Tag: writing

VERSE | THE CONUNDRUM OF BOOK NO. 8

On By Mahvash K. M.In bookworm, newbook, satire, verse, womenwriters, writingLeave a comment 
7 books down, and I was told
By well meaning friends of the heart
Start
Writing a novel.  Now that would be novel
For someone like me
A lover of the short story
Genre. Honour-ing the demigods
Of the craft
Like Munshi Premchand and Kurt Vonnegut 
Poe, Manto, Chughtai and a glut
Of others
Revered for the grace and form
They built into their pithy tomes
These brothers
And a sister to bring them all home

I also dabbled in poetry
A bit of whimsy, some contrariety
A ravaged spirit or blithe wings
Made my poems weep and sing
But the short story
And flash fiction 
Is where my heart lay 
For 6 of the books
Where my pen strayed
Where the typed word
Lay bare its humming core
To hold words of wisdom
Emotions galore
(Let me disclaim these to be mine
Not of the larger space and time)

7 books like an epoch of weeks
Must of change rustle and speak
But a no-vel, well-no … that’s not for me
Or my pen or my sensibility
William Faulkner that sage divine 
Said it best when he wrote his lines
I paraphrase, this verse to fit:
“A failed short story writer is a novelist
And a short story writer is a failed poet”.

Images: Hamama Tul Bushra

VERSE | HEALING

On By Mahvash K. M.In poetry, serenity, verse, womenwriters, writingLeave a comment 
She looks down at the empty page 
Something is on her mind 
A plot, a verse for better or worse 
For the rest, a pithy line 

But nothing stirs into rank and file 
For her to string together 
The words and phrases spin like crazy 
She just can’t find the tether 

“I looked at him in puzzlement…”
No today she couldn’t go there 
“She sat serene and beautiful
With a magnolia in her hair…”

She felt herself choke a little 
She couldn’t walk there either 
In sepia-toned dreams is where
She felt happiest seeing her 

A cup of tea, a pastry 
That sublime combination
Surely she could muster up 
Something for that occasion 

But her thoughts were far away 
They were looking at something else 
The woman poised upon her page 
Needed healing herself 

So they had set up a little storm 
In the space of her tearing mind 
Whirling, swirling round and round 
Until the pain was left behind 

Then to her blue-stung heart they went 
To gently numb the precious space
Odes to life’s ripple and swell 
Could wait for another day.

NOW AVAILABLE IN PAKISTAN! “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta and Other Stories”

On By Mahvash K. M.In newbook, writingLeave a comment

Dear friends and family,

“The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta and other Stories” and “Curious Animals…” are NOW AVAILABLE IN PAKISTAN at the following locations:

LIBERTY BOOKS at all their locations in KARACHI and LAHORE

PARAMOUNT BOOKS in KARACHI (Main bookstore at PECHS and the Agha Khan bookstore)
Paramount Books in FAISALABAD and in ISLAMABAD

ORDER YOUR BOOKS ONLINE AT:

http://libertybooks.com and

https://paramountbooks.com.pk/

Do get your copies; and do let me know what you think 🤓

Here’s to Reading, Dreaming and Becoming 🌸

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZSdSbbFuA/

VERSE | THE ACCIDENTAL WORDSMITH

On By Mahvash K. M.In poetry, serenity, verse, writing2 Comments 
I’m an accidental wordsmith 
I solder little things 
Nouns and verbs and adjectives
Some calming, some with a sting 

Some say they like my poetry
When words I synchronise 
Like Paler than a Tundra Jailer
Eyes Turquoise like Southern Skies 

Others they are fonder of 
The short stories that I weave 
Of everyday folks, who beat all the odds 
Tales of strength and tales of grief 

Still others declare, that they swear
By my pithy, four line squiggles 
Proverbs with a caustic twist 
Metaphors to make you giggle 

There are also those that have held on
To their childhood innocence
My fairy tales and creature lore
Are their thimbles full of gin 

So I carry on being a wordsmith
Hugging hearts and moving minds
With truth and grit, drollery and bliss 
Sharing wee moments out of time.

VERSE | THE QUINTESSENTIAL INTROVERT

On By Mahvash K. M.In Foot in the Mouth, pandemic, poetry, verse, writing2 Comments 
I am the quintessential introvert
There was a time I had my social spurts 
But all that seems like a lifetime ago
The Corona gave that spacetime a blow

I absolutely love my solitude 
When I say ‘Leave me be’ I’m not being rude
It’s just the way I’m internally wired 
Too much nodding and smiling just makes me tired

That’s not to say that I spurn the cliche
Of the Island that No Man Is
I’m just more prone to proverbs that sweep
Through Still Waters that tend to Run Deep

And now I’m on the back foot yet again
By that adage I didn’t mean I’m a Brain
An Einstein, a Galileo or an Edison
(Well .. maybe a tad like A. Tennyson)

Dear reader I’m the embodiment of reserve
I don’t seek adulation that is undeserved 
But even as I spin this meter and rhyme
I think every enterprising poet doth have her time

In the shining confluence of our universe
Of writers, and scribblers, masters of verse
But since I’m the quintessential introvert 
I’ll tell my tales from my quiet corner on earth

Still, if by some providential twist of fate
Some of you think that my writing’s first rate
Know that I still love my solitude 
I’ll thank ye kindly and then I’ll respectfully brood.