NAUSHENA

Naushena is a poet, an early years teacher, a healer and a mother of three. She has been writing poems since her teens about the complexities of life and developed her passion over the years. Besides poetry, she writes essays and fiction too. Her work has appeared in Boston Literary Magazine, Mothers Always Write and is forthcoming in Mamalode.

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                               The  Street  Lamp  Light

At night had you passed by the spot
Hope you could miss it not.
The pole; tall, slender and old
With a belly wrapped in gold.
 
In winter serving as a lantern
For travelers who to their home return.
Shrouded by a sheet of mist
But she would secretly peep through it.
 
Few sat studying under the little lamp light
To make their future prosperous and bright.
Few burnt to death at her feet
At last, they had accepted their defeat.
 
Years passed, seasons went
To give light, she was meant.
Children’s play she had witnessed
Not a sight had she missed.
 
Now her body has bent low.
No more does she glow
But she’s happy with this even
For she has become, a bird’s haven.                                   
                                              

                                            My  Shape  Poem
                                                                    I
                                                                     Am old.
                                                           They say, may be fifty.
                                                Nay, more. I say. My life’s a book
                                        Zealously preserved with all the events I have seen.
                                 A silent spectator, I have been of travelers, who stood under
                                                               My shade in the
                      Scorching heat when I played with the Sun, hide and seek. Who would
                 Attempt to cast his rays upon them and I swayed to and fro, to protect them. I was
         A home of many birds, a quiet partner of children in their games, their favorite escondite.
  My long roots like the golden tresses of a woman were their swings. My coarse trunk, engraved
   With the names of lovers, is a testimony of their fleeting love. Here I am alone at the causeway
                                                             Standing majestically,   
                                                             With open arms. Cut
                                                             My boughs to light your
                                                             Fire, if you want. After  
                                                             All, who can burn and 
                                                             Still give comfort? Here
                                                             I stand unreservedly,
                                                             To serve and I will, as 
                                                             Long as I am let by you. 
                                                                                                       
                                                 
 
                        Last  Time

​
Last time, just last time,
Embrace me,
Just tell me that you are sorry.
Sorry for disrespecting me,
 For abusing me,
Tarnishing my image.
With both hands, apologize
Say that you should not have insulted me
In front of others.
Last time, confess that you did not regard me
 As a selfless soul
Who walked along through thick and thin
When others left.
Who sold her possessions for you
When you possessed nothing.
Last time, just last time
Admit that your words
Pierced through my body
And wounded my soul
Leaving invisible marks
That this self will always behold.
Last time, kneel down and repent
That you killed
My love, my respect
And my compassion for you,
Only then, perhaps,
I may forgive you.