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POETS’ CORNER

By S. K
29 June, 2018

Tis now the very witching time of night....

Poems forever


Shakespeare forever

‘Tis now the very witching time of night,

When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world...

Soft! now to my mother...

Let me be cruel, not unnatural;

I will speak daggers to her, but use none...

Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2

A flame that dried   down its aim

By Anam Tehreem

My feet scrape as I swirl by my beloved’s grave

A grave, as still as the heart not brave

A heart, which burns in its own flame

A flame that has dried down its aim

Not heard I might be, not heard of I may

More dark than darkness, with colours that glow gay

Still shall dance till the blood, that oozes from these scraped soles

Kiss the child cradling among the green wings and opens whole

Comes outta dirt with a flower’s bloom

Though it may not be very soon

Ages may pass but endure shall I

With not even a second of sigh

For my beloved may have a heart that’s dead

But is not mine enough for that

The grains of sand, brown and gray

Dance along as my clothing sways

Telling me something that must be ignored

Of that I am yet again assured

For the heart of the one that I had loved

Was in the hands of Him who lives above

Would I have just bent my knees

Before my lips were even kissed by my pleas

My dance would have reached His heart,

Even though, it was yet to start

Drops of red went past my eyes

With a still heart, with a painful sigh

A heart as still as the grave within

An aim that dried its flame wherein

With brave wings she flies

By Sundus Riaz Abbasi

Higher and higher she soars,

To touch the limitless skies.

With the setting sun,

Her spirit never dies.

Neither gives up nor quits,

Her eyes, that’s where, the hope lies.

She isn’t afraid of the dark,

Near, she knows, is the sunrise.

Having all her strength,

And a gleam in her eyes.

A solitary skylark she is,

With brave wings she flies.

Where is my tea, if at all?

By Muhammad Ibrahim Abdullah

To you, yes, I may appear a man balked

At the idea unable to grapple, shocked

That I can make my own tea

That I can mix water, leaves, and milk

And make Lipton as fine as silk

But is it as simple as it appears to be?

See, to me that doesn’t appear easy

In fact, the whole notion makes me queasy

Of going in the kitchen

O’, that odorous midden

Where roaches roam under sink and stone

Where house-cats devour rodents’ bone

And besides, sister small, brother tall

Where is my tea, if at all?

The one I asked for some time ago at six?

You told me you would get it soon

You’ve been telling me that since noon

Eight hours and I haven’t had my fix

So when I ask for tea, please

Give it to me, some tea, please

Can you do that, brothers and sisters?

Compiled by SK

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