fall in love
With the tales you carry in your heart?
So wonderful, and yet left unheard.
Oh storyteller, don’t you know?
Only you can spin yourself the most resplendent of tales!
How would you convince someone who doesn’t believe in God
What it means for you to choose to go to hell for them?
After you have been gone,
I have come to your city.
Your city smells of nostalgia of a past
So beautifully tragic.
Every place I go
I wonder if you’ve been there too.
On a different day, different year
Did we stand in the exact same spot?
I know you are not here now,
But you haunt every street corner of this city.
I am in your city and you are gone.
I am scared to go places you loved
Afraid I’ll find you there,
Afraid I won’t find you there.
How can I leave without seeing you?
How can I leave after I have seen you?
There are people here who miss you
But you knew that already.
So why leave?
I am in your city
And your city is not mourning your passing.
We are the coffee generation. Always on our toes, heading off to the next big things. We are breakfast on the go, car keys jingling and the radio always on. We love music like the the old gods loved honey – sweet to our ears, bitter to our hearts. We are early mornings, but never sun rises. We are umbrellas, snow boots and beach ready – all in one day. We have to be. We are airplanes, always flying, never stopping to appreciate all that we see.
We are the late night generation. Full moons and empty balconies. Blankets and swings. We are scalding tea and fireplace with warm hands. We are your favorite poems, written and unwritten. We write silence into our lives, because we know at the end, poems must all end. Because we hear the breath of sigh before you say the last word. We are road trips, following the map upside down, instead mapping the sky with our thumb and forefinger. We always travel in pictures instead of memories.
We are fearless of the world, and yet afraid of ourselves. We love all voices except the one inside our heads. We want love like its something you buy. We want warranty, 90 day return policy and we are so afraid to make commitments. We are classrooms filling our heads with the complexities, forgetting basic humanity.
I know we are the generation of digital clocks and cell phone times, but… god why don’t we go back to looking at hourglasses? How will we understand how time slips through if we don’t see the sands piling at the bottom? Why can’t we be a library of books. Tell me, how will you smell your ebooks, fold the corners and slip your fingers through when you need peace? Why don’t we love sunrise and sunsets equally? Why sleep through when the sun comes and be sad when it finally leaves? Why not we be the generation with photo albums and wedding rings? Dream catchers and paintings? Kaleidoscopes and letter writers? Why can’t we be again the flowers that are pressed in a notebook? Can’t you hear, they are calling us home?
Why do you do this to yourself?
Why do you stand and ask the girl in the mirror who you are?
Why do you ask the numbers if you are worthy?
Do you not know,
They do not know
How to label you appropriately.
If you ask strangers to define you,
They will cut you up until they can fit you in the norm.
You are never just the norm.
Your mother did not stand straight
For nine months she carried your weight,
So that one day you can walk without your spine folding.
So why do you let others,
Shame you into silence?
Neither priceless nor worthless have any real value.
So who gets to decide if you are one over the other?
Why do you ask your poetry to bleed for you?
Why do you ask your art to cry over you.
Why do you lie to yourself every night?
This world doesn’t need anymore lies.
You have turned your voice hoarse
Defending people you know nothing about,
Defending emotions.
Why have you let the world turn your heart into a battlefield.
Since when have you become so defenseless?
You were not born to justify your existence.
You don’t have to prove your beliefs.
And ever time you explain yourself to others,
You let them know they have a right to those questions.
Your life is not a comprehension test to the world.
You don’t have to make sense to others
At the cost of your sanity.
So every time they come bearing tags,
Tell them you mother did not name you unique
So that they can turn you into something ordinary.
Tell them you are ballad, a song
Written in a language long forgotten.
Tell them your story is carved in stone,
In a city now lost underground.
Tell them you have built monuments
For every tear you let fall.
Tell them you can’t be loved so easily.
And that’s okay by you.
Tell them the next time they come to box you up,
You will tear apart the seams
Every time.
I wish I was your hero,
Just the way you were mine
Wish I could free you from your sorrow
Instead of sitting here and crying.
Couldn’t you tell me when you were hurting,
Felt lost beyond hope,
Couldn’t you let me be your hero,
Just once before you let go?
Amar Shobdo 