Her last portrait.

Aadil Ghulam Bhat

(Poet and Author)

She was oasis to my desert,

A sun of hope to my heart.

The whispers of affection,

A red whinny ink unto my pen.

A freedom of a prisoner,

My nightingale, a beautiful listener.

A bunch of words to my poetry,

A poem decorated with imagery.

She was moonlight in my darkness,

A balm of solace to my distress.

The echoes of sweet devotion,

A golden sonnet in constant motion.

A liberty to my captive soul,

Making broken hearts whole.

She is verses in my rhyme,

An art painted with over time.

She was the calm before the storm,

A rainbow after the rain has worn.

The anchor in my stormy sea,

A melody in the chaos, wild and free.

The heavenly muse that fueled my art,

A beating rhythm in my lonely heart.

She was a sunrise after the night,

A haven where everything felt right.

But, now a water to flaming fire,

A faulty, busted, twisted wire.

A colorless resistor to my current,

A cloudy fade unto my Crescent.

The cut of furious and sharp knife.

Fearful archangel' kiss to my life,

Comments

Anonymous said…

wow beautiful poem...... lots of love

27 February 2024 at 06:38

Do you hear the walls bleed

Aadil Ghulam Bhat Poet and Author Do you hear the walls bleed at night? Do you hear them weep in whispered wails, In midnight murmurs no man dares read, Their tired tales tucked beneath paint— Beneath the smog of propaganda? I have seen the silence scream. I have seen laughter die in daylight. I have seen light snuffed by sorrow, By eyes too tired to wonder. I have seen. I have seen— Pillows swallowing sobs like mourners, Doors that forgot the art of welcome, Ceilings sagging under secrets, Windows blinking away the bullets, As though war were only weather. The walls—they flinch in fright. They remember what we bury. They remember how bullets bloom, How joy jolts and dies on entry, How peace parades in camouflage. They wear wounds beneath wallpaper, Tremble in the tapestries of time. I asked the door, “How many left Barefoot, shadows stretched past dawn?” It did not answer—but it groaned. Every crack is a confession. Every nail, a narrative unnamed. Even the bricks wear qui...

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In conversation with Tagore

Aadil Ghulam Bhat Poet & Author. (Where the mind is without fear A nd the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;) ~ Rabindranath Tagore O h dear Tagore! the lament of the written words—this sacred art, Once a medium for profound contemplation, it has now been diminished to the triviality of emails and text messages. I can’t help, but imagine how you might have navigated this digital chaos.Perhaps you would have found yourself calling as an Instagram poet, crafting pithy 280-character gems of wisdom into condensed, bite-sized pieces perfectly suited for the fleeting attention spans of scrolling fingers. Your insightful reflections on the human condition would likely be drowned in a sea of hashtags like #LiteraryNoble and #nobleforlikes, lost amid an endless parade of selfies a...

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The Misandry

Aadil Ghulam Bhat Poet and Author I see them in the streets, Hands raised not in harmony but in war, Calling it freedom— Yet binding themselves to old chains in new forms, Waving banners stitched with borrowed words. The voices rise, shrill and sharp, But the echo returns hollow. What is it they seek? Not balance, not equality— But a throne made of the ashes of men, Proclaiming it justice, as if vengeance wears a crown. Feminism—once a flame in the dark, Clear as the dawn, with purpose stark, Now chanted by those who wield it high, Not as a torch, but as a sword. They cut down all who dare stand, For how dare a man share the air they breathe? Do they know what they destroy? The bridge they set aflame Leads back to the same barren land, Where hatred wears the mask of liberation, And the chains—so polished, so proud— Are worn by choice, dressed in slogans. And I— I am but a quiet voice in the crowd, Speaking of shadows and illusions. But truth, forgotten, lingers in the dust O...

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Aadil Ghulam Bhat

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