Whirling Dervishes

By Malvika Jayakumar

His orbs spin into mine,

Corroding the walls of time.

The tail of his Faiz beckoning me,

Like some hypnotic witch’s tresses.

He is the complex to a spinning top,

He is the allure which I abhor.

He is the Sheikh of tranquility

From the land of Hamams

He twirls the pace of a militia baton,

His feet spanning a tiny kingdom of sand.

He is oblivious to my gaze,

That drinks him in,

Like the honey you ooze

When parlaying your passion with one omnipotent

That which you never bother

Like a cellophane, looking through my face yonder,

Scanning for signs

Long before pocketed

In the shadows that trail you.

Yet one look you never deem

To those longing glances

Of mine you enrapture,

With every rhythmic eclipse you capture

Pining for the divine union

Which already you can have

Only if you see, only if you trust chance,

To the zeal of my want of a kindly word,

Or any gesture which suits you.

Yet, this monster repels me

For his kind aligns itself,

With that abstract plane,

Spewing its ties with the palpable

Full of mortal faces which prove facades so lame

And one face is mine.

Hence, I detest him,

His brood, his art, his patron.

But, confound my confusion,

Was it for him I faltered

Or the pulsations transcending his boomerang robes,

Into the environs around,

Convulsing frequencies infinite.

And let me tell you he is just too,

Doing good by his job and much more,

For day in and day out,

He crafts Sama’as,

Fed on frenzy a hookah smoker is in want of.

Maybe this will wane,

Fantasies fed on seventeen years,

Are always in vain

At least that is what is proper.

He is the pitcher filled to the brim,

How then, will it take mein.

Swimming through divine waters,

Is anyway futile-

The fly swatted with disgust.

Thus, I shall embrace his sight

But never his type.

Embroidered carpets of red and gold,

Oppressed by our haunches,

Its ends stick up

As derision for the drudgery,

Of unwanted sand immigrants,

Exiled by those revolving pair of toes.

Insolent sand I don’t mind you today.

Everything but my attention

Have been kept at bay.

Food platters lie cold,

And singers have throats sore.

By Malvika Jayakumar