POETS’ CORNER

Poems forever

His excuse for loving

By Ben Jonson

Let it not your wonder move,

Less your laughter, that I love.

Though I now write fifty years,

I have had, and have, my peers.

Poets, though divine, are men;

Some have loved as old again.

And it is not always face,

Clothes, or fortune gives the grace,

Or the feature, or the youth;

But the language and the truth,

With the ardor and the passion,

Gives the lover weight and fashion.

If you then would hear the story,

First, prepare you to be sorry

That you never knew till now

Either whom to love or how;

But be glad as soon with me

When you hear that this is she

Of whose beauty it was sung,

She shall make the old man young,

Keep the middle age at stay,

And let nothing hide decay,

Till she be the reason why

All the world for love may die.

Escape plan

By Nazish Sabir

That place with no escape,

Mere cracks exceeding high,

The might to struggle,

So to taste freedom seems somewhat a lie.

The suffocation around screams aloud,

'No hope for a joyful tomorrow should ever surround,'

'No rays of good days should find their way out,'

'For the darkness reigns the existence inside and out.'

But then there runs a tiny pulse,

Sending a flicker of hope that grows with the passage of time.

A sense of freedom rings a bell,

Sending down smiles.

Such a swift shift from terror to happiness might happen in one night,

If we didn't fear the cracks,

And let them splash rays inside the darkest place.

If we didn't let the air destroy our aims,

Rather find another way to breathe and other ways to chase.

In the quiet corners

By Syeda Maqsoom

In the quiet corners of my mind,

Where dreams like shadows softly tread,

I seek the warmth I cannot find,

A love that lingers, but lies unsaid.

Sometimes you must accept the harsh truth,

That you are not the one they hold dear,

A fleeting whisper, a distant youth,

In their gaze, your presence disappears.

Though I offer laughter, and

moments bright,

I stand a specter, a ghostly hue,

Despite my efforts, with all my might,

In their eyes, I am not true.

I carve my heart in the canvas of time,

Paint colors vibrant, yet they fade away,

A silent melody, a forgotten rhyme,

As night consumes the remnants of day.

Yet still I wander, through gardens of hope,

Where the fragrance of love once

bloomed so free,

In the tangled thorns, I learn to cope,

With the bitter nectar of what cannot be.

So I gather my pieces, both

fragile and worn,

And fashion a story from the scars I bear,

For in acceptance, a new self is born,

In letting go, I find strength in the air.

Though I may not be the one they hold dear,

I'll dance with the truth, let the tears

gently flow

For every lost love, there’s a lesson clear,

And in my own heart, I will learn to grow.

So called togetherness

By Ayesha Alam

We get involved to be here together,

Living our dreams as if it is going to be forever.

Who knows? I wish you knew your man, you knew your girl,

For having the desire to see their spikes or curls,

Falling in love and getting hugs—

But are they from the wrong ones?

I wish we could figure it out,

Knowing the names, speaking out loud.