CAT

By Muhammad Ayaan Y K
March 18,2020

There was cat with a ball
He said “I got it when one boy fell”
Then the boy came and he told,
“I got it when I attained fame!”
Then the cat said, “it’s behind a wall!”
There was a cat who is fat,
He said, “it happened when 
I sat on a mat
Then his owner cried 
He said, “because his fish died 
So I like to be fat.”
There was a cat on a pan 
He was wearing a can
He said, “I want to die!”
Then another cat told,
“You are telling lie, right?”
So he told, “Alright but 
I want to sleep on the pan!”

Muhammad Ayaan Y K is a Class 6 student of Sudana Residential School, Puttur D K

Comments

AbdulSamadKolnad
 - 
Wednesday, 18 Mar 2020

Masha Allah...verry well explained the justfication of cat to be fat....and to do what ever it wants,,,good one keep writing good luck...

T V Abdulla
 - 
Wednesday, 18 Mar 2020

Well written, all the best

 

 

Antony Thimoth…
 - 
Wednesday, 18 Mar 2020

Amazing talents. Congratulations Ayaan baba. May be I feel  only few years are ahead to be known as a well renowned child poet. Your earlier poetries also I have read it which are freely flowing with poetic thoughts. May Allah Bless you always.

 

Mohamed Rafiq
 - 
Wednesday, 18 Mar 2020

Awesome Ayaan.. way to go!

Sadananda Acharya
 - 
Wednesday, 18 Mar 2020

Excellent Ayaan. I read your previous poems too. You have special talent in poetics. keep up the good work..... 

Shihab
 - 
Wednesday, 18 Mar 2020

Congrats Ayan!  Nice poem.. Masha Allah!

Keep writing.. All the best.

Nandini
 - 
Tuesday, 7 Apr 2020

Very good Ayan, you are getting better and better. Keep them coming.

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HOMECOMING

Mafazah Sharafuddin
August 9,2020

My homeland does not exist
Except in my mind.

It sits among my childhood memories

Uses my ambitions as a toy
No matter what I do, it stands sentinel.

What is it, you may ask.
And I will answer. 

It is a long, long street.
I walk down it and I do not hear
The sounds of people crying in pain.

No fetus cut out of a swollen belly
No man with his hands pressed together 
Begging for his life.
There are no broken voices 
Singing national anthems in their dying breath.
No children crying for their dead grandfather.

No sounds of battering rams 
And falling debris 
And sacrilege.

I walk down the street and I do not see
The sight of ravaged souls tonight.

There are no children bloodied
In their once white clothes
No scarves being ripped from the bowed heads
Of hopeless women.
There is no little girl
In her burnt up frock 
Laying completely still on the sidewalk.

The taps run clear
And there is no blood
Not on this street.

I walk down the street and I do not taste
Ash and gunpowder
And the copper tang of blood.

No salt from tears and sweat from toil
No bitterness 
Matured over seventy years.

I walk down the street and I do not feel
The burning anger of the oppressed 
The hopelessness of the neglected.

There is no deep chasm of sorrow
When the sons of mothers once sat.
No rage where the daughters lay
With blood between their legs.

You ask me again,
What is it?
It is a place of peace, I say.

The window is open 
And we are sipping amber tea
Spiced with cardamom and rose water.
You look at me and I see it again.
You are yet another victim
And so am I.

The window is open 
And I can hear the chants from two streets away.
They scream for freedom
They scream liberty and revolution.

For a moment I am tempted to cry 
For lives lost,
For our lives 
That have turned black with the turn of the century
When our homeland turned against us.
No, not our homeland, our country.

My homeland does not exist,
Except in my mind.

But the voices are rising 
Like smoke from a forest fire
Burning up bigotry in its wake.

My homeland does not exist.
Not yet.

Mafazah Sharafuddin is a humanities student, studying BA Psychology, Journalism and English Literature

Comments

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