The Rapport – Issue # 3


Whats Inside:

Walking on colours by Amna Akmal

Kindred by Eman Fatima

Survival in a Scary Society by Hadia Qureshi

Life goes on by Hooria Nawaz

Wanderer of a Lost Path by Raveeha Rameen

Nature Walk by Mahnoor Munir

Quietus by Muskan Asif

The Lighthouse by Sumbal Khan

Her Own Infinities by Tooba Fayyaz

Note: The cover photo is by Fatima Bokhari.
(Email: fatibk14@icloud.com, Instagram: @thephotoaisle)


Walking on Colours by Amna Akmal


Name: Amna Akmal
Email: amna.akmal96@gmail.com
Instagram: @heydoodyyy


Kindred by Eman Fatima


Name: Eman Fatima
Email: emanminhas8@gmail.com
Instagram: @eman.a.r.t


Survival in a Scary Society by Hadia Qureshi

Alas, we live in a society
which completely lacks sobriety
people here can only give you anxiety
don’t trust every hand you shake
some people are simply fake

Somewhere you have become hollow
for you it’s difficult to swallow
you know that your pain is so deep
every night it doesn’t let you sleep
your purpose you haven’t found
you are completely astound

You won’t get any sympathy
people here lack empathy
despite efforts, none will encourage
don’t give up, have some courage

Name: Hadia Qureshi
Email: hadiaqureshi10@gmail.com
Instagram: hadiaqureshi10


Life Goes On by Hooria Nawaz


In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: “it goes on”. Yes, you read it right, it goes on. No doubt, life is beautiful but it is also challenging. The challenges that we come across sometimes tell us who we are and sometimes what we should be. There will be bad days, there will be struggles, but still it goes on. No matter who you are, it teaches a lesson to everyone. You just have to be willing to learn. Difficulties test the courage, patience, preservation and the characteristic of a human being. Struggles and hardships make a person strong and ready to face all the challenges of life. Sometimes, people sit and cry over petty problems and think that this is the end, but still life goes on. These petty problems don’t mean a thing as it is said that the darkest hour of the night comes just before the dawn. Life is not just a bed of roses; thorns are also a part of it and one must learn to accept the thorns too because if you don’t feel the pointed things in life, you will take the soft ones for granted. Whatever happens in life happens for good. Whatever decision God takes for us is already planned and we must learn to accept it. When God tests you or removes something in your possession, it is never to destroy you or it is not the end, it is only to test you and give you something even greater – something which you could’ve never imagined having.

Name: Hooria Nawaz
Email: hoorianawaz22@gmail.com
Instagram: hooria_nawaz


Wanderer of a Lost Path by Raveeha Rameen

I looked at the brilliant full moon, it seemed to know the entirety of my mysteries. After the mists secured the moon, a shooting star streaked above it as if it was instructed by the moon itself to make me pronounce my wish. I remained there under the huge sky and looked up with my yearning eyes. I bit my tongue on the off chance that I might say what my heart already knew. I did not need to make my wish. Maybe it’s what my heart aches for. Maybe I simply professed to move on. Maybe I never discovered my way back. Maybe I’m currently lost in the immeasurability of the sky and the depths of the night. Maybe I have made depression a norm for myself. I need to escape from the web of recollections. When I ought to be appreciative of what I have, I’m looking back at what I have lost. I’m lost in my dreams and it’s keeping me far from the real world. I’m lost. I long to escape to be discovered only for once. I need to accept the truth however; I’m drowning in wistfulness. Maybe because you made me feel something once and that feeling continuously compels me to return to you. I’m being drained but nobody sees. I can’t get up. How can I fix myself, when I don’t recognize what holds the greater part of me?

I would rather just stay broken.

Name: Raveeha Rameen
Email : raveeharameen8@gmail.com
Instagram: Rameen028


Nature Walk by Mahnoor Munir

Name: Mahnoor Munir
Email: samunir55@gmail.com
Instagram: mahnoor_munir.5


Quietus by Muskan Asif

There’s a monster under my bed
a wraith inside my head
and blood in the tears
my crimson eyes shed;
for my distraught heart has bled
more pitch-black than red
all my feelings have faded,
and into mere oblivion
all the memories I had
without a trace, have fled;
as I await the final blow
advent of the angel of death;
but my functioning, yet empty, self
may deceive the observers
I’m perfectly fine and satisfied,
no dear, I’m a walking corpse
emotionally dead;
and once my time arrives
as I gasp for my ultimate breath
I recognize it as a beginning
because physical pain will succeed
the mental torment I endured;
then, decay will surface
and my carcass may shred
I will be okay, like I’m today
so you shall not dread
as this apparent death
is my only escape.

Name: Muskan Asif
Email: muskan.asif.2007@gmail.com
Instagram: @muskan_writes


The Lighthouse by Sumbal Khan

Name: Sumbul Khan
Email: sumbul.khan1801@yahoo.com
Instagram: @acryliques


Her Own Infinities by Tooba Fayyaz

Name: Tooba Fayyaz
Email: toobafayyaz1010@gmail.com
Instagram: @theprocrastinatormusings


The Rapport – Issue #1



The Killing Vibration
by
Lady Pearl

Once a melodic resonance

Suddenly a shuddering utterance

I’ve never loved or hated my name

As much as I have today


Amputation
by
Anam Ranjha

How does it feel to be amputated emotionally? Does it leave an empty space within yourself, where you hold your old self like an infant in a cart. How does it feel to furnish your own amputation in your imagination? Surrounded by what you desire, do you feel a sense of amputation? What is left to you after that? Do you remember it? Is it simple what you remember? What to do with what you remember ? How would you decide which of scattered pieces to carry forward, what to protect , and what to leave behind? Who will help you out? You? Your surroundings? Or your imagination?


