January 12, 2016 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION


Sheikha A.







Ugliness has set in like a skilful

enjambment in a devious line

of poetry. We don’t know what

it means but coo at the prettiness

of its sound when recited. We cry

poet tears that consists of nods

more than real understanding –

we find safer bets in just accepting.

Winter gallops like a jouster

at my reflectiveness, spearing me

with the voice of the sky that has

clustered to the call from the masjid

that has appointed a new reciter

for the azaan – he has the melody

of an angel’s but accent of a local

who has learnt from practice

rather than teaching. I write lines

in the same way of the melody of

fire trying to roll a ball of water

on its tongue – only nuances,

verses unmatched, mornings begun

without a sun.










Your lips taste of fire eaten

too many ice


but what would I know for never

having kissed a risk


smoky pines from the mist

emerge like birds


grown the size of wealth, a grey

bark seeped in


all of the fine lines –

stories you will never tell –


what would I know of pines

from never having lived


the tropical dream of a sunset

against a Mediterranean


sky by an oasis of my lips

shrunk under a dry wind


when with it inverted desires

of a full Arabian landscape


and my dreams no longer held

the glory of fantasy


where my eyes buried under

scrolls of wrinkling skin


showing you behaviour, drama,

extremes –


diminishing sensibility.







Sheikha A.

Sheikha A. comes from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. She doesn’t like talking about herself much and likes for her poetry to speak for her instead. Her work has appeared in numerous magazines, ezines and anthologies and hopes for her work to be read and discussed widely. More of her work can be found on her blog sheikha82.wordpress.com


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