Working Title.

I met him in a library, in the history section.
A lengthy momentary suction into his serious pass time
Time that I have stamped with my patience and gratitude.

Before this moment I spent my quiet with great fortitude.
I built a fort around my bloodline
Lined up the hearty troops from Bombay to fight away the superiority complex.
A simple complicated affair.
I employed engineers from Niger to create extinguishers
To fight the fire within myself.

    I reigned with self discipline.

    I met him in a library, in the history section.
    Doughy eyes, cute smile. Reads a lot.
    He has memorised lines from books
    And churns them out with sweet satisfaction.
    I fall for the black and white letters, the quotes and
    Misquotes, the bibliographies and Oxford press.
    I fall for his world. I’m lost in in his translation.

      I fall for his story.

      My barriers have fallen, and my soldiers flee from the havoc.
      I’m open to doubt.
      I’m open to him.

      Black and white won’t do me no harm.
      It makes the liveliest of shadow puppet shows.
      But, I used to love it when the sun rose.

Working Title.



My mother gave birth to me,
among the rice fields secretly.
She wished that I did not cry
when I left her
pink matter.

She wished that I had died.
Her worried eyes foreshadowed the future.
I never understood her

until that day in 1962
I saw a man that looked just like me
dead, hands tied behind his back, floating in the river.
I ran home in tears,
screaming that if this is what my people do to my people,
then I do not want to be Arakanese.
I do not want to be Burmese.
But I still found myself standing in front of the mirror
bleaching my skin and pulling my eyes further apart
and telling Allah that He will have to forget me for a while
because I do not want to die in the hands of the Burmese military.
The way I look does not please them, so it does not please me.

My mother walked in and wailed when she saw my burning skin.
I never heard her make so much noise, I thought I was doing the right thing.
She told me, “We are Rohingya. We deserve a place here.
Do not change your beauty for the persecutor.”

Homes burnt, birth certificates denied
abuse thrown, our identities hide behind their pride.
Mama and I don’t belong here,
so we join the helpless and help them get us away from Arakan.
We hitch a ride to Bangladesh
The guard says, with his fingers crossed behind his back,
“There’s no room at the inn.”
Mama, I’m sure I saw him grin.

She holds me tight. There’s nothing left for us to do.
Looking right, I see a country I refuse to submit to.
Looking left, I see a country I’m not allowed to belong to.
Looking forward, I see Suu Kyi sugar coating our broken bones.
So all we have left to do is float on this river
hoping that a land will allow us to call her our home.
A land that will see Mama and I grow old.


I recently looked into the ethnic cleansing happening in Burma right now. This is my way of spreading the word. Please reblog and spread the word. I’ve copied and pasted some information so you can catch a glimpse of what is happening in Burma.

Over the past 4 weeks, the Rohingya, a community numbering nearly 1 million in Burma’s Arakan state have been under siege by local Rakhine community also living in Arakan.

The UN have described the Rohingya as ‘the most persecuted community in the world’ and have referenced the Rohingya as the Palestine of Asia. It is reported that the Rohingya have been living in Myanmar from as far back as the 8th Century, yet in 1962, the Burmese military junta began a programme of ethnic cleansing. Starting by denying birth certificates and citizenship to the Rohingya, right now, the community are in a perilous situation where they are being targeted because they are not of the same race and religion of the Buddhist majority Rakhine. Looking darker and closer to the South Asian race as opposed to the more oriental looking majority, and being Muslims as opposed to Buddhist, the Rohingya are being targeted by state sponsored ethnic cleansing.

In recent weeks, villages belonging to the Rohingya have been burnt to the ground, whilst refugees fleeing to other countries have been refused entry left to fend for themselves on board rickety boats on rough seas.

The Myanmerese Government refuse to accept Rohingya as citizens and as such have no rights in a country they call their motherland.

This issue is much larger than a Myanmar only problem, it is fast becoming one of the worst cases of ethnic cleansing alongside the likes of Rwanda, Bosnia and even the holocaust of the Second World War.”

