POETS’ CORNER
By Oscar Wilde
A year ago I breathed the Italian air, -
And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair,-
These fields made golden with the flower of March,
The throstle singing on the feathered larch,
The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,
The little clouds that race across the sky;
And fair the violet's gentle drooping head,
The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,
The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar,
The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire
Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);
And all the flowers of our English Spring,
Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred daffodil.
Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,
And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;
And down the river, like a flame of blue,
Keen as an arrow flies the water-king,
While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.
A year ago! - it seems a little time
Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,
Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,
And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow.
Full Spring it was - and by rich flowering vines,
Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines,
I rode at will; the moist glad air was sweet,
The white road rang beneath my horse's feet,
And musing on Ravenna's ancient name,
I watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame,
The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.
By Abid Agha
Two souls, hand in hand,
Walking along the River Nile
On wet, grey, shimmering sands,
In the soft hush of early evening,
Waiting for the sundown behind the pyramids
Our footsteps, clear upon the shore,
Drew tender lines of a bond
Blooming quietly over time.
Evening shadows deepened.
Seagulls flew toward their nests.
Far-off ships now glowed,
Like drifting candles on the tide.
Time has turned its page.
Today, when I looked back,
Years slipped by silently
Like the blink in eternity.
I returned to the River Nile
Alone now, walking the wet sands.
Nothing has faded
Except your footprints,
Leaving behind nothing but an endless tale
Of stories left unfinished
And seashells whispering your name.
By Esha Bakht
I am stuck in the previous chapter.
Can't get past the rusted pages.
Rethinking and never forgetting.
With time and passing ages.
By Sa'ad Nazeer
There’s this chaye-khana,
In my redundant neighborhood
Looking like an agonizing memory,
All the despicable people go there
And have tea or coffee
The lonely miserable lot
One could spot from miles.
I have always despised them
They all have an intellectual's brow
Albeit nothing to say
They're just plain woebegone.
Someone's pining for a family member
I guess, other a friend
Some fishing for the worth of life
Apparently at the bottoms of teacups
While others reminisce old love
That's lost to winds of time
Anyway, I look up and the waiter
Brings my usual, a cup of tea
With no sugar.
By Aneeka Ahmad
I abandoned writing a long time ago
Left him stranded in a faraway abyss
I kissed the time resting forlornly in my hands
The hands you held onto every night
A moment as sacred as the moment itself
My mother told me I am a sad soul
I wished she had seen me laughing with you
I find solace that she never saw me abandoning you
I bought a house on an island of grief
And finally, I heard the voice
The voice of you coming home
The voice of a world where a moment cannot be abandoned