ghazal azad jahan

@odeonoud.bsky.social

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poet / glory to the martyrs https://odeonoud.carrd.co/

To Mothers With Daughters, (ghazal) Before you braid your daughter’s hair, hear a daughter’s heart. A rotten heart where rage sits. So begin by reminding her, we are born of red. Venus — a burning planet is still a symbol of love. Neatly brush her hair. Be gentle on knots. Those tangles; of life and beyond, need time. It is an overbearing labour. I had witnessed the ruins of impatience. A scar left untreated for a perpetual time becomes a part of the body. A daughter is a mother stitching patches of her abandoned selves and unfulfilled purposes to be a shell of flesh where she births her longing. There is a power in knowing you could manifest God. Part her hair. Plant your tales in there. Three strands. In our spines where wings should have been. Tell her, she is as beautiful as the night’s sky. Tell her, she is enough. A daughter learns love from her mother first. A bond is a broken mirror in a closed fist. Those inflicted are neither martyrs nor victors. Just daughters.
‘bury me with my words’ (ghazal) When death knocks, as a shy lover returning back home, do not hesitate. I longed for her deep kiss. For how long? I could not count. I sink in an ocean that cuts through minutes. I am a frozen clock. Let my beautiful lover in. Her smile is the first sunshine of spring. Open every window. If there is the sun, let it burn each rotten corner. I am Icarus. If there is the moon, let it be a mother and cradle me. Slice me a pomegranate. I need benevolence in ruins. Slice it with care. All my love shall become winds. I hope, I glide over a few pages in a quiet, old library. And, left is this body. Bury me with my words; all diaries I half-lived, all unwritten letters and confessions, even wrinkled pages. May I be : each syllable I had spoken, those only whispered and those I had forgotten. I wish to be whole. Just this once. So absolutely, maddeningly, wholly. Bear the witness. Take a note of my rage and low breaths, oh the mud who confines me. Handle with care, oh the angels raising me up at dawn. Handle this evidence of survival. Let me tear open each page. Oh Judge of All, testify. Here is the blood. Here is the proof of your silence. Here are the cries. Do you feel how the earth crumbles in these hands? How shall you atone? How should a sculptor seek forgiveness if his own creation breaks free from him?
a dragonfly’s memoir’ (ghazal) On a hot morning, I saw a dragonfly. So small, the bowl of a teaspoon could become its boat. Two wings like sliced halves of the festive moon. How big is the world, if a paper could become their acres of snowfield? Lord, when I feel so small, ease me with a thought of those little friends. Then, the dragonfly marches inside an electric socket. Had it believed, there was an ancient tunnel? So glad, there was no thunder. Lord, if ever I am in a wrong place; foolishly or hopelessly, let there be gentleness. Let there be a caring presence outside, waiting. Let there be a guiding light. Later, the little friend flew in the summer heat. I hope she is somewhere, resting on a flower. Lord, let there be no prejudice, despite the littleness.
‘a good friend’s cat i adore’ (by ghazal, user odeonoud) I should ask you more often : how has the day been? I dislike rain but your curiosity for clouds is what I am fond of. Yet, I shall never truly know if farewells are just as heavy for you. Maybe, this is a flaw, loving so unknowingly. But, I will try again. I will wrap this heart of mine tight inside a red ball of yarn. Take it. Teach me how I should live. Climb in my bed. I love you so dearly. this poem is written for a dear friend’s cats, whom i love so much.