The poem is an invention that exists in spite of history... In a time of violence, the task of poetry is in some way to reconcile us to our world and to allow us a measure of tenderness and grace with which to exist...
Excerpted from Meena Alexander’s
address to the Yale Political Union
“The poem is an invention that exists in spite of history... In a time of violence, the task of poetry is in some way to reconcile us to our world and to allow us a measure of tenderness and grace with which to exist... Poetry’s task is to reconcile us to the world - not to accept it at face value or to assent to things that are wrong, but to reconcile one in a larger sense, to return us in love, the province of the imagination, to the scope of our mortal lives.”
The Serenade
By Suhd Nazeer
Cologne, the dulcet showers
hit the panoramic pane
As she stands behind the window
under which I stood and sang.
They’re bewitchingly analogous,
Ergo their names I switched,
From now on April is her name.
Present
By Amna Ameer
I have,
Never,
Been good at,
Throwing stuff away,
I hoard on belongings,
Like an alter-ego,
It is a life,
That is lived,
Breathing through,
Objects,
That warrant,
That I have existed,
And walked,
On this planet,
And experienced,
All that I could,
Hence I placed,
A part of you,
On my wall,
And another,
On my shelf,
I still know,
What lies,
In the drawer,
Another reminder,
Of something,
That was once,
Held,
By you,
And as I hear,
The beatings,
Like sullen drums,
Every night,
I wonder,
When will I give up?
Finding places,
In people,
To keep,
Pieces of myself,
Before I fall apart,
Till when,
Will I mistake?
Over and over,
The face of love,
Though I try,
I’m dubiously,
Left,
In the middle,
Of an empty road,
On a cold night,
With no way,
Back home,
In a stranger’s arms,
Where I once again,
Trade my life’s secret,
For the touch,
Of something human,
Yet,
I know,
I’m not built,
For anything,
Short of poetic,
Even if that means,
Silences,
Following more quietness,
And a wish,
That you one day,
Look back,
And find me,
In these words,
My eyes,
In the full stops,
And my spine,
Through crooked ends,
My fingertips,
In metaphors,
Staring back at you,
Filling you with regret,
Because of how I was fooled,
In loving a life,
I knew could never be,
I loved wrongly,
Because I wasn’t taught,
How to be held,
With tenderness,
So I kept,
Memories,
Already as souvenirs,
As if,
A part of me knew,
I already,
Am,
Going to miss something,
Before it became a memory,
I’m perpetually,
Trying to save,
The present,
From being over.
Gehenna
By Bushra Tahir Khani
The canvas of my life,
I liked it black n’ white.
They force splashed colors,
Trying to make it bright.
Weak protests I raised,
They called me naive.
They loved me better,
So I was never really right.
They dressed me as day,
covered me with light.
While all this time,
I was meant to be the night.
Adorned with stars,
I could’ve worn moonlight,
But the dark, they feared.
Symbolic of fright.
So, caged me then,In the rays of Sun.
My corse, a charm,
But my pneuma suffers blight!
Hollow heart
By Andleeb Tariq
Emptiness is building
a nest
inside
my hollow heart
and I feel nothing
Compiled by SK
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