Hot Fucking June

Ode To Polo
(Hamza Ijaz - Poet)

These are but words, and words have always failed,
Though in your hands such words have lived and hailed
The most intense of passions, and visions
No eye can see but yours; not I but you,
You are the one, who’s in tune with the spheres,
The immeasurable depths of oceans full of thought.
The span of wings with which one soars above;
The green of trees; the grit of sand; the light of moon;
The sense of love no lover can enthuse;
The immense and the minute; the length and breadth
Of heaven and of earth is in your pen;
The violin or the flute, no music can produce
But it is yours or it shall be in time.

Alas! These words must fail: receding waves
That touched the hem of your most noble cloak
And learnt that all the waters of the seas
And all the moisture of the world cannot
But saturate the merest tip of your
Most outer covering cloth. And inside,
Where galaxies of knowledge pure reside,
No encapsulating Words can boast
That they have understood the soul of you
And returned to educate one and all.
For those who turn to you, they are the blessed
And none so foolish that returns from thence.

If God has touched you so, then twice blessed
Am I who has the luck to breathe with you
The air, the molecules of which have joined
Us both in bonds that hardened steel would
Understand
If it could but feel the tip of its own arrow
Pierce its heart and yet not renounce its love.
The greatest sage, that our age produced:
My friend, who in this world of woe, nothing
But love has loosed, was born this day, today
Two and twenty years ago.

Hot Fucking Junes

Thirsty is the paradox of a sweat soaked face:
Like a hostile soil that expels all moisture.
In still June, emery eyes, scratch out their blinks.
Iridescent white walls, summer’s teeth, bared.
My soul stands throat-deep in imaginary pools.
I see from above my own cross section,
- As if the top has been surgically removed -
Of a half-flooded throat desperate to swallow.
But the pool is cologne, aromatic and cool.
Surely this is hell. Apartment of fire;
Here I retire and hope to pass,
Three more months before the magnifying glass
Finds other things to burn, and I, like an ant,
Can sigh a breath of relief, when winter comes.