Saad Ali

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The Milky Way – Culaccino1
 
after Milky Way Dreaming by Gabriella Possum Nungurrayi (Australia), 1997 CE
 
for Lorette C. Luzajic, Bella N. Gul & Nashwa Y. Butt
 
Gravity 
 
The cup cannot stand the heat of the freshly brewed Brazilian Argento (washed; Vienna roast; notes: nutty chocolaty, tobacco, sweet ‘n bitter)—a courtesy of the 750 ml French Press—its porcelain body starts to perspire. A big globule of sweat knows it cannot escape the gravity of the cup; still, to somehow evade the situation, it starts travelling downwards—towards the base of the cup. The globule is clever: it knows it cannot climb upwards, ‘cause such an adventure will merely get it as far as the mouth of the cup and make it inevitably fall straight into the hot, hot black qahwah2 inside the belly of the cup. Hence, it hurries and gets to the bottom in the blink of an eye – tucks away under the foot of the cup and moves out of sight. A parliament of fellow globules of sweat follow in its footsteps.
 
*
Culaccino
 
By the time I finish reading ‟Some Meaning—,” ‟What I’m Made Of,” ‟When Alice became the Rabbit” and a dozen+ micro narratives from the Best Microfiction ‘21 by M. Pokrass & G. Fincke, in the midst of a dozen+ lifts and placements of the cup, the big globule and a multitude of medium and small comrades manage to morph into an asymmetrical cluster of culaccini on the surface of the coaster (with a print of the classical City of Florence, Italy). And the moment the culaccini inside the pair of my retinae catch the sight, the moment of eureka transpires: under my nose, such an esoterically enlightening analogy for making sense of the motions of uni/multi/superverse—where, the Milky Way is merely another teeny-weeny culaccino at the foot of a ginormous cup of space ‘n time.
 
**
 
1. Culaccino (Latin): A mark/stain (ring) left on a surface by the bottom of a cup/glass. Culaccini (plural form).
2. Qahwah (Arabic): Coffee.
 
**
 
Passenger Seat
 
after Stanley na Tasmáine (Stanley, Tasmania) by Julie Breathnach-Banwait (Ireland), 2025 CE
 
for Lajwanti H. Kahn
 
Fetish
 
‟Bum’s not even my fetish; ‘tis feet, actually; nb: both non/sexually,” I, Creature o’ Subliminal, thoughtfully explain myself, as I reach out for my (smart) mobile phone with my right hand (right hand) and try to pull it out from under her left bum-cheek, sat in the passenger seat. She squints, momentarily; locks my peepers with hers, maybe next time ‘round, I’ll make my feet sit on your ‘smartphone,’ then; smacks my hand with the laminated menu card. … “What’s yours? … Fetish, I mean?” but my intrigue only manages to get as far as the squeezing of muscles ‘n veins of her eyelids.
 
She puts her finger on ʽ69. Prawns In Oyster Sauce’ under the Chinese Seafood section; through the windscreen, signals the server – ever ready to take the order at the podium (installed outside at the entrance to YUM – Chinese & Thai Café). Make up your mind already. Don’t make me eat alone tonight! passes the menu over. … The very hybrid noun-verb, eat, can’t help but stimulate the subliminal, but I deliberately refrain from thinking out loud the internal monologue.
 
*
 
Inside vs. Outside
 
A classic – ہے / وہ کل بھی پاس پاس تھی / وہ آج بھی قریب ہے کچھ عجیب تھی / یہ شام بھی عجیب وہ شام –* humming on the (basic) digital console (via YouTube®, synced to my (basic) Samsung® A04s via The Bluetooth®) by the forever green Kishore Kumar; the air conditioner (set to 140C vs. 470C of Summer Heat/Humidity + mosquito swarms outside); and the quantum merger of the fumes from our perfumes (LACOSTE® / Pour Lui Magnetic + Touch o’ Pink) render the ambiance fetish-able inside my modern-day electric-blue hybrid vahana,** Toyota Yaris (1.0 Litre/semi-petrol, semi-electric).
 
**
 
*The past nightfall was mystical / So is the present nightfall, eccentrical / She was near ‘n dear, yesterday / She’s nearest ‘n dearest, today. English translation: Author (Mine). A classical Hindi song sung by one of the most revered Indian singers, Late Kishore Kumar (1929 – 1987 CE), from a classical Hindi film, Khamosi (1969). Original Hindi song lyrics by one of the most revered Indian Urdu poets and lyricists, Gulzar (Sampooran Singh Kalra).