“… The Rohingya have been sidelined to the fringes of society and as far as they are concerned, they believe that Burma is far from reform to democracy as the state ignores the fundamental needs of its ethnic minorities. The Rohingyas are constantly labelled as foreigners, unwelcome Bangladeshis or Muslim terrorists.” (Taken from RestlessBeings website.)


If you have read this poem and want to find out more about the situation in Burma, please visit They have direct news coming in from bloggers in Burma.

If you want to take action now, RestlessBeings have started a petition to lobby the British government, which you can find here:

Thank you for taking your time out to read this post. A little can go a long way, maybe?



Under my instruction,
the servants turn my swamp into a beautiful garden,
underneath which rivers flow.
For they know that today is the day
the basket that carries Moses, will float by.
Egypt knows he’ll be the one to stand up for the world’s plight.
Mount Sinai is delivering his prayers with the wind
sending a calm along the river Nile.

The clouds promised me they won’t cry today.
Along the riverbed the trees arch forward to provide shade
for my baby’s coming.
I’ve perfumed my hair and worn my best clothes
ordered the sun to provide the day with a Middle Eastern glow.
There are villagers plucking their olive trees
wringing the juices from aloe vera leaves
in preparation for the King’s celebratory feast.

I’ve laid down white flowers
lit candles
and paper boats on the river,
so my baby won’t have to float in
by himself.


You were meant to be here a day ago.
The tree’s backs are breaking
the sun is becoming impatient
and the orange glow has turned
into a burning sensation
and the flowers are returning in a shade of red
that the mystics would question.
And a storm is brewing
and heavy drops are starting to fall
and the Nile’s tide has turned spiteful.
And the Israelites murmur under their breath
that I am cursed by the resonance
of Abraham’s infertility,

I go to ask the King for the key to the dam.
Maybe my Moses is stuck.
Maybe he can’t find his way.

I feel a chill coming from Mount Sinai
as the King denies me the keys.
Tells me that the astrologers believe
I’m not ready for the tests that Moses will bring.
That he’ll ruin me and he will not turn out to be
the son that I hoped he will be.

I notice the birds sitting on the window ledge
who sit waiting for my response.
They fly away upon hearing nothing but a solemn silence.
The red velvet curtains hold hands, blocking out the peering sun.
I demanded the truth from my husband.

His lips tells me that the people are not ready
to part from their ancestors’ belief.
His hands tell me more as he clutches on to the stones of his crown.
I see the keys around his neck when he sits on his throne.
I see the smile on his face that says
I’m crazy for crying over something I’ve never had.
I see the look in his eyes that says
it’s my fault for believing that Moses could ever be mine.


I need your help!

Right, so I’ve decided I want to enter into this years Muslim Writer’s Awards. They’re a great bunch o’ people that really believe and celebrate creative writing among the youth. What happens is that every year, you can submit your work – whether that be a short story or a poem. There’s different sections which thousands of people enter. I want to be one of those people this year, so I need your help trying to figure out which poem I should enter.

There’s Def Jam poets, writers from amazing publishing companies and notable figures who will be judging. I could have a chance at actually being trained by these people and secure a job at a publishing firm.. IF I win my category. Also, a chance at getting my work published! So yeah.. it would be great if you could have a read through the poems (if you haven’t done so already) and help me decide which poem is the winning one! You’re more than welcome to share this page so I can a better idea of which one to pick. (Psssttt! You can pick more than one.) Thank you 🙂

To make things easier, I’m going to put the links for the poems here so you don’t have to go search for them 🙂

A Means to an End:
For You:
Don’t Be:
My Curator:
Tap Dance:
One Look:

That’s all of them. Again, thank you!

I need your help!

