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About Deviant Artist Kyla PashaFemale/Pakistan Recent Activity
Deviant for 12 Years
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Newest Deviations

Literature
Hospital
Ask for a world in which
the white recedes and colour
bleeds back in. You can feel a
hand again as it softly strokes
your hair - and you know it's your own.
Nothing takes you from pain like
its own promise. And where is promise?
Ask for a primrose world, one that means
something beautiful but you don't know what
it means. You can walk
in its colour, softly, all day and that
will do for when the white comes back, thinking
of taking you. You can't feel your hand
again but you know it will return when
the colour bleeds back in.
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Literature
The Heat of His Departure
He didn't suffer much. The agonies
of measuring the streets would never
have him, but at least he knew
to count the days by who has not
yet died. He meant to map a city
with his feet and bring home to her
new pictures of his heart. But she never
heard the music of roads and shop lights, she only
knew his feet that beat the pavement
dry. She left home without him. He
grew tired of walking but failed to stop,
didn't find an edge, didn't fall,
but slowly, without a thought to her clouds
suddenly above him, dissolved
into tar and concrete, wet in his own way.
Years later, she would still feel
the heat of his departure as she
rained and rained and rained
his streets dry.
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Literature
Names Will Never
Write me a poem, I am too
tired to write my own. I have
no words for beaten women and men
in jail, I have a love of love poems
- drumming the ground, flying
the oceans, sailing - in my mind
I have a love of sailing.
Write me a poem, I am too sad
to beat the drums you'd hear
inside oceans, those drums were
for love and this isn't love -
Write me some quiet. Four days
and not one silence came my way.
There's just the noise of sticks
on ground and sticks on bones
and I was wishing for rain
and song when the rain came - and that
was all I wanted.
The rain comes. It washes
nothing away from the streets, it sings nothing.
It smells of home. Write me a poem
that smells of home, remember
home to us with all its sounds
of sticks and stones and bones and bones.
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Literature
Tulips
I'm sorry we're still talking
about this. My body and your body
and bare bodies abounding - there should be
nuclear physics in our bedrooms
instead, the politics of elevators
that go to the moon. Oh I am
so tired of tulips and veils. The internet
will take me out my windows and doors,
the colony gate, into the street and out
where I can know I would have been shot
but not be shot, see the carnage, not be
the carnage (a bomb rips through the city
killing one-thirty, two bombs rip through
the city killing one-thirty)
I'm sorry at
one-thirty ay-em that I am still talking
about liberation and counting
four walls, I should be past tulips
and bare bodies, I should be at the moon.
:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina
:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 7 11
Literature
The Rain Came
I dug around for you for days, unhorsing
worms from clods of earth until I found the shine
that meant you lay beneath. You came
out of nowhere, you grew, you wanted to leave.
All I had was a shovel and a packed lunch, five pence
of foreign money, and all for you.
But i ran out too quickly and you wandered
off with nothing - not even flowers
from another tomb, not even stones
or the prayers hanging over long-rested
earth. You just went, in the way
that you do, and now I wonder
where you are and what you do for food
and succour. You mustn't worry.
I worry (who pulled you from damp earth) but you,
you run free. If there is anything you took
from me, know that I was always afraid -
for how you would know I loved you.
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:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 11 10
Literature
Sunday Love
any given Sunday in your church - see me
taking communion in whatever has
become of us - nights flowing to morning
like water to water again - any
given Sunday of remembrance and your
church - and your altar - and your vaulted
love of man - see me
I am small - my knees rub
the earth, I look for Mary and her bright heart -
pincushion heart - to toe the line row the boat
home - our lady of perpetual
holding - water, flooding - mother - mary - mother -
mary, see me
- given a Sunday to love and no days off -
communion for dead hearts in live
hands, wet mouths in wet mouths - bombers
flying over looking for an earth to land -
your - church -
in communion with -
soft earth -
nights
flow to morning
like wine is wine
mother sunday mother remembrance see me
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:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 2 6
Literature
In the Pure
She says she doesn’t
know love. But in her drift
on the sea, there is a love of sand
and iron. There is a love of the dead.
She won’t come to you like this.
A slip of the whirlpool and she’s gone
and who knows what she reads in
sea beds in that moment in the dry?
She is
the woman at the shore,
the man at her feet
and the waiting.
She is
what you ask for when you
say mum - and then more -
for a love of the dead
keeps her floating and her arms
stand open - and it’s
your face in her palms
you can’t stand - but she
loves you.
She doesn’t know
in the drift of her sea
where you’ll be
in the dry.
She knows the iron
will hold you back.
She trusts the iron
will keep you by.
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Literature
Beatitudes
Suffer the lovers
to follow you blinded - they will hold
you to the line when the time comes.
Suffer the lovers to take you
to their city, that would be your city
were you wearing the torn-neck clothing
they’ve never taken off. Suffer
the lovers to hold you
because it is love and not wishes
keeping you warm and suffer
the lovers to leave you dry
when you leave them crying
at bus stops and coffee shops,
a cliché for future stories, a metaphor,
an anecdote, a passing thought.
Suffer the lover to kill you
every night and bring you to life
and expect salvation and be decimated.
Suffer the lover to love you
in ways you cannot understand.
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Literature
The Flowers Are Dry
I noted your birthday going past
another time. I don't remember
your age, but I feel you've moved
