Tag Archives: Write

Villanelle Unveiled

I wrote a villanelle. Three actually, but the one I’m going to post is the only one I really like. This form was making me neurotic, I swear. I didn’t want to write it because I felt I would fail miserably. (Free verse is the only kind of poetry I’ve ever done, after all.)

But it wasn’t letting me rest either. I just had to write it, the weight of it was getting unbearable.

So after three tries, this is what materialized. Criticism is more than welcome, but please be gentle. I don’t want my first born to be slaughtered just yet.


Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep

While the lady in the apron stood at the shore,

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”


I gave the ocean all my treasures to keep.

But the lonely fisher-boy evened his score.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.


What you sow, the others will reap,

the waves came whispering at my door.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”


Once, the moon was a hurdle for my sheep.

Now, it rules the tides that crash and roar.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.


Don’t take me down to where the weeds creep.

Don’t push me to mend what the wind tore.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”


I ran to where my dreams lay in a heap.

I sorted them, put them back in my store.

Oh, curse the power that put me to sleep.

“Here’s a warning, darling, don’t go in too deep.”


P.s. Changes have been made after applying the constructive criticism given by Marie.

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Tomorrow, I’ll attempt a villanelle.

Should I try a sestina too?

Maybe after I master the villanelle.

It might take ages, or not.

Speaking of which, I’ve never even tried a sonnet before.


Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll love you tomorrow.

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Working Does This to Me

I’m at a payphone

trying to call home

now that you’ve locked me out the door.


I pay half the rent.

It just isn’t fair.

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Do you read my letters? Do you?

I write letters

on faded paper


pretending to work on a typewriter –

messy stains

click. clack. Ting.


They question me.

My sanity


She can not read.

(She’s dead)

(She’s dead)


Are you?

Then how do you speak to me?

I know no


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Poison Poetry

Poison on the tip of your pen.

You suck it, savour


the bitter drug

It is the ink you write your

poems with.


It’s fatal, so you spew it

all over the world,



leave them to swill it,

drink it, die.


Your words a kiss

so simple, so sweet,

sugar, honey, love


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The Door

I’ll cover my door with poetry

Don’t enter if you don’t understand.

Don’t string up lines that don’t connect,

Don’t pretend to know me or my life.

The verses might not make sense

But there’s a reason why they are there

They have meaning to me, should have some for you

if you mean to enter my lair.

They’ll be simple

and there’s no rush, so please

be patient, be kind, be calm,

for in those verses lies my life

and all of what I am.

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To Whom This Was Promised

Dear Doctor Sahiba


It’s been long since I wrote any one a letter, for some reason I got tired of it. I usually write a lot of letters, to friends, to Sylvia Plath, to my fiancé, all written and stowed away in either the cardboard box at the back of my jeans stack, or in the hidden folder inside the many folders that clutter my desktop. Maybe this will be another, maybe not.


So what does one write in a letter? Pleasantries? Inquiries? Inane gossip? Stuff that doesn’t concern anyone and therefore concerns all. Do my letters have all these? Will this be the same? No and no. My letters are a way of letting you into my locked vault, the key to which I never gave anyone, but it is opened every now and then. I’ll let you in myself this time; invite you in, give you leave to do whatever you please with a portion of me that I give to you.


It’s never simple, writing to someone. And it isn’t easy writing specifically to you. I don’t even remember how we became friends. I visited your blog when I first entered the blog-o-sphere, followed it and occasionally came back to read the snippets from your med school life that you left there for us to laugh at. And then there was Facebook, then twitter, tumblr too.


Anyways, all that is besides the point.


Then what is the point? I don’t know. My train of thought derailed just now because Robert Downey Jr. showed his beautiful face on TV.

Truth is, I really like you. And I trust you enough to make you my family doctor when I move to Islamabad  (I don’t care what you specialize in). Please become a complete daaktarni by then.


And because the introduction to this letter was so not like the main body, maybe I’ll put in a little poem to conclude it (not mine).

There was a Young Lady whose chin,
Resembled the point of a pin;
So she had it made sharp,
And purchased a harp,
And played several tunes with her chin.






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