Depression is my second home. I live there. I have a best friend too.....
COVER STORY
Depression
By Yumna Ahad
Depression is my second home.
I live there. I have a best friend too.
Anxiety. There are times when I do
Alright, but then something stirs up in
My horizon and I just cannot proceed.
I stop. I freeze. I get blue in my knees.
There are days when things worsen.
Days when light is my enemy and dark,
My solace. So, I go on a vacation. A trip
To Utopia. I dream of dreams that may
Never happen. I live in ecstasy. I feel it.
I feel normal again. I come back. It’s all
Good now. My home has shattered. My
Best friend is away. I am coming back to
Me. I am composed and happy. But my home
Builds up again and knocks at the door. I
Realize. I cannot do much. I stand midway,
Take a deep breath, gets to the bottom of it
And understand silence is the key. Silence
Is the way. Silence is my weapon. I choose
Silence. It saves me.
Comments: With a unique structure and a theme that is at once familiar and fascinating, this poem fleshes out the trauma and enigmas surrounding depression with unflinching honesty.
A broken vase
By Anam Mukhtar
The vase is filled with emptiness
Its enchanting allure concealed with dust
This damaged urn; useless
That once stood out the brightest
Chipped off insides; no exterior mark
A certain disfigure; apparent spark
That’s how things perish, that’s how it embarks
Pay attention to what’s vitiated; pay attention to its arc
Musky corner; its endless bide
Repair it with love; don’t throw it aside
Your presumption; unjustified
Have flowers ever grown when fertilized with cyanide?
Comments: “A broken vase” takes a simple theme and uses it to achieve a meaningful purpose. Terse, poignant and gripping, this poem has a resonance that stays with you long after you’ve read the last line.
What says the mirror on the ceiling?
By Shohra Haider
There is a mirror on the ceiling
Why? You ask.
The better to see
That lovely pale skin
Pure as the softest snow
Untainted.
Those eyes of warmest blue
Like the sky on a sunlit day.
There is a mirror on the ceiling
Why? You ask.
To see
The colour on those lips
Red as the shade of the haughtiest rose.
Those silks, draped
Like the wings of an angel
Crowned with a halo of golden locks
So lost in the prettiest of dreams.
So what says the mirror on the ceiling? You ask.
Oh, darling!
Don’t grieve so
For cracked I may be now
But you are just as lovely
As when I was whole.
You loved you so
When you were pale as snow
But love,
Don’t see them as bruises
For they are colours and will fade
And isn’t a rainbow made
Of bruised violet and violent red
Don’t just leave them be
Take that sky blue and brighten it up
Don’t dull it with tears
Take the liveliest of orange and prettiest of pink and paint with it
For you are yours, love.
Dry these tears
And mend these scars
Paint your own colours
Don’t leave them smudged
By the touch of an unwanted hand.
Your lips might seem red as blood
But darling, can’t you see them
As the deepest of blushes on the shyest of roses.
So love,
Take that silver thread
And hem the lining of your rainbow dress.
For darling,
You are still as pure as snow
For it is the soul that shines through
Be you plain or lovely, dark or pale,
Whole or broken.
And it is the soul that is loved,
And yours, darling, shines like the purest of joy.
Comments: The poem shows intellect, emotional verve and a sense of passion.
We’re not just victims, we’re survivors
By Sabrina Hyder
The hunger of a cold heart,
I see it in your eyes
The taste of my skin,
You long for it.
As you feed off me,
A “man’s honor” fades away.
Your breath, filled with thirst
Hands, painting your filth all over me,
But no matter how ravenous you are,
I rise again, and again,
And break free,
The nightfall can never wear out my lustre.
They’ll say:
Stay still, stay quiet
You’re too fragile, you will break
But don’t they know?
When a glass shatters,
Hands bleed.
Comments: With memorable lines and powerful use of language, this poem achieves a rare distinction.
The cataleptic era of love
By Sa’ad Nazeer
An obese memory
Outrageously fed by insecurities
Often travels from the dicey depths of a deserted ocean,
Reaching a heartsick lover - locked in the embrace
Of a sweetheart drowsily mumbling something
Of spring; of new love.
The very moment that memory age-old
Of love lost transforming itself
Into the horrors only fancy could envisage.
He ventured to outrun
The predator, like an antelope does -
A predator as fit as a fiddle.
Love often comes to blows
With reason - and a memory macabre -
To find its place.
His heart grew cold,
As cold as a well-digger’s nose,
The avalanche of silence rampaged through it.
He felt foreign hands heaving and hauling him
Toward the dismal dwelling
Of the wretched souls,
All amidst the vile voices of choristers
And the dramatic divine orchestra.
Then silently,
Around midnight happened a miracle,
A miracle that is centuries-old.
With a warm kiss on the lips
The night’s epilogue was writ.
She brought her fervid companion
Back from the ocean; back from the thicket;
Back to human form.
Everything good; everything godawful
Had degenerated inside them,
Save from the part that remained untarnished,
The part that loves.
