New Poetry, Fiction, Essay

3 poems by Shahidah Janjua

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Shahidah Janjua was born in Pakistan, where she lived until she was fourteen, at which time she moved to the UK, with her family.  She is a published writer.  Her poems have appeared in several Anthologies including, Charting the Journey (Sheba Publishers) and The Redbeck Anthology (Redbeck Press).  She had a book of Poems and Shorts entitled ‘Dimensions’ published in 2015 in Ireland. Shahidah has lived in the South of Ireland for the past twelve years.  She is a writer and a community development worker, supporting rural women’s groups and local services for Refugees.






I paint the colours of you,

Azure blue with golden threads running through,

Volcanic dust beneath your feet,

Autumn leaves of red and yellow.


I paint the sounds of you,

A violin and a plaintive bow, notes of Barber’s adagio

Piercing the ether,

Releasing the silent snow.


I paint the shock of the loss,

The double helix’ snaking down the page,

Intermittent spatters of blood,

Fragmentation, letting veins.


Each year the body remembers

The day, the time, when your heartbeat stopped,

My pleas of no, no, no, bouncing off the tiles,

Into the olive grove.




The Flower


The tongue is razor edged,

It slices through surfaces

Paring down to the essence.

The tongue is silk.

It licks at wounds,

Is honey to kindness,

Is slavish to truth.

I was in Brazil and Columbia, it says,

In the back of a van with the band.

Metal, heavy, rock,

Black boots, tattoos, and drugs.

It left me there, my mind, it says.

The parade came in one by one

Then went – me hollowed out.

No one loved me before you, it says.

Don’t leave me – no, you must leave me.

This is my gift, forever, it says.

A dystopian photograph

Of a bright red rose, growing,

Out of a crack in the concrete.




Small Bones


There were no words to name it

No words to tell it,

But the small bones knew.

They locked the messages

Into her body,

The bones in her back

The bone in the arm which died.

The mother who left,

Once, twice, too many times.

The father, just a word,

A name for a stranger,

Who lived behind high walls,

With gates and bars.


My promise to myself,

To be a human being,

Hard as it may be.

Bad words bring exile and loss

But also freedom.

Disconnection means

Having to re-invent the wheel.

Find connection where you can.

She said you were insane,

You knew it as rebellion.


Countless lives lived in one.

Long years searching for something,

Still un-named,

Until she landed on another icy shore,

Where bombs and bullets

Were more real,

Than the silence she left behind.

She saw the marvel of a blackened tree,

Clad in a cloak of snow.

That is where the golden boy stood,

Drawing her into the future.






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