Beautiful Nonetheless
by
Ayesha Owais

In rhythmic movements I move around,
I want to be adored, I want to be loved
I want to be beautiful,
I want to feel comfortable in my own skin.

When I smile I pretend it’s not mine,
When I talk I pretend to sound like someone I’m not,
I just want me to be someone who’s at least loved by me?
Is that too much to ask for?

I dance around foolishly,
Seeking for validation,
I stare at myself in the mirror,
The mirror is shattered just like me,
Perhaps I like these broken pieces of me,
I dance around a bit more,
Those same rhythmic movements,
Everyday, I shower myself with glitter,
Perhaps it would make me more beautiful,
It does not.

I stare at myself in the mirror,
I smile,
I finally end the dance,
I keep staring at my reflection,
With a smile lingering on my lips,
Beautiful yet uncomfortable,
But beautiful nonetheless.


Passing Years
by
Samman Khan


A Poem
by
Fatima Naveed

The ability to survive is a trait that i thrive,
The inability of letting go is the hardest fight
The path towards you is full of crumbled leaves,
You either step on it with joy or avoid whats underneath

Those wide eyes and hollow ones, all see the same thing
Its how we perceive it, makes us differ from the rest
Your smile and your laughter is what defines you from the outside
But the screams and the cries is what I perceive on my own

The picture you present is half of what you are
The person you think you are , is half of what you are not


The Crow
by
Anum Akhtar

Perched upon my window sill
was a crow in all its dreary might.
A captivation so eerie,
quite visibly held my sight.
The faint frenzy in his eyes.
The silence in his stance.
The vigor in his flight,
when it flashed through the sky
and rested upon a distant tree.
Now although very far, but,
still in line of my sight.
It seemed to be judging,
almost mocking me
for my miserable plight.
But I took no offence
As I was accustomed to feel alright.
No one really cared, if this heart
burnt or swelled or ached at night.
Then what right this bird had to mock me
for my plight?
I stood there, patiently
to witness its surrender,
its leap into the vast skies
was all that I hankered.
Until it finally hit me
what the bird had truly implied.
A voice acutely profound
called out to me, my mind,
it longed for many a things
most ravenous for freedom and escape.
Now, I seemed to get why, the crow
had for so long held my sight.
It was not mockery after all
but grief and courage.
A hope in myself
it successfully ignite.
Then, as if fulfilled its purpose
the bird sailed south, in all its glory
left me behind, triumph over misery.
With a desire so wild, prudent but folly.
To be a bird
for the remainder of my life.
To be a crow with all its dreary might.


Heart removal

A distant known stranger, voice to remember.
Spoken with a sweet hello,
she told me a story,
waiting in line, order ready.
I told her she reminded me of a song that wasn’t pretty.
When she asked why,
I told her, I always knew
You’d be the one sitting delectable.
After years have passed, without a word.
Years have passed, Unseen, without a nuance.
Now, to see her in line – wishing for deaf ears, a silent hello.


The Rebirth of the Soul

Your inner voice confounded
in the ricochet off the asphalt.
Draped in steel
and reinforced concrete,
we eroded the synchronicity:
of bone with earth,
flesh with the oceans,
sinew with fire,
and equanimity with air.
The only recourse left, to
dive head first into rude awakening.
Swim amongst sharks
mobilised by the scent of fear,
allowing their teeth to impale
years of conditioning,
culpable of removing you from yourself.
The blood of generations
oozing from your body,
releasing your heart
to pirouette on the precipice
of its fall from grace
wringing traditions outworn,
for your soul to be reborn.


Bearing Fruits

The bird is eating,
the green yard is flourishing.
How fast does Spring move?

The soil is waiting
to be replenished by April rain.
How fast does life move?

The tree is eternal,
even with its limbs sawed off.
How far does the apple fall?

Life begins,
then it bears fruit,
then it matures
and then
it dies.


Glass Rational

The biting cold didn’t snap,
At ankles after a warm round of drinks.
So when she was thrown to the snow,
Out through the front door, she hardly blinked.

It was late by now,
And the spotlight moon was high,
Or at least she would have seen,
If it wasn’t for the two men that loomed nigh.

It took her forever to recall what she’d done,
As she scrabbled to her feet,
And confronted the two men,
Who she knew she’d have to meet.

And whilst the cold was hardly felt,
Nor was the first punch,
That landed at her stomach, hard.
The advantages of being drunk.

So when she was left there,
And slept the night in the snow,
She woke with the sun gushing,
Down the streets, but she didn’t know.

What had she done to cause an altercation?
And who should she apologise to?
So to solve these issues, she stumbled,
Through the front door, for another pint of two.


Everything at once

You kissed me
Like the sun
Messed with my hair
Like the wind
Came over me
Like a wave.
Full of life
Like the earth
Was your love
It was everything
At once
And I was done for life


Reflection

I have sutured a carousel of hearts
to beat among crowded breaths in my chest
What started out as love
now a map leading me away from myself
To a reflection in running water
that can never be held


Edmea

Strong bones,
kind eyes.
Steel bearing hips,
curls alike.

The oracle of transparent lies,
starry skies
and strawberry pies.

She was a queen.

Magical fingers,
brisk at times,
plucking chickens,
solid enterprise.

Watching our backs,
knitting or folding,
her touch, toasty.

We miss her still,
her peaceful faith.

In fate she trusted,
in love she trusts still.

Love never bending,
to the darkness of fear.

Far or near,
doesn’t change a thing.
We love and celebrate her,
awake or asleep.

One of a kind,
a spectacle of alchemies,
folded into a knowing mind,
and dark, watchful eyes.

She knew.
Just one look.
It never ever died.