Stories about poem

The woman with hands of gold

I always gushed about how my Mother’s hands were beautiful; though, all wonder had ceased as I realised… Her hands tenderly held my vulnerable self as I opened my eyes in this big-bad world; her face comforted me, there was an angel in this world Allah had sent me down to, I was in safe hands. Her hands determinedly raised me to my tiny feet, every time I fell to the ground in the attempt to walk; her will to support me still gives me strength from then till today. Her hands would swiftly push my swing as she pointed towards the ...

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My birth was an ill-fated ugliness

The kiss from the scorching sun was now a routine, For there was no shelter that could block it from me; Ugliness not just defined my face, As my birth was no less than an ugly fate.   Amidst the chaotic environment, I was trained, And repeatedly told that it was no shame, Because survival on your own is something only the bold can do, And if I resist, then society would crumple me, like a toy of play dough.   The countless tears I hid silently, Were considered useless and unworthy. The smile I gave with a one clap gesture, Had unknowingly become my unique signature.   A thick coat of red ...

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If you don’t ask why…

I request a reply. Dad, please tell me, Why Is the earth not flat? Oh, I don’t know that! Why do bears hibernate? Well, that’s out-of-date! Why is the sun so hot? I’m sorry, I forgot!   Where do the trade winds blow? Come on, you should know! Do you know how TVs work? Let me call Mr Burke! Or how the seasons change? That’s out of my range!   What is the sense of smell? Quite difficult to tell! The capital of France? No, I don’t stand a chance! The speed of light? Your science teacher might!   Any clue of aerosol? It’s quite hard to recall! Any Indian folklore? I knew one before! The length of lunar years? I’ll break into tears!   Why a panda bear hides? The cause of ...

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Ignorance is bliss!

My friend, I do not wish to know, And I’m in no mood, To think of global warming, Or pesticides in food.   Hardwood forests in decline, Endangered pink frogs. Salt or freshwater wetlands, Fast vanishing bogs. Illiteracy, hunger, AIDS, Tsunami, hurricane. Inflation or unemployment, Worrying is in vain.   Dwindling water resources, Or poaching elephants. By God, I’ve no patience for, Futile raves and rants. Let others lead the world from front, For admirable feat. I’ll lead the horde from behind, To a hasty retreat!   I love my unawareness, Ah! Ignorance is bliss! Don’t interrupt my cricket game, I don’t want to ...

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Remembering Ahmad Faraz: Do not murder the voices

The 87th birthday of one of Pakistan’s most beloved poet – who was also a resistance poet par excellence – the legendary Ahmad Faraz, was celebrated on January 12th. The honour of both the Pakhtuns and Urdu-speaking community, I was lucky to hear him recite his famous poem ‘Muhaasra’ (siege) in one of his last public appearances in Karachi back in 2008. He joined the immortals soon afterwards on August 25, 2008. To pay tribute to his memory, here I am sharing my translation of one of my favourite Faraz poems, “Mat Qatl Karo Aavaazon Ko” (do not murder the voices), which it seems ...

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“Desi Website”– Indulge yourself! There is no shame

Surfing aimlessly late at night, I came across a cool website, Where feeble hearts remain unseen, Modest are few and far between.   Where every topic always leads, An attack on someone else’s creeds. To hurl insult just take a pick: Christian, Hindu, Muslim or Sikh.   You meet chest-thumping fanatics, Old-fashioned mullahs, liberal chicks. Imposing on adversary’s mind, The likes and dislikes of their kind! And all are free to blow their lids, Till wisdom dims, and reason skids.   Most favorite sight? The view of rear, The world revolves around Kashmir. Check out, my dear friends, tonight, With Google search “Desi Website”. Indulge yourself! There is no shame, Just hide behind a ...

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Who is atop the chain of command?

There wasn’t any challenge they could not surpass, The best of the breed, at the top of their class, Who knew the importance of hard, honest toil; Didn’t waste their time, burned the midnight oil. They went on to excel as professionals, engineers, Doctors and lawyers with promising careers.   While those who were ordinary, average at best, Graduated and did well in the civil service test, To eventually become the heady bureaucrats, Who catch all the smart professionals like gnats. In a web of paper work to drive them insane, And control their existence with utmost disdain.   The clique of students who in the same class, Despite family influence just managed to ...

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Deceptive lines

For a moment, Imagine, How our faces would look, If the lines, That our tears leave behind, Never went away. Imagine a skin, Which refuses to absorb, Any of these lines, And allows them to pave paths, On the cheeks, The lips, chin, and stretch till the neck. Would we, then, love one another more, Seeing, finally, the amount of grief. Would our fingers, Trace these lines, From head to toe, And feel the pain they carry. But would it then be impossible, To lift our faces, With the weight of each line, And would that hide half the world. Also, would we love less, Those who are unable, And/or disabled, From shedding tears. And it may push us to think, Those who don’t shed ...

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A trial

If I were god, I would have put myself on trial first, and questioned my lack of a beating heart or the pain in my soul of the loss that humans suffer. Or the justice, I call my revenge – I caused on them which I could not script before the verdict against them for crimes against me. Yet I usher them as being grateful at trials of misery. And then to the hell-fires I would command them to go to instead as my decree of divinity to mute others as and when I will despite all knowing. For I am god, listening to none, commanding you to make a supplicant except for bringing the dead back to life. I seek forgiveness from myself, but I can’t, because conscience was not created in me, when I was made to be born ...

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Unfinished memories

The candles in the room remain un-blown, The crevices on the bed still untouched, By the morning due, unknown, The fists still in pain, unclutched. The walls of the baby’s room still unfinished, The toys still placed on the corner, diminished, Papers on the table top still wet with tears, The wind still screams in all its fears. The air in the atmosphere seems uncomfortable, grasping, With all its might to make some sense of the situation that might just not be, What could have been, still shadows over the eternal debate between reality and death. The paint in the room still, unfinished, reminds them of all they gave up, All they sacrificed for the loved one ...

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