Sultana Raza

Fusion Lunatique¹

 

Bubbling with elation,

at being picked by a chef with a

world famous temper, slivers of

almonds, coconut, gingerly

roasted with nostalgic

élan, rejoice by partying with

oats in a goji berried sauce.

 

Fried with patience, oriental dough yields

gilded stars crisp with

altruistic aspirations of nutmeg to be

grounded disdainfully with

asafoetida, black onion seeds,

caramelized cardamom, which

lead to an

over-abundance of flavors.

 

Yet, nuggets of wisdom abscond

eternally from chef's curried attempts

to create a unique fusion of

eastern piquant sauces toned down

by western blandness.

 

Meanwhile, guests search in vain

for delicious bites of oriental snacks

that could be partnered with trendy drinks.

 

¹Moody Fusion (cuisine) in French

 

Ophelia Whirling

 

Prologue

 

Didn’t go tamely to the nunnery,

But fueled her anger on his indifference,

cold unconcern for her needs,

till it spumed out in gigantic swirls of rage.

 

***

 

With her tears swelling up rivers,

she chomps off heads of frail hopes,

disregarding carefully laid plans of mice

too busy in the rat race,

(to stop and think of anything but the race)

she spits, hisses, spooks cars away.

 

Even her slight shudders shake shopping malls

so their core businesses melt with power cuts

shattering wi-fi to bits and bytes of nonsensical chatter

 

Shooting out winds that blast off concrete walls,

she claims lives, cruelly random,

haphazard injustice, so their relatives think.

 

Dancing furiously she continues to

mirror back stories of mistreatment

angry at the horrendous uprooting,

hacking of trees by puny human saws.

 

She’ll show them what it means to

destroy carelessly for the sake of

selfish, endless, gorging,

addictive, disjointed consumption.

 

So now she’s whirling her skirts,

spinning out tales of havoc wreaked

by wild nature, first scorned by man,

by the sacred feminine trampled over

for too long, by too many,

for too many shallow reasons.

 

Note: this poem was inspired by Hurricane Ophelia that hit Ireland on 17 Oct 2017.

http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-41627442

and the USA in September 2023

Ophelia wreaks havoc, causes washout in mid-Atlantic and Northeast

 

 

Singing Head, Photographic Collage, S. Raza

  

Enigmatic Melodies

 

Strange, even my feathered friends

can’t grasp my dialect,

though they’re able to whistle along

chirpily enough to my tunes.

 

At least this way, I’m able to leave

a trace of my thoughts

in this hot garden, though the mortals

don’t know why these koels sing in

a particular tune, or use a specific melody.

 

If only someone could comprehend

my lyrics in this verdant place,

heavy with lush humidity in the monsoon.

 

Perhaps, it’s just as well

they’ve been spared my tale of woe,

for can any statue recount another one?

 

I wish I could take a bite of these mangosteens, langsats,

star fruits, or guavas that sparrows are going on about.

That would be some compensation

for bearing the overpowering heat,

since in parched summer I feel like my

weathered face will crack soon.

 

Burn gently sun, or you’ll set my tunes aflame.

 

Note: inspired by my art-work, Singing Head.

Previously published in Blaze Vox Journal, in Fall 2024.