Poems By
Kashmiri Women
Sitting In
The Middle Of Khanqah
Listening To
Awraadi Fatah
Having Sips Of Nun Chaai
Under The
Folds Of Kashmiri Burqah
An Agonised
Voice That Pricks My Soul
Every Log In Between The Bricks Vibrate
And Produce
Blissful Echoes I Crossed Wall After Wall
To See, Who It Could Be
Splendid
Tunes Of Heaven
There I Saw No Crowd No Hustle Bustle
Around Just
The Birds Of Jamia Pecking Rice And Corn
This Anguish
Harshness In Winter Has Left Every Eye To Gaze High
These Arid
Eyes Ooze Now Brittle Drops To Pacify
This Gloom
Neighbours To It, Are Still Dead!
These Callous Souls Inside
The Ruins
Are As Faithless
As The Curse
On These Knots Knots,
Which Were
Tied With Faith
Once Amidst
All This Aloy Of Gloom
And Peace
She Unlocked
The Ancient
Window Of Her Ruin And Yelled!
It’s Curfew
Outside Let’s Die Inside
Anonymous’ Hair Chopper – I Am Not Afraid
Why just me?
as I hear and I see,
they whisper and make commentary
ah! she walks so gaudily
as I hear and I see,
they whisper and make commentary
ah! she walks so gaudily
they form a choice in liberty.
I have to see the earthy dust,
by lowering my gaze.
but they are free to trace,
first my face, then my body under the lace
I have to see the earthy dust,
by lowering my gaze.
but they are free to trace,
first my face, then my body under the lace
upon they rumble and hit,
and wend marks like a makeup kit
if I smile their desires are lit
and if I evade, then I am not fit
and wend marks like a makeup kit
if I smile their desires are lit
and if I evade, then I am not fit
when they shower acid over me
for I say no to their false plea
I stand there as numb and tainted
thinking it’s lone me, who would be blamed.
for I say no to their false plea
I stand there as numb and tainted
thinking it’s lone me, who would be blamed.
I am present in every corner,
in your house too,
as a wife or sister
as a mother or daughter
and more importantly, as SOMEONE.
in your house too,
as a wife or sister
as a mother or daughter
and more importantly, as SOMEONE.
painted as bright upon the canvas of plight
who has given them this right?
to seize my scarf or to cut my hair
what they want, she should fright?
who has given them this right?
to seize my scarf or to cut my hair
what they want, she should fright?
By Iqra
Akhoon
My
Dumbstruck body with clotted blood, endure tortuous days and terrible nights.
Silence
stuck in throat That Strives to cry .
Forms
quite dew drops In deep arid well.
Aching
heart with heavy sighs, Those taunts and scolds, Those unbearable fies, And my firm belief To tackle it hard.
Those
books never dried bears which, the history Of my lakes and Niles.
Under
the dawned sky living on dusky desert, With no oasis no mirage. Yet a soothing
word Could have an effect, But that too remains Far away far back.
You
know that oyster ,
Which
Suffers from somber pain, But what you care For
The
fruit it bore. kunan poshpora Kunan Poshpora rape victims ranged between the
ages of 8 and 80. I left no single leaf On my autumn body, To
protest against The barbaric frost And in this way I was being eroded forever
Here I
am bearing An untold story That nobody can hear And I can’t share.
By
Sauliha Yaseen
They
always spoke of how beautiful I was. I was an attraction, a possession highly
valued.
They
waged wars, shed blood. None would let me go. I am Habba Khatoon who sang songs into the
autumn air, waiting for her beloved
I was
taught how to live with the pain of losing a loved one very early in my life
I am
magnificent but scarred. Each scar has a story of its own. 1931, the world had
moved forward and so had I.
I had
new captors who reveled in my beauty, and new scars telling new stories.
The
winter snow melted into the fragrance of spring and then came summer, one I
dread.
Abdul
Qadeer spoke as I listened, The slogans of freedom were soon muffled by the
sounds raging bullets. I saw the men fall to the captor’s bullets.
I lost
a husband that day, a father and a son too.
