Poetry
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Yusra Dahri, Tilford لَا تُدۡرِکُہُ الۡاَبۡصَارُ ۫ وَہُوَ یُدۡرِکُ الۡاَبۡصَارَ ۚ وَہُوَ اللَّطِیۡفُ الۡخَبِیۡرُ ‘Eyes cannot reach Him but He reaches the eyes. And He is the Incomprehensible, the All-Aware.’ The Holy Qur’an, 6:104 We are in the maze of idols,Desperate to find the Centre.These hedges of tamarisk are so thickThat we cannot break them.And
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Tooba Khokhar, Cambridge There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. i Childhood is an age of wonder, a time when our eyes have not grown used to the sights of this
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Saira Iffat Bhatti, Slough The air shifts. Something stirs. A thousand steps quicken without a word, As though the earth itself knows that something sacred is near. They’ve come from motorways and meadows, Pushing buggies, carrying toddlers, Draped in cultures and colours. Hearts alight with one shared hope: to catch a glimpse. To hear the
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Yusra Dahri, Surrey
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Yusra Dahri, Tilford It’s cold and I want to go home.I’m writing this letter because I’m desperate.Everyone on this street calls me crazy. They say there’s no home to go back to,That I came from nowhere.If my house really existedI should remember the address.I should know where to sendThis thin letter– and I don’t. I
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Yusra Dahri, Tilford I imagine Noah’s son On his treacherous mountain walk Climbing, craving, clinging to rock Until his hands are ripped up and raw. The old part of me, desperate to be strong Can almost hear his thoughts Shaking his head at his father Not trusting him at all: (Why get on a wooden
Voice of British Muslim Women 