Hiba Memon

Edition December 2020

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Photo credit: Anderson Rian

La Lune

By Hiba Memon

How gorgeous is the moon that hangs

silently through the night,

amidst the stillness of the stars

the soft creeping light.

I have seen many moons in this

short sojourn of mine. Some

well-rounded and flattened,

as the embers lick it’s soft edges;

and some found in the most

unassuming faces, brimming with light;

or eclipsing at times; me in my mother’s

glassy eyes and a tiny crescent on the side

of my nose. Molten gold or blinding white,

I can never tell. Yet how gorgeous

is the moon that winks at me from

behind the clouds, and how short, this clandestine tryst!

Like a lover departing,

gushing with promises to show

up the next day; it always returns.

Edition VI

Rue - by Hiba Memon (photo by Mo Maria)Photo credit: Mo Maria Sarkis


By Hiba Memon

I have always been scared of the word ‘Yes’
like strands of ribbons, it would swirl around my head,
like a snake easing its way through, it would settle itself,
and all that would come out would be a two-lettered ‘NO’.
Risks and adventures are for the vagabonds and wayfarers
I prefer the company of the meek and the mild.
I prefer to drape myself in covers of ignorance,
and walk the streets, with downcast eyes.
Had I known, the beauty of gambling with Life,
I would have merged with Janus and let the Fates decide.
Had I known the beauty of living, and songs of the dead,
I would untangle myself from the words I’ve never said.

Edition IX

sepia-by-hiba-memon-photo-by-ahmad-minawiVisual by Ahmad Minawi


By Hiba Memon

My ancestors deck the walls of my house,
each portrait is framed , polished and tinted.
Carefully placed, so immortalised in tones of sepia.
Devoid of any colour, their expression; placid.
As if time never existed, and all there ever was, was nothing.

Starched collars and stiff petticoats with frills of sorts,
some tall, some short, some lean and some stout.
Their faces are etched in my memory, their names are engraved.
I bury them in the darkest corner of my mind, only to have them resurface again.
To remind me that I too am one of them.
To warn me that I too, will become one of them;
eternally framed, painted and hung,
in hues of sepia.

Edition XIII

airports-by-hiba-memon-photo-by-felix-russel-sawPhoto credit: Felix Russell-Saw


By Hiba Memon

I still remember, hopping off the plane and running towards you-
As you envelop me into your arms and hold me against your chest.
That jasmine musk you always wore, would waft in and around me
and I would think maybe, just maybe, this is what home feels like.

Edition XIV

summer-by-hiba-memon-photo-by-matt-fortunePhoto credit: Matt Fortune


By Hiba Memon

Seated side by side on a straw woven bed, we would shell rice.
Grains in all shades of brown would peek out among the white ones-
Your bespectacled eyes would scrutinize every bit,
And my reckless self would chuck them all out every time.

Edition XV

Stars - by Hiba Memon (photo by Tarek Roumie)Photo credit: Tarek Roumie


By Hiba Memon 

The languid Hyderabadi summers would beckon us outdoors.
Huddled together we would gaze at the sky-
For the longest hours, retelling old legends,
And epic tales of the better days.

Edition XVI

Pink - by Hiba Memon (photo by Ismael Nieto)Photo credit: Ismael Nieto


By Hiba Memon

I still remember seeing your unmoving figure.
Serene and smiling, your face was cast in the most ethereal glow.
You were wrapped up in sheets of crinkled cotton-white,
I clutched your warm hands for the last time.
And in that moment, I really knew what home felt like.

Edition XIX

Nirvana - by Hiba Memon (photo by Sacha Mourad)Photo credit: Sacha Mourad


By Hiba Memon

I have not known bliss,
That flutters in clutches of the rich and famous.
I have not known comfort,
That which silken robes and eiderdown can provide.
I have not felt love,
That which burns with passion and withers away as quick.
I have not known despair,
That which chases me into oblivion and splits my soul into two. 

But I have known solace,
The kind that rages in the dark of the night,
Yet slithers slowly into the embers of my burning heart.
That which fills my melancholy with melody,
The sun,
The moon,
The stars,
This land,
That which I lay my head upon in the odd hours.

Edition XXX

Tempus - by Hiba Memon (Photo by Jamal Saleh)Photo credit: Jamal Saleh


By Hiba Memon

I do not know how to pick my battles

be it the raging tempestuous winds,

or my own callous heart-

I am told that nature takes its course after a while,

but I have aged even before shedding my skin.

Somehow I had plunged myself into the throes of time and waded through its shores, bearing the marks of a warrior.

I flirted too often with the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days, the years.

Never to settle, I chased and traipsed the road less traveled,

and stopped remembering what home felt like.

Age. It was age that

crept up to me, while I was battling my demons in silence.

Video Archive

“The Millennial Diaries” – by Hiba Memon

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