Comments: Gripping! This poem was driven by gut-wrenching honesty and the right measure of emotions.
Abandoned soul
By Sidra Kamal
When the light has gone and darkness devours
The lips parted and hands were forced to kiss
They thought I’m tied, but they made me pray
I have gone afar, to ponder what to say
My hands scarred, I smell blood
His tormenting shouts made me coward
I crave for nothing, but for a clean death
To liberate myself from the bounds, breath by breath
The echoes of night, the whispers of the tree
Wondering how they are so free
Under the same sky, sharing the same breath
How they are free but my misery, I can’t flee
This isolated house was once home
Where the stars were daily shown
When the abode was innocuous and death scares
Now it feels like living in a parallel sphere
Blank is my mind, baffled and numb body
I am playing a fair game
Waking up in your home
Yet having no shame
I found myself searching for trust
In the city of lust
I can hear the shouts of my spouse,
Trying to die but death is kicking me out
The ropes are now slackened
My hands are now moving
But still in the dim light, too scared
To go along the path I once cared
Why struggling to go from one horror to another?
Clean death would be so much better
Instead of this life,
Where mankind is full of hatred for one and another
This is a story of a house forlorn
Where souls devoured, sorrow is born
People come, but their love is gone
Their souls, twisted and torn
Where torture is lust, treated as love
Where she loves him and he loves another
Where you are free to choose
But not from the consequences, choices bemuse
Where wives are beaten
And are known from their scars
Where they are abandoned
For someone from the past
Moving on taking a chance, Bared my soul to the world
My spirits were high, but in return a battered soul I received
In this cursed home, in the horror world
You shall breathe but no one is free
Comments: Eerie and emotional, “Abandoned soul” evokes a strong sense of empathy.
A tale told yet left on hold
By Abeera Dilawar
Feathery soft skin,
Gleams under gold flecked rays,
Warmth seeps from underlying streams,
Flowing under this earthy silk,
Skin deep, fickle and fragile,
Assessed the demon with eyes so vile,
Lovely sharp bones,
Slender, swift, always agile,
Build a silhouette that disappears,
Behind the demon’s shadow,
Clutching the bones, a pleasing notion,
The demon’s figure now set in motion,
Grasping the frightened creature it smirks,
Rips off pants, shorts, dresses or skirts,
Ties its hands, with rope or maybe a chain,
Do not resist, it whispers, or there will be pain,
What happened then,
Need not be told, a story so old,
Of child, girl, boy and woman,
For they were just skin, bones and body,
Done and dusted, demon recommences its chase,
Everyday with a brand new nefarious face,
Some preys silenced,
Some preys dead,
Some coaxed into forgiveness,
And some with the demon,
Have to share a bed.
They are told,
Do not seek revenge
Do not speak of how
Your body was used
Against your will
Against all rejection
After all, in this world governed by demons
If some are molested, oppressed or akin
The monsters must’ve been lured in by their own sin,
Why do they reveal,
Why do they emerge,
Why do they present themselves as bait?
How dare they try to exist
In the vicinity of the devil,
Then scream bloody murder
When they themselves provoked the evil,
Behind the demons, the slaves speak
Of how unlawful and brutal are their ways,
They will debate how
Unfair is what happened
And recite tales of the days
When the barbarians gained power
Over all the defenceless creatures,
They will sing lullabies that warn
Of the things these demons will do,
And mark the process and tactic,
By which their influence grew,
But, in the end, my dear foolish human,
Do not fall for their sympathy, for
Instead of imprisoning the filthy beast,
They will wrap all their chains around you.
Comments: “A tale told yet left on hold” masters the art of weaving a topical theme into verse that is by turns moving and tragic.
Next time
By Mahvash Irshad
Next time when
God creates this universe,
I will tell Him
Not to tie bosoms
To our chests,
Not to weld reproductive
Systems in our bodies.
I will tell Him
Not to spray soft voices
In our throats,
Not to add molecules of
Heavenly sweets in our mouths.
I will tell Him not to
Make our fleshes
With sea foams,
Not to stuff
Our bones with dandelions.
I will tell Him to
Block all the tear ducts,
Shred all the emotions,
Sweep the deliciousness
From our faces and
To numb all the
Sensors of our skins.
Perhaps, in this way,
We will not feel the pain
When men try to devour us.
Comments: The poet has maintained a firm focus on creating memorable imagery through carefully woven phrases and metaphors. Very compelling!
Red is for kin
By Amna Habib
Our house faced the side the sun didn’t.
The grass was stolid; the fields, morbid;
The adults, livid; the children, frigid.
How our shadows melted,
Dreadlocks wilted; of
Rainbow sweats, flippant breaths,
Coquettish grins, wholesome sins.
We ran past the well-bred farmlands,
The crops cowering; perhaps praying,
Perhaps grateful, perhaps vengeful,
For the sun was gone
And dead silence was despicable
Like sweet affections poured over dead autumn leaves,
Like silver of the wrought iron gates,
That held kingdoms.
