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Volume 1

Spring 2007


Written by
Qudsia Sadiq

Inspiration for writing poetry and short stories came to me after I took up English literature in seventh grade, when I was 11. And after being inspired by an anonymous Urdu poet in my school library, my passion for poetry and theatre grew immensely, until I moved to Pakistan. Here, I couldn’t experiment much with my creative skills, as there weren’t any interesting art schools or even good literature professors who looked at art the way I wanted them too. It did get me depressed but I refused to give up! I therefore decided to continue writing poetry the way I understood it and that to in its rawest form. Age 18, I lost interest in reading as I thought it was affecting my whole thought process and originality and became more of an introvert, when it came to expressing myself. At that point, my best escape from the world was either my room or the attic, where I found complete Isolation and serenity to write my heart and soul out. This was the only way I felt complete inner satisfaction. To this date, no matter who has read my work, has come to the conclusion that my poetry always gives a tinge of abstraction, cynicism, and darkness, which comes across as very disturbing and provocative to them. Well, I guess that’s just the way I love expressing myself, not that I am a sad soul in real life. I’ve written more than 500 poems, self published a poetry book and am currently working on a novelette and two poetry books in Urdu and English; But thanks to Dwl.net’s constructive criticism and support I have come to realise that no matter how much I have written, I have a long way to go before I can even think about perfection and further publications.


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Restrictive Prelusions


Resting upon this widowed craft with no sail, no triumph
I see no confirmed prelusions
Only an unchained melody
Singing my lows in its glory.

I can’t discriminate the unseen hours
How lonely they in themselves are
Because of us

how we perceive them

Our every action

adds to our conclusion.

My dream… an unreachable story,
My life … a cynical belief,
My look… so unattainable, my trust…so breakable,
My only hope swims in my grey matter.

I came undone with only one question
Thrown at me with a sorrowful conclusion
Fit for no one, asked by someone
Worn by no one, tailored only for my neurosis.

I’m losing sleep day by day; I can’t even comfort my own reasons
How ruthless can one get with their satisfactions
Leaving behind destruction and disbelief
Conquering only their limitations.

The spiritual aura I pretend to display
Gives me the certainty of my fake mahogany
Lend me a hand and then pull it away,
It will give me comfort for a rising day

Speechless I get from time to time
Only written words help me say my sign.
Those too when I die will be

printed in some one else’s name
“Made for you, with love” on recycled paper, will be said on its front page.



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