Poet’s Fantasy-

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I saw thou in my dream, thy glory to its fullest
I give up my restraint, shalt submit myself to thee
Thy voice of wonders, filled with envies of nightingales
Thou, a piece of art; thy eyes, hallelujah!
Let me savour those lips of thy, sweeter than the sweetest
God help me, if I get lost in thy hair so majestic
And thy serpent’s glare, my demons thy acolytes
The grandiloquent verses of songs thou sing
I envy the breeze that blow thy hair
The divine sight of thy face, restoring faiths

Alas! All thou shalt ever be
is nothing but the poet’s fantasy

By
Atta ul Kibria

 

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Theatre of Lies-

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The red velvet curtains of the theatre
The play begins with a silent audience
A pleasant darkness with a golden lustre
A neon spotlight and its radiance

Tale of a servant and his Lord
Poor’s loyalty and elite’s humility
The loyal in love with elite’s betrothed
Magical dialogues and their brevity

The play ended with a surprising end
The crowd left captivated
Elite gives up his love but a loyal friend
Praised by humbles and sounds, the play was well hated

The writer wrote his own life
The play was the other way around
Elite abducted and raped his wife
Floating breathless in the river, she was found

No blade slit his wrists
But his pen tore the page
Walls painted red with his fists
Nothing to end his pain and rage

The writer wrote a plot to murder
Corroding in his vengeance
Elite’s house got hit by the thunder
Ending with him, his menace

Drinking and writing
He struggled to find purpose
Writing and lying was his only thing
So he joined the human circus

By
Atta ul Kibria

 

The Crimson Poet-

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That neon dimmed room
That feeble coffee whiff
That sharp chill of the winter
That warmth of the burning timber

That long night
That charade of serenity
That touch of her phantom
That love and its anthem

That howling of the wind
That screeching of the wooden chair
That sweet melody of the typewriter
That last smile of the fighter

That heavenly face of the preacher
That divine disposition
That hiss of the serpent
That curse of the present

That blink of her eye
That mole on her cheek
That shade of her hair
That look of despair

That memory of the town
That time so unreal
That Poet so far drifted
That life, that never existed

By
Atta ul Kibria

 

“We’re your Daughters!”-

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The drunk greedy shepherd
Obsessed with his wool
Never existed in this world
A bigger fool

A mind so greedy
With stories that someone fed
He sought forbidden wealth
A sheep whose wool is red

He had a dozen sheep
And three of them daughter
Despite the beating and his curses
They still loved their father

The word of a merchant
Spread like fire in the town
He had something precious
Than gold and any crown

The shepherd went to meet him
With an offer in his mind
If he wanted the red sheep
Something of value he must find

He took with him his daughters
And met the foreign merchant
Redefining his lowness
He presented the three virgins

“Not a hand laid on ’em, but mine
Three beauties for the red
You won’t find an offer so fine”
For the girls, their father was dead

“We’re your daughters!”, cried the youngest
“You’re the daughters for a whore
Thank The Lord she died
Before I became father of four”

He took the red sheep
Not a regret on his face
He didn’t see his demise coming
Never had the time to brace

The red sheep disappeared that night
Faceless ladies in red robes
They choked him and scratched his flesh off
He couldn’t do anything but to sob

The ladies revealed their faces
They were all so familiar
As they drew away his last breath
“We’re your daughters!”, they said

By
Atta ul Kibria

 

Hopeless Sinner-

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As the water pattered down the white ceramic
She stood there, naked
Wearing an invisible cloak of sins

Her hair drenched
Water running down her bruised body
That warmth used to heal
But now it suffocated her
Those showers felt like arrows piercing her soul

With every long and hollow breath
Her soul peaked out of her eyes
Crying to be free
As the crimson swirled down the drain with clear water
Her eyes refused to shut on grey

Just the pattering of water
No cry, no sigh
Washing the anxieties off a piece of meat

By
Atta ul Kibria

The Typewriter-

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The melody of his typewriter wakes her up
In the darkest hour of a chilly winter night

She sits by the fire and watches him type
As he weaves an eloquent net
Dragging the words out of his poetic realm

With every single stroke of his finger, a demon dies
With every single stroke, he risks his life
A demon he is, sobered by her love

She gets up and halts his tired fingers
As they glide endlessly over the worn out keys

She wraps him up in her warm embrace
And kisses his forehead
Blessing him with the elixir of love

As the night grows old
They both lay in each other’s arms
Sharing their warmth, creating a fantasy

He gets up and types again
Of an unlikely intimacy

She, who is the goddess of love
and he, who is the pawn of death
He, who is the poet of winters
And she, who resides inside his head

By
Atta ul Kibria

The Little Boy-

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Once there lived a little boy
Had no friend, had no toy

He ran into the woods, so deep
Went lost and started to weep

He spent the night, where the demons lurk
The little fellow was scared and berk

Wide awake, he heard a voice
The demons conspired and rejoice

The poor boy, little did he know
He kept listening, as the night grow

He remained still, till the morning
As they cast a wicked spell on him

They incited in his mind, a bloody mischief
A scolded child but not again if

He decided to kill all his kins
To be buried under the multitude of sins

From the woods, he found a way
Dark melody on his mind, as he sway

Found his father on the porch, drinking whiskey
Enjoying the morning of his early fifty

The darkness overshadowed his love
Back of father’s neck, the screwdriver he shove

With a creepy smirk, his shoulders go slack
As he saw his mum, washing clothes at the back

He wraps her neck, with the clothesline
Pulled it tight, till she showed no sign

He went inside the house
Blood thirsty like a louse

Inside the cradle, he found his baby brother
Sleeping in peace, his breath smoother

Not once did he think of a sin, so low
As he killed the baby’s breath ‘neath a pillow

The little kid still hungry for more
There’s no cure for a heart so sore

The little boy saved himself for the last
As he blew his head with a pistol’s blast

By
Atta ul Kibria

Constellations-

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She stands alone amidst the dark
As the violet sky shows off its glitters
She finds herself among the constellations
Drifting into a glittery trance
She delves the space for her star
Lilac and crimson, bright and mild
The star of her lover
A lover, she lost among the constellations

By
Atta ul Kibria

Of Tulips & Her-

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I stood there amongst the tulips
As she ambled by
With tired and crimson eyes
I watched her going away
She left behind a dismal scent
As the breeze blew the scent away
I remained there, left with memories
Days and nights, seasons changed

I died everyday, burning in eternal sympathy
Rants of my first love and its symphony

By
Atta ul Kibria

Into The Dark-

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He knows she’s out there
Somewhere, far away in the cosmos
A celestial abyss of nothingness
A spectrum of dark auras
He delves for her every night
With his eyes closed
A body drenched in chill
And a feeling of dismal intimacy
Every night, he drifts further away
Into the love stained canvas of denial

By
Atta ul Kibria