Yet I
have fought all these years. I have resisted always. Years came forth and left me with more
memories. 11th February was a winter day, heralding a new spring In all my
glory, they told me that I lost another son.
Yes I
am Maqbool’s mother who still waits by his empty grave.
It was
my wedding day, with a heavy heart and henna stained hands, I left my home. I had my groom with me, I felt protected in
his presence. It took them fifteen minutes and my world fell
apart. I am Mubina Ghani, I was raped on my wedding day.
February
came every year, this year in 1991 it brought along doom on the villages of
Kunan and Poshpora. I was pinned to the ground and brutalized on
that fateful night, by men whose faces I don’t remember, they were countless,
and were they even humans? Years later they speak of that night again and
again. Each has a different narration and a different explanationThe
wounds healed but the pain did not fade. Now Tehreek had taken a new turn. I was a mother
who lost her child.
I was a
widow trying to make both ends meet.
My
husband left in the morning and never returned.
They
handed me a file and told me to move on in life. Each evening as Maghrib
prayers are called, I sit by the window waiting for his arrival. Yes I am his half-widow. Sometimes I am silent
and sometimes I make noise.
I
scream for my son who was taken away I am Parveena Ahangar. I went to the orchard where I thought I was
safe.
Forgetting
that lived in an occupied land.
It did
not take them much time to tear off their garb of humanity and my clothes.
I
pleaded not for myself but for my unborn child. I am Asiya, I am Neelofer.
They
taught me how to wear hijaab but did not tell me it was not enough.
Each
day while going to school I was molested. One day I decided to speak up. I regret I did.
Maybe
if I had kept quiet, it would have saved lives. I am the Handwara girl who lives with regret.
My brother had gone to play when I heard the bullets. I took my dupatta and ran into the streets to
get him home.
Hours
later I was brought home in blood sodden clothes.
The
bullet that was meant for him, I stood in its way. I am Yasmeen who was
murdered on the street. I stand in the queues of government offices
waiting for compensation. I had promised I would not take money from my
husband’s killers. But my kids were hungry. I wait ouside Tihar and Kotbalwal, in the
scorching sun just to catch his glimpse. My beloved son, who is languishing in the jail
for no crime other than being a Kashmiri. I sit on the wooden bench waiting for my
doctor, Every time this young lad tells me to not take stress as he prescribes
antidepressants How can I not take stress? Every night as the army patrols the street, I
lay sweating in bed. Each knock on the creaking door makes my heart
beat louder and louder.
I have
heard stories. I have seen too much to not take stress. Each day is a struggle but I have survived.
And I always will.
My Favorite
Family Member
My then seven years old grandson (Mohammed Ibrahim Rashid) was
tasked to write a poem about his Favorite Family Member. This is what he wrote:
My
favorite family member Grandfather
I love
him because he takes us for cycling
He
tells me about scientific discoveries
He
brings books for me and I am reading them He comes to visit every Sunday
When I
get good grades he brings gifts for me
He
tells me and my brother stories when we go to their house
When I
was three we used to plant seeds and water them I pray for his health every
day.
The fairy from heaven
By Javed Rashid
The fairy from heaven
Had her
eyes clouded by Pucks lotion
Her
feminine radar went hay wire
She fell
head over heals for this nobody
Who was
smitten by the fair lady from heaven
Who had
lost her way to this Eden
on earth
The gods of
love frowned upon this unequal match
And
separated them in what seemed to be
A blink of
the eye for many years
The fairy
smitten by the love potion forgot
To cleanse
her eyes of the potion
And the
nobody defied the gods and
Could never
forget this Beautiful muse
The
changing of guards in the murky
Depths of
the heavens ended this
Banishment
and the “nobody” found
This
enchanting lady again by a miracle
That was
abetted by the faithful Puck
What
happens to the “nobody” and the muse?
Is still
not decided and the grand
Council of
the love registrar
Is still to
convene and determine the fate
Of this
unequal match
This nobody
hopes that Puck, the
Faithful
old friend also sits in this
Grand
council to decide the fate of these two
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