to some new place and while I
don't even want to visit, I'd like
to know if you still watch
September passing the way I stop
to sniff the air in May.
                     You were my first
friend in the bunker - and I may
hate you now by common formula
but I love you in still memory
for holding the gun to my loved
ones in some vain hope that
we could make a run for it together.
         And so I love another man
         of slow temper and hidden angers.
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:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 4 10
Literature
If Looking Were Equal
If looking were equal
we could call the day "love" and move
to a dancing place. Once
upon a time, a woman
was so unused to being looked at,
she broke the mirror, the water,
the boat she set sail on. And her lover
paddled to shore in desperation, turning back
to see if she would show what madness
overtook her. And the smile she beamed
over the waves as she held tall to the mast
of nothing laid it plain:
If looking were nothing she would be
the Everyman Love, but these eyes
that want to open and find and hold
will burn as she burns the sun
for the light it lends the night.
If looking were everything we could
write this romance open. Now
upon a time, there is a woman
who looks through skin, and flesh, and bone,
and finds the core of a woman
who has no stamach for insight. Her lover
flails beneath the pinning gaze, averts
her own eyes, cries to say, "Stop
seeing things, these illusions, it's
delirium, go on home to your mother's side!"
If she had the will to break it, or her -
If looking w
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Literature
I Wish You Knew
You made me fear it.
You made me fear what words
would come from me and whether
they'd be good enough. Until it turned out
I had no words good enough, not for nothing,
not for love, you made me fear making.
Now I fear making love
with words. Now I fear my brain's
taken a moment off every ten seconds.
Now I fear there's nothing in my head
anymore that doesn't get blip. Blip.
Blipped once a minute and the real poem's gone.
I took these little green pills so long.
Now I fear I'm not yet thirty but my words
are grown, and lived, and ailed, and died, and gone.
My mind won't latch, won't hold.
It strays like cows grazing, it runs at dazing,
it stops; it dazes. You made me fear
there won't be anything on the next line,
fear I won't finish in time, fear I won't finish
a rhyme, fear I'll rhyme too much and lose
my poet cred. You made me cry
inside my head and I'm
sorry
I'm still
sorry
that there's too many
words
mirrors
ways of seeing
that I don't wish I was blind
I just wish I was a better sea
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:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 7 3
Literature
Green 2
I've forgotten an ending.
It's one of the things they took
in those long days of dull
yellow light - a way to pinch out
the flame and watch the smoke rise
against the window at night.
I woke up with scissors
wrapped in my hand, to snip
the wick I guess, watch it fall
like leaves or paper, watch the carpet
catch. It's one of the things
they want - a conflagration,
fire from fire until nothing is left,
not even the story of how
the world was killed, only more fuel,
only more fuel. I've forgotten
an ending. All I have is beginnings
and middles as if that is hope
and happiness, as if nothing
will end again, as if I needn't worry.
But I worry I've lost
how to close things and so I
won't remember how to die.
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:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 1 3
Literature
Green 1
They were taking my words. I didn't know
such small, dull mechanics existed, heads
in cowls, stockinged feet, to slip in
with brooms and scalpels, to quietly
take away the words.
But it's guerrilla warfare
of the mediocre. You trade for happiness,
painlessness, a few choice syllables,
the ability to find a synonym. You only get
one word per thought.
I stopped that gestapo. I think.
It was a small, green thing that sent
its marchers in, just round enough, light
enough to seem helpful. Twice a day,
with water, or milk, crackers if you might get ill.
I stopped that pill. I'm waiting
for the pain to come flooding, but the happiness
remains beyond it and it's slowly
pulling my words out into the light
from the corners, and crannies, behind my
kidneys and bowels.
The small, dull men are trudging out.
At the corners of my eyes, I'm waiting
for a whiplash retort, a rude gesture,
a parting shot. They seem fairly calm,
though, as if their work is done.
The stockinged feet are flooding
my eyes. T
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Literature
Crush
*
It's not like you try. Not
for summer in your heart, not for
breezes. But not for nothing is spring
the time of take off into the
hot months of flight.
*
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:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 0 5
Literature
Point and Laugh
Disgruntlement
is no good muse.
The venom, the bile,
the pissy fit will not suffice
for poetry, to read or write.
The serpent coiled
in the spleen, the fevered
dream of disembowelment -
the anger! All those men!
It will not do. No daddy.
No black shoe.
These ovaries have quieted
the children for the night.
And the night is long.
It'll spoil anyone's fight.
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:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 0 6
Literature
Dead Mothers
I've been dreaming dead mothers. Night after night
I lay my head down and, instead of sleeping, dream
a woman being killed. The death is always sudden.
Either disease - a sudden onset, a quick decline - or murder
at the hands of bandits. There's no other kind of violence,
no rape or anything. Just the death of someone's mother
and then grieving.
The first night it was my boyfriend's mother. I don't
have a boyfriend, but his mother got sick of cancer
suddenly, one night, and he called me at four in the morning
to say, "Kyla, my mother's dying." And I said, "What?
How?" the way my mother says What?! when she hears bad news,
with indignation in her voice, as if daring the world to really
kill her people off like that. "Kyla, she's got cancer, she's dying."
And I said something like, "Oh Jesus," or "Oh, hon," something
American and wrong for four in the morning in Lahore,
and he just cried or was silent, I couldn't tell on the phone,
and then he said, "Can I come over?"
Of course I
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:iconmanchaliaina:manchaliaina 10 10

