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⁠"How pointless it seems" is a line that is true for so many realities of our time. I wrote this poem after driving by a dead cat on the road with its fur still shining in the afternoon light and swaying with the breeze. So many things in l
I have hundreds of poems and vignettes like the one I am sharing today. My writing flows from my identity which is firmly rooted in one fact: I am my father’s daughter. Everything begins at that singular reality and ripples outward into knowled
My father comes from the depths of the old walled city of Lahore. My mother is buried there, in the graveyard surrounding the tomb of our ancestor. Some of the best moments of my childhood were spent walking alongside my parents on the rough cobbled
My daughter spoke only a few words until she was three years old. It worried me endlessly, but more concerning was the exhaustion that came with the futile attempts to talk with my toddler. My father used to say, “The children who speak later a
Old poetry unearthed. ⁠⠀ ⁠⠀ ...⁠⠀ ⁠⠀ #poetrycommunity #poems #poem #poetry #poetry⁠⠀ #igpoetry #poetsofig #poetsandwriters #poetsofinstagram #igpoetrycommunity #poetsofpakistan #instagrampoetry #womenwritersofinstagram #spilledink #spilledinkpoetry #
This is another unpublished poem that I wrote years ago about death after a long illness. Ironically, the poem is short. It was hard to write — how do you encapsulate the months of battle that precede the "hospice bed?" So often, I am
"How Mother Was" published in Blue Bonnet Review 2015. ⁠⠀ ⁠⠀ Old poetry unearthed. ⁠⠀ ⁠⠀ ...⁠⠀ ⁠⠀ #poetrycommunity #poems #poem #poetry #poetry⁠⠀ #igpoetry #poetsofig #poetsandwriters #poetsofinstagram #igpoetrycommunity #poetsofpakistan #i
A draft of a poem. After I lost my mother in 2017, there were moments in which her loss would suddenly hit me square in the chest as though I had forgotten about it and only just remembered. The enormity of the loss would come crashing down on me and