close
US

POETS’ CORNER

By S. K
Fri, 08, 17

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Poems forever

O Me! O Life!

By Walt Whitman

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring-What good amid these, O me, O life?

                                       Answer.

That you are here-that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

 

Withdrawal symptoms

By Haneen Moosa

 

I thought it was over .

The pain of your departure.

I thought time would heal the wound.

Making it non-existent.

I was wrong.

It feels like a headache.

Like I’m having a fever all over.

Like the intensity of the wound,

Will never permit me to,

Move on, from this emotional inflammation.

I felt dizzy a couple of times.

Thought it was impossible to survive.

And then I realized,

Realized, what you had left me with.

You left me with withdrawal symptoms.

 

You’re gone.

Not here anymore.

And I feel like this,

Excruciating pain,

Will not let me live further.

Perhaps I shall seek some advice from someone.

About how,

To escape from the sorrow of the loss of a loved one.

Who won’t come back again.

It took me a while to realize.

That this was no film or TV Show.

Which I could choose not to watch,

Or just turn it off.

It was reality.

I felt like these withdrawal symptoms,

Had become part of my life.

Like a movie,

Our memories, play before my eyes.

Now all I can do,

Is to switch off my mind.

 

Withdrawal symptoms are all I have.

Withdrawal symptoms are what can reach out to me.

Withdrawal symptoms are what I need to let go of.

 

Indigenous land

By Shafi Rehman

 

I belong to an indigenous land

and swiftly I am walking on the sand

These dancing drops of rain on my hand

I am taking footsteps like a marching band

 

The destiny and fate of hiding in shadows

and I am creeping slowly across this meadow

The lush green grass of yesterday’s innocene

and those unspoken wishes and their essence

 

The dreams of tomorrow have become alive

Should I buy time for their revive?

Alone I am in this fight

Am I wrong or right?

Meeting at midnight: her

by Suhd Nazeer

 

The overwhelming dread seen and felt 

The same that Helen of Troy oft feared,

The distant gongs of midnight donged 

While waiting for the pointy prow.

With mischief in her bosom bored

she left and dropped the epistle behind

 

As her feet through the fields hurried

into an old fashioned farm and waited,

Before old age could dribble through her dreadlocks,

A faint knock at the pane and calling

of her name in a hushed voice, she lighted

The candle and the two hearts lit with it.