top of page

2 poems by Misria Shaik Ali

Photo by Robert Cumming

I don’t know anything about poetry 

I don’t know anything about poetry or grammar— 

syntax, rhythm or sentence structure. I don’t know 

how to use words or to craft them. I know 

crafting shapes aesthetics—an anti-thesis to today’s 

human condition of uncertainty. But no! I am not 

here to justify my materially vulgar poetry—

feelings that are rooted in materiality—my land, 

my religion and my words. Read it as 

lacunae; a space for my conditional existence. A misinformed structure


I don’t have the language you have... nor do I 

have the Others who haunt your existence.

This regime

This regime feeds on my thinking and erodes it along its edges.

I always think or I should say,

I wonder if the regime is stupider

or the virus! One of them repeats itself

constantly where thoughts become in the manner of drill exercises. After all

is done and the pants are up,

I try to gather all the crumbs and watch them decay.

What else is synesthetic and metamorphosing than decaying matter.

So, I chose to stuff the crumbs in bags of words and call it poetry.

Follow Misria Ali on Instagram


Blog: Blog2


Blog: GetSubscribers_Widget
bottom of page