Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. With her poetry published in over 60 literary venues so far, along with several anthologies, she continues to seek more venues to reach out to wider audiences. Mostly disinclined to talking about herself, she prefers her poetry fill all the gaps instead. In her free time, she's either reading or writing poetry, musing over myths and watching cartoons. Her poetry has been recited at two separate poetry reading events held in Greece. She edits poetry for eFiction India. What about the sea (after reading Oscar Wilde’s The Fisherman And His Soul) What about the sea haven’t I said that flows in your eyes like a morning breeze that whimpers in a conch, if there was a way easy to the path of your pearly world, (like the man who wanted to give up his soul) like a flower growing from the roots of the underground sea, I’d bloom to the surface as a lotus and give many wanders for sea merchants to puzzle on, there still wouldn’t be enough number of times the defiance of my words would send shivers of allure down the bones of your desires, and the stories I would tell you about how my fins expand like the wings of a bird in free flight, how my arms have been bound by the blood in your veins; and then your eyes would promise me its flickers of life, that like a flame leaps of undeterred determination and on a day of sunrise when the moon would be conjunct with the sun, to watch me surface, I’d pull you into the depths of the sea and show you how, in my world, humans are loved. Will these mountains Will these mountains fall on my back – they have begun to crack in rocks – as my rough wood canoe pushes across by a stick of branch I use as an oar; the light has receded into the clefts of their shadows, and my body is lone in the songs of the aged water that sits like a brewing drink in a glass of permissible sweetness; my ears are filled with whorls of your twittering when early autumn in my parts, I found you in the sky of a different world far from mine; when the season moved I come, now, through these taper water- paths, my swimming skills weak against the unknowing deepness of the deep looking for your song, afraid to drown and die in irony. still arriving walking on a bridge of nets to a land of lights a thousand moons ago, I had arrived to a shore the gulls slept, resting wings on sun-fried sand as the ships I counted became fewer by the tide, the sails flurried the winds buried the eyes cried walking on a bridge of nets to a land of lights I remember the tree that had offered us coconuts hanging half-finished like a painting on a stand the gulls slept, resting wings on sun-fried sand how the fire beneath the waters rocked our boat how our eyes had set on splintered crags of gold walking on a bridge of nets to a land of lights I remember my mother’s back matched the sky pale clouds, yellow birds, wet rivers, hands dried the gulls slept, resting wings on sun-fried sand at night, I would sit up to hear the fishes sing the scent of dreams, new land, a perfumed lore walking on a bridge of nets to a land of lights a thousand moons ago, I had arrived to a shore The hour of night walked over The hour of night walked over the ledge strolling on the edge of the roof’s, counting its steps as it walked one foot afore the other, like the night had arrived to its fate, vacant blue held the mist in a jealous lover’s embrace, petite was the stone on which the stars rested their heads; the dreams of the roving grooved into the walls like rings fallen off the sun’s outer rim, the night shone within like a bulb with the brightest yellow hues, un-exhaustive like an eternal supply of continuity enclosed around the universe’s brim; the night climbed down the pipe with the stealth of a pubescent girl returning home at the hour of dawn, her cheeks visible on the rising sky, her love, though a flame showing like the rare golden on a dying night.
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