Random Favourites

Dream Awake :iconpenicillinarian:Penicillinarian 1 2
Literature
good luck
break it down.
build it up in your own creation.
melt-
metal crashes against metal,
pushing ample bodies faster than they were meant to go.
stencils & molds fade away.
bones become oil.
you might say, you might not.
maybe if you pray you'll get exactly what you want.
stand corrected,
loyal to The Just Debate.
all your means find their end.
whatever that really intends.
bring love and know what you are.
with hands,
e x  t   e     n      d       e        d-
beyond the dimensions of where they r
                                                        e
 
:iconoriginill:originill
:iconoriginill:originill 1 6
Spiral :iconalde:Alde 0 2 sham :iconabrarhassan:abrarhassan 1 0 ben and justin :iconmyinitialplan:myinitialplan 2 2
Literature
Eulogy
Eulogy
ericaleebrown
The television lies to me
in bright, variant color
high definition
images of gray
all these low frequency international voices
have nothing to say
Texas bought Iraq
from the windows of Washington
with money that couldn't cure
my swollen jaw
The little white men
in big blue suits
say I have all the power
                 all the power
to burn brown mothers with empty cradles and broken land
                  all the power
to cool scorched desert soil with the blood of young, learning men
Divided
a nation without leaders and truth
so full of cancerous air
we can only breathe
our inevitable nuclear end
self-inflicted terrorism
the constant color
of a (e)motionless flag
America is a seductive liar
mouth warm with oil
pink carbon thighs
presssing against the black tongue
of shattered democracy
But
:iconbluemoondaughter:bluemoondaughter
:iconbluemoondaughter:bluemoondaughter 2 3
Literature
more snow to go
the sun hid                  behind
  the ash crept out the ocean-
                      in the sky,  still fresh with empty blue
beams that cast shadows on nothing but the morning.
wonderland blossoms
                      relaxes over the haven
                      of everything it rebounds.
                      and somewhere underneath
                 
