The Poetry Marathon

She roars and burns the forest 

And in a blazing torrent, 

Smoldering branches that held her down 

Give way to smoke that lets her drown 

The spirit of her rage 

That blinded her to her chains,

Finally it rains, and 

She soars.

He envelopes my thoughts with echoes of his singing, 

and breaths each breath with measured intensity 

Casting doubts on my veracity 

I shiver under his certainty 

My skin melts under his touch snowy,

He sings slowly and I hear my siren 

My guardian warning, 

I will drown, 

But I can hear only what he sings, 

Fables of his desire distract from his reality

Our breathing entwined, turn dusty whispers to ash

Fingers tread lightly, searching for wants

That converge from abstract to touchable 

I hear the dawn of a winter unthinkable

And let his singing drown my plea

Allow his fingers an open sea, 

Of wishful thinking where we reach beyond inquest 

And into surrender,

His thoughts surround mine, 

His mind, devours my musings 

His smile displays a victory,

It grows colder outside and my fire dwindles, 

His music fades, and when I open my eyes, 

My heart begins to thaw, and his remains frozen. 

The waves play with my toes, teasing and then urging,
Re surging, the siren tugs at me, 

pulls me in slowly until I’m standing at the edge of the world

The sun sets and the ocean melts into the sky

High and bold, in hues of gold, orange and pink, suddenly it’s as if everything was glowing

I look at my hands and they’re the same color as the sky 

It’s flowing, through me 

I see, the ocean in your face, hear the waves in your smile

For half a mile, my thoughts are hushed 

They stare in wonder, flushed, 

Like you and I 

Somewhere in the sky, the first star peeks at us,

I feel a quietness that will last me a century of peace 

The waves, they tease

And the sound envelopes, you and me

I close my eyes, I no longer need to see

The universe aligned,

Built me a shrine in this moment

For a moment, everything that ever came together, 

Came together for me.

I grew up in the city 

Our skies glowed with pity

Lit up with banished dreams 

And darkness disguised 

The skies advised, 

Somewhere, a ship full of stars capsized 

So I traveled with longing 

A necessary yearning 

Walked past abandoned shrubs, 

Past sirens calling, 

Forests howling 

Until I arrived at the junction 

Of a 100 sunsets, and another 100 sunrises

Their meeting set fire to the sky 

And it glowed, burned and shone like it had never before

I had arrived at the shore, 

To where dreams drifted away 

And turned into stars

Dear Grandmother, 

I wish you could see, my ink stained hands, 

Where he needled in birds, 10, that I could count 

But I can no longer inherit the chains I ought to love 

Was born to love, everyone says 

The wounds hurt, that held the cord connecting me to your life

I’m sorry, I clipped it, I had to make room for the wings,

Mother is often upset, as I reject, 

Our generational suffering 

We fight, she cries, I do not blame her, 

Would I leave if I had the key to the prison I was born in?

I promise you I will not birth another in a prison 

I wish you could see, no husband will leave me bloodied 

No brother will draw my bounds 

Will you be proud? Dear grandmother? 

When I say suffer, a little less than my mother? 

And a little more than my daughter, 

Love, 

Your granddaughter, who grew half a wing. 

Three days and four nights spent 

Three years and four decades lent 

To the unraveling of entwined narratives

Mapping each face of righteous dissent 

I write and note, and jot down, and measure,

Having sorted through history, I close my ledger

But I wake up again at the start of the page

Fazed and undone, I fathom at the mystery 

At the unruly habit of redoing history 

I scribble again with vigour to map out the mistakes

To wake up again to the same bewitchery 

Unlearned and discarded, the stories are forgot 

The struggles bought, 

And martyrs marred, 

I labour again to rewrite and remind what was sought 

But I wake up again at the start of the page

Irked and betrayed, I speak what I sought to write 

Can my voice thunder over this historic blight?

My companions have pens, they now write in my place 

But something lurks from the shadows, ghastly and trite

We hold on to our pens, our words and our tales

But it’s getting misty, blurring the details,

And we wake up again at the start of the page.

You’ll need, 

1. Love 
2. Desperation 
3. Music 
4. Musings 
5. Hope 

Use a good deal of love, don’t be shy and pour in your entire heart 

Now let it sit and turn sour 

A few hours 

Before it turns it to desperation, 

And aspirations, rise to melancholic notes

‘Oh how she dotes, and quotes my favorite lines’

Say it with sighs, and that brings us to rueful musings 

Pick a bowl of your choosing,

And pour the last of your hope 

Viola! 

Does it hurt yet? 

I met her on the news, on stories in my phone, the glories of her tale 

Allegories of her name, 

Ring broken and omitted in legal records of her shame 

I claim, 

her pain, her shame, her crime 

Each time

I dare dream of the freedom she lived, the chains she broke so I may speak

They reek of her blood, 

I see in each man the coward that kills in slumber 

Can I put it in a number? The sisters, the mothers, the lovers we lost?

Lists of names running longer than the length of the rivers we’re drowned in 

Deeper than the ground we’re buried in 

Qandeel*, she lives in me

When I whisper her name with my sisters in prayer 

Qandeel, she lives in us

Where we lay bleeding, screaming, muffled,and  maimed 

When we chip away at the chains, piece by piece 

For a peace that we may never see

Ironing the crease, in an existence that won’t belong to me 

We chip away each day chanting, 

‘Qandeel’

Your name will set our daughters free.

*Qandeel Baloch was a Pakistani Social Media personality/model, who was a victim of honor-killing by her brother.  

Hi,

I’m Aisha from Pakistan, this is my fourth poetry marathon and I’m very excited to be joining again after several years. I’ve strayed away from poetry for some time now and want to find my inspiration again. Around 6 years ago I first joined the marathon and had the chance to share my still new, uncertain work with some amazing writers and poets and it’s an experience I will always carry with me. Looking forward to read some amazing work!

Love to all my poets.

Being alive in a world half-dead

Is torture in itself

For all the skins and tears and words that I have shed

No one will know as they collect dust on my shelf.