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Best Poems Written by Yazmin Malik

Below are the all-time best Yazmin Malik poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

I Am Free

I am FREE,
not a prisoner 
inside judgemental eyes,
staring at me.

This cloth I wear,
protects my modesty.
Let me be,
do not swear.

My faith is my power.
I am God's diamond.
I embrace his love,
in his blessings I will shower.

We are all FREE,
to be what we want.
Breathe love,
live and let live.

We all should be free to wear and do as we please.  I receive a lot of abuse when I wear the hijab, but I also used to receive abuse when I did not.  Women are still subjected to judgement, regardless of their dress.
You live your life and I will live mine.  Respect is important if we are to live in harmony.

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

I Loved Him First

It was a hot summers day,
an Indian late September.
At first he did not catch my eye,
nor did I notice his eyes.
It was not till I had fallen,
I saw his halo shine.
He wrapped me with his wings,
lifted my dead less body from the ground.
His 'kiss of life', kissed me alive,
that was the first time, 
I felt the magic in his eyes.
His smile enlightened a buzz
withing my heart, which still
vibrates to his voice.

His love is like the wind,
it cannot be seen, but it can be felt.
All those who came before me,
and those who may come in the future,
will never see him like I do,
nor understand his ways.

Yet I know:
he will never be my Jannu,
I know his heart has another,
but I saw him first,
I felt him first,
I loved him first.

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

My Poetry King

My poetry king
Such joy you bring

                    In your silk white shroud
I hear your words loud

  You say: "Don't wait for me."

Hey buster, it is plain to see
                                 You are the one who makes me happy
I am a fragile flower, you are my bumble bee

I will wait an eternity

I am no poet my words so plain
and in the sadness of the heavy rain
I will keep you afloat on our love train
and we can fly like an aeroplane.

I am the dance 
You are the music
You are the beat
I am the rhythm.

I am a mineral desiring those healing crystal eyes
Your first hello from all those goodbyes

My love for you has no time limit
We are fireflies burning each minute

I will always wait
End of DEBATE

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

Thank You Poetry Soup Angel

I was ecstatic

Was this just a strong act of kindness

Or was it good luck?

Why was this person throwing their cash down a river

Just for me?

Like a machine gun full of love

I was bombarded with the ‘bullets’

One after the other pumping me with love

Fragments of joy were dispersed around me

If this could happen to a basic girl like me

It could happen to anyone

If I took one step differently

Would it still happen to me

Would it make another being joyful

Was I the only one who experienced this selflessness

This random act of kindness gave me a sense of faith for humanity

Discrimination, war and depression is a daily occurrence

But even a smile could give temporary happiness or joy to someone

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

Born To Dance

I danced a dance, not danced before,
the masses beamed in admiration.
Flames of passion slid along the dance floor,
as my body floated like a possessed butterfly.

But the gingerbread people, old, fat and fickle,
pointed fingers asking for me to dance no more!
Their envious eyes burned with jealousy,
as they were incapable of coping with my fire.
Afraid I would pour hot water on them,
they began to shun me against the masses.
The ignorant followed suit, but the dancers knew better.

Hypocritical gingerbread people then began to dance,
their moves had no co-ordination, no rhythm,
it was sadly a pathetic display of imbecilic prancing!
The masses laughed and mocked, poor hypocrites,
crumbling gingerbread', crumbled into pieces,
their taste so sour, crowds puked with antipathy!

Hypocrites still try to dance today,
guess practice makes perfect - right?
I continue to dance my dance,
in a rainbow of styles, bringing delight.

When you are born to dance,
the heart will make those feet move!!

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

Virtue of My Innocence

Virtue of my innocence anticipates your touch.
I am satin, weave your weft yarn over my waft yarns.
You are velvet, my kiss longs to smooth your edges even.
Together we are lace, posed on our web of desire.
My passion longs to embroider your touch on bronze silk,
so when we depart, your reminder shall stay with me.

Remove the wool from those auburn eyes,
there is no polyester in my hazel heaven.
Each bead is an emotion connected to a string you influence,
embrace them all, in your spiritual sanctuary.

I am the dance, but dancing alone,
hold me, dance with me and devour me,
let all the rose rivers flow to your estuary.

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

Love of My Life

Your heart belongs to another, but how can i stay silent.
There is no dance in my heart, when these eyes betray me.
You know by now, I was born to love you,
and you were born to me mine, but I wait decades.
Don't worry my sweet friend, I will always love you
and I will die crying your name, remember my silence.
When I leave, stare at the stone with my name,
all I ask is for a kiss each time you visit,
because in my life, you did not present me with one.

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

What Does the Fox Call It

Because it is Sunday, the people wear
red jackets, which are often called 'pink.'
They ride horses, which they call horses,
or sometimes 'hunters', as though it was their fault.
The horses are brown, white or black,
and are sometimes called bay, grey or black.
the horses follow brown, white and black dogs,
which are usually called 'hounds.'

The dogs follow the fox,
which is sometimes called 'Todd or Charlie.'
The fox is rusty-coloured
till the dogs catch it.  Then it's more red.
The people cut off its tail, which they call its 'brush.'
If not dead, let us hope it is unconscious.

There is someone new there today,
they smear her cheeks and forehead with blood.

The fox is bloodied,
but they say she is 'blooded.'

They call all this 'field sports'
or 'a good day's hunting.'

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

The Word To Say

(i)
Hello, I say with silence,
but you don't seem to hear;
I'm close, i say with distance,
to you I'm all but near.

Hello, I say with words,
but you can't read through lines;
I'm scared, I say with smiles,
to you, I must be fine.

Hello, I say to others,
but that word was meant for you;
I'm all right, I say to everyone,
do you also think it's true?

Hello, I say,
but still you don't reply;
hello, I shout,
hello, I cry.

Hello, I wave with hands,
but they're shaky desperate, weak;
I have no air in me to breathe,
look, listen when I speak.

Hello, I say to you,
but you hear and turn away;
hello I scream and scream again -

is goodbye the word to say?

(ii)
Goodbye I breathe with silence,
but still I see you there,
as though my mute confusions
were a signal that I care -

as though my form of leaving
were a toothless paradigm,
and not a painful putsch
against the tyrannies of time.

Goodbye I say to minds
you greet, but the word was meant for you;
I have no time for gland hellos,
I wonder that you do.

Goodbye I say.
yet you remain;
goodbye but, oh.
your're there again!

Goodbye my gingers sign,
but they're shaky, desperate weak;
I have no air in me to breathe,
I have no room to speak.

Goodbye, I shout in turn,
but you still don't turn away;
goodbye, I scream and scream again -

is hello the word to say?

Details | Yazmin Malik Poem

Charles Bonnet Syndrome

I see the garden erupt in an Edwardian funeral,
I see nodding leilandii boil
into a plumed-horse procession,
fuchsia a parade of red-cassocked priests.

I see the window and street beyond, contract
with macular degeneration.

The unrecognised visitors are
sudden, they change suddenly.

Tear streaked children descent
and ascent the stairs, robed in blue and rose,
but they do not accuse me, or humiliate me,
jeer or seek to seduce me.

In the garden I breathe the gasp of last year's leaves
I find a handkerchief in mid-air
as the afternoon pours itself
through a thousand gutters and down-pipes
a sky-coloured handkerchief, spotted orange. 

I understand dementia's brother has crept into my optical tract,
while memory fills the dark with fantasy patterns:

a man walks toward me, smiling:
he wears a dressing gown, he needs a shave;

a man of similar demeanour to how I might appear,
if reflected in a window against a darkening afternoon.