Fahmida Riaz Poems

She is a woman impure
imprisoned by her flowing blood
in a cycle of months and years.
Consumed by her fiery lust,
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Come let us create a new lexicon
Wherein is inserted before each word
Its meaning that we do not like
And let us swallow like bitter potion
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Sire! What use is this black chadur to me?
A thousand mercies, why do you reward me with this?
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How long will your love hold for me?
How long?

As long as my womb sheds
Its child-bearing blood?
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(When a poet dies in Pakistan, friends often hold a condolence
meeting to pass a resolution affirming that the poet was
a Godfearing patriot mistakenly persecuted by the authorities.)
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The soft fragrance of my jasmine
Floats on the breeze
Plays with the hand of the wind,
Is setting off in search of you.
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What shall I do, Sire, with this black veil?
Why do you bestow on me this great favour?
I am not in mourning that I should wear it
To show the world my grief. Nor am I sick
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How beautiful is this land!
Beautiful and long-suffering.
A shawl of buckwheat green
Flutters in the wake
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After love the first time,
Our naked bodies and minds
A hall of mirrors,
Wholly unarmed, utterly fragile,
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Deep myrrh-scented kiss,
deep with the tongue, suffused
with the musky perfume
of the wine of love: I'm reeling
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