Now,
I shared their insubordination.
We traveled with smothered gods in us,
Camouflaged in borrowed poise.
The tangible morning hues cradled our incredulity
And the wailing cries of contempt
Hushed our woeful sighs;
As deep as the ocean’s grief,
Is suffering,
For there is no shelter
Where pain can’t reach.
As brief as a daffodil’s breath,
Remains content. An aching desire
And a long-lost myth.
I know life as something that hurts as long as you live
And I know,
Strong is a religion. A race.
As insidious as Lucifer’s grace.
So,
Don’t tell me,
In your gain as a walker,
You didn’t see
Antipathy conniving with revulsion
To sabotage
Half-hearted machinations of
Drooling infancy.
Don’t tell me,
In your strange ways of being human;
You actually believed
Sanity would do you any good.
Because it is all forbidden fruit
Until
God has it for himself;
It’s all blasphemy
Until,
It’s your tongue,
Your skin,
Your kin.
We were bare of native skin,
So I could tell the direction of the
Recalcitrant winds.
The colour of this land is unusual;
But I felt humbled
For the sky
Was still blue
And in its bosom were we,
Tending to our mortification,
Letting it have the privilege of
Healing and hurting and healing again.
It is times like these we strive
To articulate our idea of
Life;
How
Black is coveted fortitude,
White is sheer chagrin,
Gold is to begin
And
Red is for kin.
Comments: “Red is for kin” has a freshness of perspective that most writers dream to create. The choice of word, the narrative technique and the overall effect of the poem was remarkable.
In my dreams, she often came as the whip
By Oroj Zafar
Her elbows only ghost sleeves of her cardigan,
Hood always down. Tentacles rushing to meet
My skin with ice burns. Don’t get me wrong,
Her rage was hot too - he, however, was
The dream you see from outside of you. Never
Quite yours. His seed swimming in my limbs,
No drag of the knife deep enough to cleanse me.
Most dreams, my mind didn’t have the heart
To remember. Most days, my heart was too foolish
To forget. But always the bruises too shy for daylight,
Had so much to say once the sun went down.
No screams loud enough to wake mother up.
Significant to save me from mother.
Father doesn’t see me in the mirror with him.
He kisses my forehead but I can swear it isn’t mine.
My skin feels so far away. Mother doesn’t look
In mirrors at all. In some dreams, my stomach twists
And untwists itself into a fetus, aborted. At five,
I notice how empty laughter feels on my tongue.
Ghosts of words leave my lips. I swear they are
Not mine.
To a small, small thread of an extent, you should
Be allowed to take love for granted - a love
That requires nothing of you except the will
To inhale.
Mother often let me chew her fingers raw;
“Anything to make her stop crying.”
My neonatal communication an abomination
So unholy, I hissed at holy water. Holy water,
Mother’s whips for hands. Me, at six months,
Having unlearned to cry. Me, at twenty-one,
Unable to feebly admit defeat. Defeat may be
Exhaustion but it is failure. Mother, where do I
Learn to cry again? These words don’t feel like
They’re mine anymore.
Comments: This poem stood out because of its original structure and crisp narrative technique. Well done!
Dawn to dusk
By Rida K. Bhutta
They were waiting
For the crack of dawn.
Blistering heat
Of an absent sun and
Beads of perspiration
On their forehead
Meandered on dry and
Parched skin.
No bird, no voice
No life
Felt.
Just the subtle breeze
of a sweltering horizon
Emerging.
A crumpled newspaper cackled on the roof
A lost crow cawed at the wake up siren.
Leisurely the sun did apprise
Giving their world verisimilitude.
Lights flickered across the street
Foreshadowing a lonesome cat
Lobbying
Amidst a pile of discarded meat and bread.
Pans and pots clamoured
In raw sleepiness and wakefulness
In the fresh fidelity
Of a moment gone by.
They were no longer beholden
By the fevered wind,
Perspiration,
Dreariness,
Or
The lull.
Out of sleep
Arose life anew
And all else
Deadened.
Allahu Akbar
Echoed a minaret afar;
Lingering moments of
Felicity
Serenity
Took over.
They rippled onto
Prayer mats,
Prayer beads,
Scarves
Arabic scribbles
Holy scriptures
The insides of their palms
The shade of eyes wide shut
And muffled murmurs of
Memorised verses.
Allahu Akbar -
- Stupor ensued
Shhhhh
Verisimilitude - let’s meet at dawn again.
Comments: Great writing! The poet has maintained a sound and refreshing structure throughout.
Comments attributed to each poem are by Taha Kehar.
Ms Kausar Shigri is Dean of English, Primary Section of The Mama Parsi Girls’ School. She has been associated with the school for 38 years.
Taha Kehar is a journalist based in Karachi. He is the author of Typically Tanya, Of Rift and Rivalry, Writing Words with Fire and Revolution’s Child.
