Seeker Magazine - June-July 2005
Manav Sachdeva Maasoom
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Manav Sachdeva Maasoom, 27, works in Afghanistan as a Capacity Advisor to help transfer the ownership of Afghanistan's development back to the Afghan Government. Maasoom grew up in India till his mid-teens, then lived and studied in California, Michigan, Wisconsin, DC, and New York. He studied Poetry and Policy Studies, an independently created field, under the auspices of International Affairs at Columbia's School of International and Public Affairs. Manav Maasoom is a Sufibhakt by faith seeking the eternal beloved in Khorasan, the sun land of the dancing truths in and around Northern Afghanistan. Maasoom reads and writes poetry in English, Urdu, Punjabi, and some in Persian.
He writes: "In Afghanistan, no one writes poetry. People speak, say, live, dream, receive, serve poetry and it is written (in the absence of qatibs or writers surrounding the sufi, it is the self that writes). So do I."
Selections from "The Sufi's Garland"
--A Tribute to Emily Dickinson, Antonio Porchia and Rabindranath Tagore
XXXVII
Dear Affair
Kabul as you know is a lonely island with the dust sea all around. You were an oasis but as oases are, rare, timeless, sparse. I do regret that the oasis left me sooner than my heart's fill but a traveler must know only the desert is his true friend. Thus it is that I am making my peace with the land. I go atop the deserted desert hill over and above my little tin house and I see mud houses and a layer of unsettled dust above the city. Atop the hill I take the wind that is clear and closer to the air of yore. I look around and see fortresses some mid-20th, others younger or older. I entered one as it beckoned and I found scattered, used shells, canons, gunpowder bullets, and machine oil-pellets. They spoke to me and I spoke to them. A lovely field trip to times of seige and Amanullah Khan this would be for you.
Hope the winds of yonder land are just as pleasant and heartwarming. My doors will be flung open by these winds for a welcome to never forget.
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LX
Dear Artist not doing art
One involves holding a position, the other passion. One involves joining a vocation, the other an ongoing vacation. One involves being called a professional, the other a child who loves what he does. One involves producing for respect at work, the other producing works of high respect. One involves seeking fame and recognition yet always finding it eluding them; the other shunning it for joy yet always finding it haunting them. One is the profession, the other game.
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LXXI
could you spare any change, could you?
no, well have a good afternoon still
pause, unpause, walk on, short pauses
could I, yes, but should I
my father's words prod
"No khairaat* for anybody. Get a job!
Earn your shorba and naan!" ringing,
were they more true than truth, that which I see
is his good greetin' worth nothin'
surely it comes with a price at the eatery
or a hefty one at the consoling couch-man
must I give in, give it, give it in
that which is not, surely not my lunch money
not even my dessert, java, or tic tac toe
maybe, yeah, maybe my pack of gum before tax
muse as I haven't, are his words kind or kindly said,
worth not the trifle, the trouble of giving, just for today,
foregoing just for the day the measly, chewy, never
fully done, finally refused lump of wretched wrigley's
my father's words returnin', remindin', oh I,
I still, somehow still, manage,
to him lie, and walk on by...
*khairaat in persian refers to that which is un-earned, free, spare, given of good will by giver
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I
Shabad Shradanjali to Tagore's Gitanjali*
(Performed at Salaam Theatre, Downtown Manhattan, Winter 2003)
I found for me a love, a love so great, a love so great I could not contain, could not contain and I, I was sad. But when I learned that containment, that containment and betrothal are signs not of love but of life thereafter, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of losing, of losing my love…and loved freely.
And when I learned, sitting among the shoes and sheets and shards and sheer that, that the mind of man, that the mind of man too is a solo act, a solo uncontainable act, I lost my fears, my fears of losing, of losing my mind…and thought freely.
And when I learned that the mosque, the mandir, the church, the shrine are all homes of God, are all homes of God and not of the priest inside, I lost my fears, my fears of not knowing, of not knowing how to pray…and entered freely
And when I learned that the reservoirs of man, the inner reservoirs of man to take it, to take in, to take it in have no limits, I lost my fears, my fears of not being, of not being able to brook it…and took in freely
And when I learned that I could not save, could not save, those, those that never needed to be saved, I lost my fears, my fears of not being, of not being able to save, save enough for myself, save myself…and served freely
And when I learned that kindness, that kindness is not to be done to ensure, to ensure you get kindness in return, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of being, of being in their shoes some day…and shared freely
And when I learned that we, we means becoming we without losing, without losing that little bit, that little bit of me, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of you, my fears of you becoming we…and wed freely
And when I learned that acts of good, acts of good, acts of good need not become tokens, tokens that encash, need not become tokens that encash as good feelings in return, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of not being, of not being thanked enough, of being unappreciated…and helped freely
And when I learned that feelings of worth, that feelings of worth have more to do with works of respect, producing works of respect than working for respect, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of retiring, of retiring unbeknownst …and strived freely
And when I learned that giving alms is not, that giving alms is not for displaying strength, displaying strength of position or flashes of character, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of being, of being misunderstood…and gave freely
And when I learned being true must not, must not be a way to ensure they speak good of you, speak good of you when you are gone, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of not, of not being able to buy their words worth…and spoke freely
And when I learned that giving one's self, giving one's self in the karmic awareness that good will come upon you, will come upon you now or later by the laws of nature is even so selfish, then I, I lost my fears, my fears of not, of not being selfless enough…and rendered freely
And when I learned that acts of fear, acts of fear, that acts of fear reveal more of the feared, reveal more of the feared than of the fearful, then I, I lost my fear, my fear of being, of being afraid…and feared freely
*A word weave offering in loving respect and inspiration to Tagore's 1913 Nobel Prize book of songs Gitanjali
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CXCIII
a cloud of fog surrounds, shrouds my body and soul
I wonder if I'll lose myself to each subsumed roar
I run a million yards and lose you some
I run some more, lose you a bit more
the cocoon of nothingness carries me yonder
to a place quite empty as your wake before
or so I thought until I was with none around
no yonder to run, no soul to hold
only a throbbing crow with heart atorn
only to turn to wake to know
then take that arrow and stab me sure
alas, if only all I fathom were not for store
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CXXXV
I detect depression by the acts of crumbling coffee-cake in the hands of a December soul.
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CLXII
to the question whether poetry can be taught or not: there is an art to poetry and there is a craft to poetry...the craft can be taught and the art refined. one can respond to an innate art by learning the craft but certainly the craft must be taught either by self to self or from one or many refined thus so.
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XCIV
they are gone, those bright autumn day-falls
joyful midnights and easy-starting wheels
casually dressing and dreaming of going
to stars or Mars or somewhere afar…
these days my dear these days it's different
today our lovely Apple was carved
with its first flakes of winter-fall
groves a-gone cemeteries asleep
and as cars sputtered and the sun hid among its brethren
and murky skies veiled dancing bears, it occurred to me
I can still dream of going
to Mars or stars or somewhere where you are
perhaps more fancifully now than ever before
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(Copyright 2005 - All Rights Reserved by Manav Sachdeva Maasoom - No reproduction without express permission from the author.)
The full collection of Maasoom's poems can be found at The Sufi's Garland
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Letter to the Author: Manav Sachdeva Maasoom