Lonely, nomad guest

The Lonely, Nomad Guest

There are times when we want to escape the busy world and run to the glories of the trees and rivers, where only the stars and the moon can be seen behind great mountains and thickets of trees. The serenity of one’s own company. Self company. Just you and your oar, ripping through the water and then stopping to rest underneath a starry night. Sitting in between the sky and the water, at their summit, where they both come to greet and the Moon brings its light as a housewarming gift to the Sea, and the Sea displays it proudly upon its table. And you wait in the shadows of the mountain and come out into the open to bask in the light. You are the lonely, nomad guest who has come from afar, and you’re only here to stay until daylight breaks.

Come, Mr. Moon
and welcome the running river below,
and its lonely, nomad guest. – Nurun Nahar

Abu’s suitcase

I think i’m in love with this poem

Winged-creatures of night and day

Mosquitoes are persistent creatures. I remember when we visited BD we would always have to sleep with these nets around us that draped the bed frame, and you could hear the faint buzzing and droning of these mosquitoes trying to get in. Even when we were awake, they were alive and ready to bite and suck your blood. I always lucked out though, I hardly ever got mosquito bites on me, it was always my sisters.

I remember whenever the Maghreb adhaan would go off and everyone was going back into their homes for the night, and lights were switching on in the front porches and rooms, my aunt would burn a small coil and put it under our beds, to ward off the mosquitoes. It had that petrol kind of smell, not smelling necessarily of petrol, but that ‘nice’ kind of smell. You know what I mean?

When Your Mum Calls

I miss the old days
with my feet sore and dusty from flip flops
Just even playing out
And coming back home when your mum calls
and locking my garden
door, the squeaks of the garden door bolt
resonating in the humid, evening air.
The sky is purple and yellow because the
sun is setting and you can hear
the Maghrib adhaan playing from the radio
in the living room, broken by static noises.
The clothes on the washing line are more
than dry, and your mum comes out and asks
for your help to take them inside.
“It’s been so sunny today,” she says in your mother language.
You don’t take the school shirt off the washing line
because there’s a small beetle
on the collar, your mum nags
about how it’s harmless and takes it down herself.
And you’re thirsty, so you take a drink bottle
out of the fridge and pour it in
a glass,
and then remember,
you filled the ice tray in the morning, so you get that out
and have yourself a cold, refreshing glass of Coca Cola.
Your feet feel dry and your soles are sore
so you go up to the bathroom and stand
in the bathtub and run the warm water.
You mix it with the cold and rejoice in your foot wash.
You come out with pink feet.

© nurunnahar 2015. All Rights Reserved. Do not use without permission.

 

Coming Back!

It’s been a WHILE since I’ve written on here. I have always thought about coming back to write about something but I kept neglecting it. Uni has been taking up a lot of my time, and scrolling through twitter, and watching TV, and just, procrastinating. But I’ve also been writing a lot. Not blog posts obviously but poems and stories about everything. It’s weird reading back through my previous posts and seeing how much my writing has changed. A lot of them have really ‘cringed’ me out, too much flowery language. But it was a breath of something, not so necessarily fresh air, something along the lines of nostalgia and comfort. A lot of my posts were from college, and now I’m in Uni and about to graduate next year, In Shaa Allah. Time goes by so fast, it’s actually scary.

I have so many things up my sleeve to share on here, new things, new ideas, and inspiration. And I hope you, as a reader, will find comfort, or maybe relate to the content on here.

Nurun

You are your own obstacle ~

Clay Pots

The clay pots are empty
and red in the sun.
Waiting for grains of rice,
to fall one by one.

The yard is thriving
with cousins from afar.
A welcome is played loud
with fruits from the bazaar.

The clay pots are full
of rice and cooked crops.
Hands of the mothers in the kitchen
working at the clock.

Tiled floors are warm
so walk barefoot.
Skip, run, dance,
and dance no more than you should.

The clay pots are empty
now that the sky is pink.
The clay pots are washed
and dried
and put away under the sink.

Moon River

Moon river, wider than a mile
I’m crossing you in style some day
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker
Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way

Two drifters, off to see the world
There’s such a lot of world to see
We’re after the same rainbow’s end, waiting, round the bend
My Huckleberry Friend, Moon River, and me

 – There’s nothing else to look forward to except the long, winding, Summer days and the company of a well, red watermelon.

Green

Bird perches on a branch,
dancing amongst pink blossom –
Spring

Illustrator

Recently I have started to take an interest in illustrating. However in a different style – I choose to not include facial features. Our expression is the biggest form of language and is vital to read one’s feelings. I don’t know why but I prefer to just not include it. I like diversity and people living as one. I hope to one day invest more into my ‘doodles’ and maybe develop them more. I’m very limited to the tools I use but my mind has no boundaries and with that I can achieve anything, In Shaa Allah.

© nurunnahar 2015. All Rights Reserved. Do not use without permission.

© nurunnahar 2015. All Rights Reserved. Do not use without permission.

© nurunnahar 2015. All Rights Reserved. Do not use without permission.