:iconoriginill:originill
:iconoriginill:originill 2 4
Columbia University :iconangel83014:angel83014 2 1 Psych Hospital Hallway 2 :iconangel83014:angel83014 3 1
Literature
Refrain
She has angry feet.
She has callouses
four
feet
deep.
Somewhere around her middle
they end
abruptly.
He plants his vineyard carefully
and lays his grapes in wait.
Shrapnel is a danger.
She comes down.
She has angry feet.
She has bare knees
He has been up them before.
He has been flow, he knows her limbs
blow
by
blow.
Lordy, how he splashes.
He likes the look
He likes the stain, the seeds flung
up.
He plants his vineyard carefully,
and she comes down.
She has righteousness between her toes,
Wrath
splashed
across her breast.
He paints the Maenads in the corner.
He knows
frenzy.
She has no stomach for wine.
In the hall
she turned away.
She was handy with
Four fingers and a thumb
Could speak,
but she comes down
on angry feet.
He has sorcery in his wonderings,
He holds the fork
beneath his tongue.
He lay his grapes in wait.
He will cast his summonings,
and she comes down
on angry feet.
:iconcompleteaccident:completeaccident
:iconcompleteaccident:completeaccident 3 7
I Guess So :iconcompleteaccident:completeaccident 2 4
Literature
Geography
I followed you
up
my calf, over all the soft parts,
and let you settle in
the junkyard snarl in my lower back.
Now I can hear you wandering between
rusty refrigerators, trying not to
inhale;
the air is thick with old relationships
rotting. If you keep going,
there is an ancient Volvo in the back with good seats left.
I spent many nights there,
stretched out and staring at the sagging ceiling.
Peace,
It will keep you.
The last drifter had shorter legs;
I boosted her up frontways, and she burrowed into my belly
and burned. But the dragon in the middle
turned over
and over in its sleep,
I could hear its dreams restless in the junkyard.
She was safe and soft, but I drove her
out with icy mud, settled her on the air.
The dragon's walls hold me up
hold me--
She understands the danger in
ghosts and bellyquakes;
She moved on.
So walk quietly, beloved.
There are dragons between you
and soft tissue.
Make companions of iron and steel,
see, they hold, they keep me.
The dragon will know his own and
:iconcompleteaccident:completeaccident
:iconcompleteaccident:completeaccident 4 16
Waiting :iconfireandfeathers:FireAndFeathers 1 19 Turn the Radio Off :icondreadfuldin:dreadfuldin 2 1 Song of the Open Road :iconbabyoctopuss:babyoctopuss 55 83 ever seen one of these? :iconpaintxmexpretty:paintxmexpretty 1 12

Activity


deviantID

manchaliaina
Kyla Pasha
Artist
Pakistan
Current Residence: Lahore
Favourite genre of music: American folk, feminist kickass, good poetry put to music
Interests
  • Listening to: kt tunstall
  • Reading: about orality
  • Watching: northern exposure
  • Eating: too much wheat
  • Drinking: americanos
new poems at kylapasha.com/main which is where i live now. DA is great and I'll post here off and on, but mostly off. so come on over if you feel like it.

New poems are under "So Fresh!"
Voice is under ".mp3s"

thanks,
kyla

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconzebrazebrazebra:
zebrazebrazebra Featured By Owner Apr 30, 2011  Professional Writer
Foof, I just saw your name in my recently visited, and I thought to myself, there's the name of someone I miss to death.

:heart:
Reply
:iconmanchaliaina:
manchaliaina Featured By Owner Dec 27, 2012
Goodness, it's been ages since I've been here. I just read your newest. And I had the same thought, a year and a half later. I hope you're well and fat with poems.
Reply
:iconzebrazebrazebra:
zebrazebrazebra Featured By Owner Jan 2, 2013  Professional Writer
I'm kind of just well and fat with fat. But I'm working on it!
Reply
:iconmode-de-vie:
mode-de-vie Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2011  Student Writer
Congratulations on your Daily Deviation! :) I've placed a link to it in the sidebar of my journal page.
Reply
:iconb1gfan:
b1gfan Featured By Owner Aug 20, 2009  Student Writer
:glomp: How delicious is it to wander around, looking for nothing in particular, and end up back in places you'd loved being before :)

:wave:
Reply
:iconanarchypress:
anarchypress Featured By Owner Apr 24, 2009
How are you, Kyla?

~Michael
Reply
:iconmasquerading-sanity:
masquerading-SANITY Featured By Owner Apr 24, 2009
i can feel your eyes on me now :)
thankyou for the watch
Reply
:iconmasquerading-sanity:
masquerading-SANITY Featured By Owner Mar 19, 2009
your on deviantart!

and thankyou for the request btw :)
means alot to me!

ill get it printed for you and give it to you just like that...ordering it from here is going to cost you a fortune!
Reply
:iconmessageslieinsand:
MessagesLieInSand Featured By Owner Dec 19, 2008  Hobbyist Writer
Your poetry reads like silk on the tongue and flows like saliva after eating hard candy. I love all of it of which I've read so far (8 pieces). You're fantastic with words <3 .
Reply
:iconrendmc:
RenDMC Featured By Owner Oct 19, 2008  Student Photographer
thank you for the :+fav::hug:
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