Thinking Out Loud

I’m standing lethargically at the platform waiting for the next train to get home from work. My heels are hurting me and the woman who did my nails did a botched up job. I’ve got company; my friend that I have gotten close to quicker than anyone else. We’ve been friends for 4 years. He asks me how long it’s been since you left, even though he already knew the answer. Startled, I look to my fingers and start counting the hours. You’ve been gone 33 years and 3 months. That I know, but I feel obliged to know how many days and hours you’ve been gone. Then I realise why I’m flustered and I feel warmth on my cheeks. I’m crying.

Embarrassed and not knowing what to do, I start stuttering and the words are stuck in my throat. My friend doesn’t know what to do so he just stares at me while I try to regain composure. I’ve forgotten what you look like, the image has been obscured and you are now just an outline. All I remember are the conversations I’ve had about not forgetting you. If you were here, things would have been different. If you were here, you would have taken care of the same people that I have failed. You would have taken care of me. I’ve repeated these lines over and over again.

You would have carried on a conversation when I just turn to silence. You would have made me and my sister tighten our ties when I just pretend I don’t realise her presence. You would have gone up to mum and tucked her loose hair behind her ear when I just sit from a distance and stare. You would have been gentle and sincere, but all everyone has been left with is despair.

The warmth I would have felt from you, I start to feel from someone new. I didn’t mean to get close. I didn’t mean to find you in him. I don’t know what your eyes looked like, but his eyes have replaced yours. Before I think of you, I think of him now. I’m sorry, I don’t know how it happened.

You were taken from us before I was born. You’re now sitting in the corner of heaven, still a child… still innocent, wondering why we didn’t love you enough to keep you here. Whilst I’m forgetting you, you’re crying in the corner of heaven because you think mum doesn’t love you. Is heaven, heaven, if you think you’ve been abandoned? Does heaven have corners?

Don’t let your imagination run wild. I know it sounds crazy, missing someone you’ve never met. But, we all do it, right? We all think about what could have been. Maybe God took you for a reason. This world’s Evil would have battled with you and who knows who may have won. Maybe God took you because my thoughts of you are better than the person you could have been.  Maybe – So I think to myself.

Just because you’re gone it doesn’t mean you’re forgotten, I think, whilst enclosed in the arms of my friend. The one who’s replaced you. My mascara is all over his shirt. He rolls his eyes because this isn’t the first time I’ve ruined his shirt. Our train is here and we head home. He gets out his iPod and gives me the left side of his headphones. He puts on my favourite song, Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car. I close my eyes with my head on his shoulders, feeling safe.

Thinking Out Loud

My Curator

A day full of exchanging syllables,

Parables told over the dinner table.

All are fallible, but you cannot be.

I find it hard to believe.

You believe in the tales of our forefathers

The tales of your father

And that only takes you farther

Away from the current.

The present doesn’t like your presence

Because you believe the present caresses the careless.

Am I too reckless for your inheritance?

The necklace that rests upon God’s ticking time bomb

The family heirloom placed so close to your chest.

You don’t play with the cards dealt, so you force a poker face

And I have to create a story from the deep lines under your eyes.

We do nothing more than exchange looks,

But you tell your people to love thy neighbour.

We do nothing more than co-exist

But you preach about unity at the altar.

My curator is now watching our timeless picture,

praying for a new daughter

With incessant innocence.

The sermon ends, and you step down from the pedestal.

The same pedestal I carved my initials into.

I decided to worship you no more.

Because the taller I got

And the smaller you get –

I see too many flaws.

I focus on the beauty in your tired eyes

The memory of listening to your heartbeat

whilst lying on your chest.

I now use that sound to drown out

The tangible ignorance.

To keep our timeless picture forever alive,

I close my eyes

and repeat,

My Curator, The Creator.

My Curator, The Creator.

My Curator, The Creator.

My Curator

Audio: Means To An End.

I thought I’d try something different for a change, yknow.. mix it up a little. I decided to just practice the poem ‘Means To An End’ as a spokenword piece. I recorded it and viola! The link is below, it’d be great if you could have a listen. Maybe you could also pass on some advice or just any comments. Let me know if you like it, so I can figure out if I should do more or not! Enjoy 🙂

Click for the audio link here:

Audio: Means To An End.