**Vahana (Sanskrit): A ride of god/dess.

**

Some Loves*
 
for Emily Berry
 
love of click-clacks of the keys of keyboards; love of the flickering flames of candles; love of smells of the pages of books; love of the malt of whisky on the rocks; love of the aromas of cigarettes; love of the smells of ground coffee beans; love of the nibs of fountain pens; love of the spirals of leather bound journals; love of the letters of incomplete verses; love of the flip-flaps of flip-flops; love of the tippy-toes of tiny feet; love of the flip-flaps of the wings of fireflies; love of the radiant red of red roses; love of clickety-clacks of the wheels of trains; love of the creek-cracks of wooden floors; love of the creek-cracks of cider doors; love of the wet of rain-soaked sand; love of the green of green grass; love of the tangy-tangerineness of tangerines; love of the flavours of home-made pickles; love of the perfumes of clean clothes; love of the hair of hairy cats; love of the tails of tall dogs; love of the flowers of florentine flasks; love of the barbs of owl plumage; love of the teeth of pitch forks; love of the prints of parsley frocks; love of the lights of traffic signals; love of the boards of road signs; love of the rails of train tracks; love of the bottoms of bootcut fit jeans; love of the creases of corduroy jackets; love of the heels of chukka boots; love of the wheels of hybrid cars; love of the aisles of aeroplanes; love of the shelves of supermarkets; love of the blue of big ocean-blue eyes; love of the slips of small lips; love of the bones of petite faces; love of the knots of iranian kilims; love of the windows of glass-buildings; love of the stretches of long-long roads; love of the glow of big mobile phone screens; love of the chills of cold-cold december nights; … (keep filling the blanks).
 
**
 
*A response to a prose poem, “Some Fears,” by a contemporary poet of prose poem, Emily Berry (2013).
 
**
 
This poem first appeared in Owl Of Pines: Sunyata, by Saad Ali (AuthorHouse, 2021).
 
**

The New Religion
 
after Carousing Computers by Eileen Agar (The UK, b. Argentina), 1988 CE
 
for Cameron A. Batmanghlich & Nikolaos Karfakis
 
1. 
These days, the epitome o’ emptiness, for an addict, is waking up (from a sound sleep) to an empty mobile phone account and without any access to the internet. ‘Tis a different kind of emptiness than the one professed by the proponents of the School o’ Sunyata, though.*
 
Nota bene: life and living are more the matters of compulsions – socio-psychological in nature, above all.
 
These days though, the attorneys of the Homo Sapiens Enterprise can be found industriously preoccupied with making all kinds of promises regarding freeing the humankind from at least the intrinsic-instinctual-compulsions.
 
Anyway, ‘tis a poem and NOT a genealogy of homo sapiens, or critical treatise on its visions and missions of becoming some ‘homo deus.’ (As if the (demi-)devas/devis have ever been found to be much freer from desires.)
 
2.
En route – on foot and in PJs – to the local tobacco kiosk, the voice-in-my-head flexes its vocal cords: I’ve actually never ever looked up anywhere as to what the modern-day scientists and nutritionists have to advise ‘bout the daily recommended intake of mobile phone balance, internet data usage, and content consumption – modern-day Digital Fetish!
 
3.
Apparently, all manner of modern-day spiritual Pandits of Mind & Body have all manner of measurement scales, models & formulae for regulating our (conspicuous) consumption fetish. Without exaggeration, so much so that there are recommendations for the daily allowance of inhaling ‘n exhaling, these days. A sheer courtesy of the New Paradigm – RELIGION, more like – they are so very proudly pronouncing Algorithmism — a marvel of the faith that the Duo o’ Science-Technology has placed in the enterprise named Homo Fictio Simulatio (Simulation Fashioning Man).
 
**
 
*Sunyata (Mahayana/Theravada Buddhism): This school of philosophy professes the absence of ‘intrinsicness’/’essence’ i.e. being and phenomena are subject to flux (change). This metaphysical system of thought is primarily concerned with comprehending the properties of ‘emptiness,’ ‘hollowness,’ or ‘nothingness.’

**
This poem first appeared in Owl Of Pines: Sunyata, by Saad Ali (AuthorHouse, 2021).
 
**

New Habit
 
after Man Smoking by Alberto Magnelli (Italy), 1914 CE
 
for Shaohua, Christiana, George & Nikolaos
 
Summer o’ ’06 CE
 
The Summer in ’06 had just sprouted. She had finally decided to return to her port of origin. She said she didn’t have enough monies – neither did her parents – to invest further into any higher education degrees anymore. And being on the same boat, I knew she wasn’t lying either—being an Alien in The UK isn’t a walk in the park. Neither did I have any healthy financial reserves to support her. She said she wanted to find work; wanted to change her lifestyle; she had had enough of studies. But, with an MA from Cambridge, she was already rather over-qualified. It was no wonder she was having all kinds of difficulties with securing any decent jobs with any firm. Anyone in her shoes in fact would’ve faced similar dilemmas.
 
