(I am Ruhan Naqash and hail from Srinagar.

Presently, I am studying Electronics and

Communication in Chennai. I write for my blog, some journals and magazines here
and there.)
Poem 1 :- Vile Green Demon.
One more time I stitch my heart to a grave.
Ask the mother what she feels for death.
"vile green demon drew him down to a cave."
Mother calls all her buried sons brave.
One by one she says their names and holds her breath.
One more time I stitch my heart to a grave.
He struck him, knocked him down, made him rave.
(In this story, after Abel, even Seth!)
"vile green demon drew him down to a cave."
Pain and blood and death my world would crave
Roses sucked the blood and came out red.
One more time I stitch my heart to a grave.
Someones pawn. The green demon was someones knave.
More than one, prowling through the nights, I fret!
"vile green demon drew him down to a cave."
Mother said, "Now don't just write and rave.
Leave at night and cease that demons breath!"
One last time I stitch my heart to a grave.
Vile green demon drew me down to a cave.

Poem 2 :- Tibet
We will bask under the sky
on the white banks of a river,
as if from the heavens,
table cloth of Jesus,
but this isnt last supper/
the touch of whose cool,
clear waters would sure
remind us of Mother,
her icy fingers : eve breeze
on the contours of our tears/
We'd have walked through the desert
for too long, our lips,
white parchments, our feet :
used sandpaper/
We would've wanted to cry,
impatient with the straws
of the burning Sun on us,
"But not just yet, dear/
Dear, not just yet",
We shall go through a crack
enough for me and you
through the Great Wall in China,
the snow in our eyes,
our pupils : cups of tea,
and our fingers, made of dreams,
reaching out for meaning
Again.
Tibet awaits, my dear,
and walking on crystal ice
after seasons of such sands
wasn't meant for the strong;
Who else, but us!
"Who else, but us?"
Tibet awaits my dear,
We'll find a safe haven,
our pupils :
cups of tea/
our fingers made of dreams,
And we'll cry together in Tibet,
"We will cry together in Tibet."

Poem 3 :- Had I known

Had I known, dear love

that the pain in your eyes,
all the burns on your chest

would vanish if the poet

had sung of Spring doves :
Songs written in zest

would tell of how features

of beautiful maidens
relived in flowers

that sprout from their graves/

And faded roses came back
with the monsoon showers.

I would pour my heart out

on a piece of crumpled paper
to kill all your frowns/

whats there to the world

if not for your eyes,
for the one who drowns!

But snow, dear love, now,

falls in a place from where
nothing ever soars;

And spring doesn't last,

and the autumn leaves turn
like the ferryman's oars!

This too, do eyes trace

what can be done?!
Your beauty still is stupendous, but,
what can be done!

I see bodies of children

on shoulders of men,
being carried like logs of wood.
Who, my dear, would then
talk of tulips and lilies
when alleys overflow with blood!