Biography
24 y/o chronically online woman attempting to make a comeback while juggling corporate slavery
Lotus
She floats like a lotus On clear fragrant waters. Her tongue that of a poetess, A literary world colossus. Gifts of Poseidon, So much they offer, But the human world to her remains unknown, Hidden in an ancient coffer. The Pandora’s jar that nurtures The human world within it Must not be shattered. For, she’s already been afflicted With the deadliest diseases.
The Tea Vendor
In the bustling streets of Mumbai, Lived a shrivelled old man, Who cajoled the city folk with cups of aromatic chai He brewed with his sorcerer hands. Fingers deft, Spices perfect, Zeal undented, His exemplary teacups couldn't be replicated. Every droplet of sweat and tea, Every thread of the washed-out scarf that hung round his neck thoughtlessly, Every crooked tooth, every etched crease Had been through a slew of misery. But the clangour of his utensils Ballooned his heart with hope. He sought solace in his second dwelling. It helped him reach out to those who around him were no more. His rusty pot of bubbling chai Birthed flashes of a winsome bride and a wailing child, And that of the earnest friend From whom the stall had been inherited. But one day the brilliance of the bride's vermillion turned blue As raging clouds boomed. It was the year floods plagued Mumbai. It was the year 2005. Call it passion or madness, The old man made the rickety stall his residence. In a scenario so dire, He wanted his last moments to be worthwhile. Lay the man crippled under the weight Of the half-broken canopy that collapsed fully. Perhaps this was the grandiose departure he was destined to get. Perhaps the forsaken relics were destined to keep him company. Today, nobody visits the nook of the street Where the tea stall once stood tall. There's tea aplenty, but without the sorcery. Nobody takes a gander at the transient new tea stalls. c. 2017
Plath's Poppies
Plath's poppies bloom In days of gloom, From July through October. The scarlet florets burn like ember, And line up before tombstones And hallucinatory portals. Some look up to the sky, their eventual abode, And some like a skirt, tent their petals. A sprightly bird's staccato trills Fragment further when hit by perils That tag along with the siren of the ambulance Carrying a lady whose red heart blooms like poppy florets Through her coat, so astoundingly, When she sleeps and bleeds. Gone too soon The ruby red pulse, Gone too soon A stream of wonder whose ripples Can still be felt today, In words of melancholy, longing and woe, And ashes that the little red flames Leave along artistic roads. I should let you know That the carbon monoxide escaped your windows ages ago, And that the bell jar is currently hibernating in its safe space, Having cured itself of its illness. Maybe you could come back now With streams of words flowing down Your arms, Because the little poppies no longer do any harm. c. 2020
The Aftermath
Stars pour from the sky And congregate on the ground to erect an ivory palace, As bright as day, as searing as the desires Entombed deep under the earth's surface. It doesn't take nightfall To lure them inside- The eager, the crafty, the venal, the mortal. Every nugget of their flesh blazes in the lambent lights. Unbridled power it gives them As they undress the bedecked walls, Strip them of their drapes and ornaments. Gotta have it all. But there comes a day of reckoning for those who have it all, And those whose gluttonous hands gloat every sin, big or small. Where do they go From the aftermath unknown? After the dizzying silence unfolds, After they fall over like a row of dominoes? The aftermath always prevails. There's a day even after the day of days. For fate's gaze holds hostage Even those who embody their masquerades. c. 2021
Wooden Doll
You talk to me, caress me, pet me- My little red riding hood. Clad in a dress that bleeds rubies, You suffocate yourself in a bonnet and two shoes. Solely in you I’ve confided About the man hiding behind The wall with a dagger in his pocket. Perhaps he’s a wolf in disguise. He has come here to tear us apart, I think. You’ll leave me soon anyway. So, don’t fret when I break you into minuscule ligneous chips. I just need a new playmate.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Blog entries by Shifa Maqba
Fleeting Images (29/11/2025)
The Cost of Your Hand (11/11/2025)
Privilege (06/11/2025)
The Return (01/11/2025)
Parents (25/10/2025)
Tenant of the Sea (20/10/2025)
Boyhood (16/10/2025)
The Prophecy (10/10/2025)
Fall (07/10/2025)
Girlhood (01/10/2025)
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