A flying peacock

By Furqan Ali

Today, I was travelling to Tarkha, a small village near Taru Jabba, all situated in KP (erstwhile NWFP), from Peshawar, which is considered the oldest living city of South Asia.

There, I saw a flying peacock. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I had never seen one fly before, except in caged settings. A dog kept pestering her, making her dart from one place to another. And then, there was a donkey too, without reins! Perhaps the spectre of capitalism was absent. In that rural pocket, so close to the bustling and chaotic city of Peshawar, constantly a victim of radical urbanisation (over 45%), there was still something untamed.

Here’s the poem, inspired by the errand, along with the picture I took. Pardon my pathetic aesthetic, I’m learning this craft for my IG.

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a flying peacock

“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…”

— Shakespeare

In Tarkha,

a flying peacock—

Simurgh,

aphrodisiac,

like a newly resurrected girl

in the dark night,

and the sin of being born.

Wandering,

hand in hand, eye to eye,

with Quratulain Tahira in the heavens.

Scène crème de la crème

landscape and portrait,

all green.

A darbar of some majzoob,

a Hindu majzoob

who lifted his hand—donning a ring of tourmaline—

and forgot,

like I forgot my birthday.

A free Jack—

a free, rapacious Jack

in the temporariness

of extraction,

with no reins

and obstruction.

Imbibed the aerodynamics

of the multicolored creature.

Everyone is colorblind

up to some extent—

too many hues.

Gobsmacked.

Kaleidoscope swaying

retina and brain.

And a thirsty dog

trying to bite—

for hemoglobin, and iron, and water.

The displacement angles

bottlenecked

between:

the dog must die.

It is ugly.

A brat with channa mewa,

wandering in the intricate ploy—

dusty and topsy-turvy roads.

A sheriff was maybe peeing somewhere.

I could not sense anyone.

Miscreant mist—

and resplendent.

Except

us.

I waited for a nimrod

who could bullet that beautiful ghoul.

A dragon scroll fell on my head,

with a sheesh mahal.

Every nook flummoxed

with those savage eyes.

I could see the song of the future—

Inconsequential.

How could I smoke and not puff?

The nicotine pouches in my jaw?

Pathetic!

Sweet coils of

paintings,

bureaus of linen—

I was painted

a zillion times

by the palette of that bird

that prowled through Tarru Jabba,

for the relief of my head,

and the reconstruction of

my senses—

and poems.