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Arshia Qasim Jun 27
Far enough but still so close
A pain I earned, the ache I chose
I recognise, but can’t relate  
The circumstance compels this wait
As I stand by, and you become
Recalling some, forgetting some
I feel you, though not hand in hand
I know, I see, I understand!

Mindful of what lies ahead
I want to look behind instead
Or glaze past all uncertainty
And wake up when in clarity

Almond scented, jasmine hued
Chocolate smooth and zest imbued
O caress of sure hands
Full as skies, deep as lands
I may not be with you right now
But we are always synced somehow
The journey of a teardrop
From the rim to when it stops
A trace of love, on sands of time
That renders our lives sublime

Grow, engage, enhance, affect
Shine on, but also, pause, reflect
This is the space, between the two
from no longer...... to not just yet


Love, separation, remembrance .
Arshia Qasim May 6
My search of one
remained futile
I had no skill
nor had I guile

But when I picked
with both my hands
some bits of stars
some fists of sands

I found that 'all'
for me was 'one'
And I was all
or I was none!

Arshia Qasim Dec 2018
احتمالی بندشوں میں جانفشانی قید ہے
کر کے دیکھیں وار تو پھر زعم ہوگا آر پار

Zeal is restrained
in the boundaries
of “what-if”s
Give it a go, so you
know, whether
your claim lives !

Couplet and translation ©️Arshia.
Arshia Qasim Dec 2018
Have you ever had an open box of cornflakes
slip out of your hands
(at the precise time you were constructing a poem in your head)
and scatter all over the kitchen
like the fragile egos of self righteous partisans
(creating a bigger mess if you trample them)
and thus, you find yourself on all fours
sweeping a recently swept floor
once more.....

We’re brought up looking for divine expedience in any mishap that happens:  
“Maslehat” they say.... there must be a hidden benefit in this!
“it’s a small loss in lieu of a bigger one that it prevented”...
....and we tune our frequencies from ambition to complacency....
year after year,
generation after generation,
till that becomes the default station.....

I even start looking at the benefits hidden in the mess at hand...
I’ve discovered crevices under the stove where my cleaner never reaches,
(now I can prepare an admonition for her
—-wouldn’t have happened without the corn flakes.... thank you!)
I imagine worse scenarios.... it could have been the bag of flour, or the spice jars .... or.... glass bottles.
The work instantly becomes less tedious, as I weigh it against shards of glass and invisible weapons of potential exsanguination....
oh shukar , shukar, shukar..... Alhamdulillah.
It’s ok, it’s only cornflakes....  

It’s only cornflakes, and my attitude.... ( that’s in question)
keeping things together, even when they’re crumbling,
cleaning up messes, and counting on second guesses,
Using crafting glue and bluetac to hold up foundations
( this doesn’t merit any recommendation!)

A friend once said, “ sometimes you have to let it break, so that you can build it better....”
but what is better, when each damage is a consecration  
that is the conundrum of creation
it’s all a substrate
it’s all a message
its all salvation
I had told my friend, “listen I don’t know how to use metaphors,
and I only have a few of my own,
will you give me some on loan?
I need them to break and remake my ache.... “
The silence meant yes.
I could take all the phrases,
all beautiful words, all dictions, all praises
In these clumsy hands, ( since the heart understands)
And if I spill them like cornflakes,
no matter what it takes,
I’ll find a way, to scoop them in a poem.

These events actually occurred
Arshia Qasim Dec 2018
I sent my senses
out across the galaxy...
From the farthest corners
to highest peaks
to deepest caverns
I sent my defences
in the other direction
knocking walls
between thoughts, feelings, reveries
rummaging through memories

The squads returned empty
having wreaked havoc
inside and out

In the meantime
inspiration called, and left
to find me absent.

Writers life, inspiration
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
With what I see, I draft a sketch
(and not how it should be)
I fill details, with all your loves
minutiae like Versailles, and such
colour here, a sculpture
there, a broken heart, alcoves
wainscotted with toil(e). some
envy carvings, poetry: a decoupage
of words,
said over years, re-cited
into countless tears,
ripened ensilage and patterns
recognised surprise,
through my hand I trace a line.
How I see, what I beget, is
defined as mine
stand and be yourself
through traffic, silence, and mindset
and if you don’t remember, know
that I do.not forget.
Love is curation.
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