*
 
I didn’t stop her from going back either – being logical/rational/mature and all. And neither did I stop the sea of tears running down my cheeks, when I kissed her goodbye at London Heathrow. … Before I turned around – to make it to the Victoria Train Station to catch my train back to Leicester on time – she said, … But it’s not as if we’re never going to meet again. … And yes, the goodbye-kiss wasn’t the last (goodbye-)kiss!
 
*
​
First, it was George & Christiana; then, it was one Malaka Nikos; now, it’s her!* … Oh my days! How many more am I meant to see off at the airports and these sad, sad train stations here? I thought to myself, with mildly wet eyes, on the 2-hour long, long, long train journey back to the Environmental City of The UK. … (Only a couple of years down the road, little did I know, no one was going to be there to see me off at the very airport. … Life has her own peculiar bag of tricks & treats to teach a lesson or two, I suppose.) 
 
Summer o’ 07 CE
 
Throughout the post meridiem, the mild, mild breeze had kept toying with the impulsive afternoon-pulse; now was luring the quiet of the twilight to her nest of dreams – like one vengeful Medusa disguised as an Athena. It was pleasant enough to walkabout in flip-flops and shorts.
 
*
 
But, this Summer o’ ’07 had been rather unexpectedly hard on me. At the entrance to Nixon Court, I tended to my newly found habit – smoking cigarettes – and tried to regain perspectives on things: Hmm. But if not for purely intellectual and philosophical reasons, why would I even want to pursue this doctoral research in the first place? How could he demand a change of orientation from me at this stage? I would rather I had withdrawn from the programme altogether! For, without the ‘Working Class Hero’, there cannot be any ‘Heroes’ anyway! Besides, I’m not in it merely for pursuing a professional career, after all! … Maybe, maybe the Professor did understand my state of mind, but perhaps, wanted me to see there wasn’t any need to rip the wings off of the bird at this stage. Hmm. I don’t know. It’s all history now, but only brushed under the carpet, for now, I’m afraid.
 
Summer o’ ’08 CE
 
The Summer in ’08 was knocking on the door now. Behind the office desk at my new workplace in Manchester, the urge to fulfill the desire for the due dosage of nicotine and caffeine was making me rather suffocated. 
 
*
 
At the ramp, I lit the hand-rolled cigarette; snatched myself from myself for a moment to myself: Hmm. I think I’ve taken the right decision. No! I don’t think I am in self-denial here, at all. I don’t think there is any ‘escapism’ here, really. Sometimes, it’s simply not possible to fix a broken situation no matter how hard one tries; so, it’s simply best to change the course of action. And perhaps, it was about time for me to put my life on a different path – give it a New Direction. Yes, that’s right! … But perhaps, sticking to this new habit isn’t such a grand idea. We shall see. Anyway, soon it will be time to pack my suitcase and bid the UK farewell. I will exchange this new habit for new stories & chapters that await me in Down Under, I suppose. Let that be the raison d’être now!
 
**
 
*Malaka (Greek slang): Loser/Idiot.
 
**

This poem was first published in Ephemeral Echoes: Twenty Twenty-One Edition, by Saad Ali (AuthorHouse, 2021).
 
**

little did he know
 
for Ejaz Rahim, Lloyd Jacobs & Farooq Malik
 
initially, he took to (reading & writing) poetry as a means of catharsis. little did he know, it was to be rendered a force of habit, in no time. little did he know, he was entering into a wedlock with late hours of post meridiem and early hours of ante meridiem. little did he know, the habit was bound to trespass into the terrain of compulsion, in no time. for, he had the infamous aphorism violated the sovereignty of his thalamus: pen is mightier than the sword. little did he know, no matter how many pens and books and papers he befriended, none were going to help him save himself from himself, as he floated from one island of form to another, on one boat of literary-tools to another. little did he know, all the islands and boats were already amply congested. little did he know, he was en route to befriending perplexity, in no time – from putting his faith in one fortune-teller to another, from confiding in one friend to another, from finding solace in one sibling to another, from pursuing composing one magnum opus to another. little did he know, he was en route to becoming devoured by the cultural-normatives – no matter how religiously he professed cause & effect. little did he know, his cart was en route to pulling over at the door of (amor) fati – no matter how resolutely he advocated flux.

**

This poem was first published in Ephemeral Echoes: Twenty Twenty-One Edition, by Saad Ali (AuthorHouse, 2021).

**
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Saad Ali is a poet-philosopher & literary translator from the UK and Pakistan. He holds a BSc and an MSc in Management from the University of Leicester, UK. His new collection of poems, Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021), is an homage to vers libre, prose poem, and ekphrasis. He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrases into Urdu. His work appears in several anthologies, including Poetry in English from Pakistan by Ilona Yusuf & Shafiq Naz (eds.). He has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and Best Microfiction. His influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, Freud, Jung, Kafka, Tagore, Lispector and more. www.facebook.com/owlofpines