I really enjoy reading poetry (aloud, with the intended punctuations). I am a big fan of short poems. Here are a few poems by South-Asian writers in English that have caught my attention at some point. Some of these writers are not as well-known here. Since I do not plan to use this website for profit, I hope I am not violating any copyright laws by copying them here. Please let me know if you want me to take them off here. 

Prayer Beads

by Daud Kamal 

Under
the shade
of a willow tree
where the river bends
on a rock-pool
prayer beads rise
to the surface
from the mouth
of an invisible
fish.

As If These Clouds

by Salman Tarik Kureishi

As if these clouds
that hang so low and heavy
could, in a moment's space, frost over..
crystallize, frozen in the sky. And the sun,
glimmering through their sudden transluscence,
become iridescent -
broken into a million hues and sparkles, reflected
from facet to intricate facet
and down to me.
As if these leaves were no longer green,
but a crystal aspect of brittle and refracted colours:
so that one brilliant leaf,
could splinter into shards and fall before me.

Kashmir without a Post Office

by Agha Shahid Ali 
 

                " . . . letters sent
        To dearest him that lives alas! away."
                 - Gerard Manley Hopkins
 

1 

Again I've returned to this country
where a minaret has been entombed.
Someone soaks the wicks of clay lamps
in mustard oil, each night climbs its steps
to read messages scratched on planets.
His fingerprints cancel blank stamps
in that archive for letters with doomed
addresses, each house buried or empty.

Empty? Because so many fled, ran away,
and became refugees there, in the plains,
where they must now will a final dewfall
to turn the mountains to glass. They'll see
us through them--see us frantically bury
houses to save them from fire that, like a wall,
caves in. The soldiers light it, hone the flames,
burn our world to sudden papier-mâché

inlaid with gold, then ash. When the muezzin
died, the city was robbed of every Call.
The houses were swept about like leaves
for burning. Now every night we bury
our houses--and theirs, the ones left empty.
We are faithful. On their doors we hang wreaths.
More faithful each night fire again is a wall
and we look for the dark as it caves in.

2 

"We're inside the fire, looking for the dark,"
one unsigned card, left on the street, says. "I want
to be he who pours blood. To soak your hands.
Or I'll leave mine in the cold till the rain
is ink, and my fingers, at the edge of pain,
are seals all night to cancel the stamps."
The mad guide! The lost speak like this. They haunt
a country when it is ash. Phantom heart,

pray he's alive. I have returned in rain
to find him, to learn why he never wrote.
I've brought cash, a currency of paisleys
to buy the new stamps, rare already, blank,
no nation named on them. Without a lamp
I look for him in houses buried, empty--
He may be alive, opening doors of smoke,
breathing in the dark his ash-refrain:

"Everything is finished, nothing remains."
I must force silence to be a mirror
to see his voice, ask it again for directions.
Fire runs in waves. Should I cross that river?
Each post office is boarded up. Who will deliver
parchment cut in paisleys, my news to prisons?
Only silence can now trace my letters
to him. Or in a dead office the dark panes.