Welcome To !NS¡GHT

There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be…

John Lennon

We are no host and you no guest, this world a journey, we are all travellers. Welcome to !NS¡GHT — An Escape To The World Of Words, where we, on paper planes, fly beyond the horizon.

!NS¡GHT is an attempt to bring together the lovers of words, whose home is parchments and henna is ink, whose petrichor is old books.

Go through an array of verse and prose —

Also submit to us your writings and participate in monthly held Picture-Inspired Poetry.

Get an opportunity to become the featured writer at !NS¡GHT.

We accept submissions in the languages English, Urdu and Hindi.

To not miss the coming daily posts, subscribe to our mailing list.

Dover Beach

By Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; — on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch’d land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl’d.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Winners Announced !

On the first of January we gave you an image as the starting point and you sent us beautiful begettings of your imagination. Of all the sent entries we selected two winners, one from each language — English and Hindi, but before we announce the winners,

We regretfully write that we received no entry from the language category : URDU (Nastaliq). It is saddening indeed, that such a beautiful language, saw no submissions. We, therefore, request to you and urge you to write in Urdu and preserve and propagate this language of love, of respect and politeness.

Now, this said, we announce the winners :

Click on each to read –

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Unrevealed Silence

By Ramya Kalyan

Under the stars that whine my melancholies,
the frost gives me chills and hope.
Night’s crescent descends down,
brimming and dousing my hollowness with faith,
lightening the door to eternal bliss.
All alone I stand with a smutched silhouette,
loving the mum whispering lullabies in my ears,
saying, “your scars are an identity, and beautiful” …

Ramya Kalyan, from Tamil Nadu, India, calls herself “an ardent tyro at writing.

आँखों में बीती सारी रात

By Shahabia Khan

आँखों में बीती सारी रात हम ना सो पाए
यादों में उनकी हमारी आँखें हरदम रो जाए

आसमाँ में मेहताब को देख उनका तसव्वुर आ जाए
तन्हाई का एहसास तभी दिल को बेचैन कर जाए

ख़ामोशी का पहर वो हिज्र की याद दिला जाए
बेपीर बेदर्द सा बनकर वो रूह को ज़ख्म दे जाए

चार सू हर दफ़ा ब-सबब ज़ेहन में वो ही आ जाए
जिसकी मिली है सज़ा बस इंतेज़ार में ही बीत जाए

हर पहर सोच में गुज़रे की कब चौखट पर वो आ जाए
देख उनको ही बस मेरा दिल फक़त यूँही मेहक जाए

इंतिहा हो गईं आँसुओं की इस ज़ीस्त में अब मेरी ही
हर रोज़ बिन देखें सारी रात ‘शहाबिया’ की यूँही गुज़र जाए

Shahabia Khan tries to express herself through her writings. Her poems have been anthologized in two books.

Memorial Verses

April 1850

By Matthew Arnold

Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron’s struggle cease.
But one such death remain’d to come;
The last poetic voice is dumb—
We stand to-day by Wordsworth’s tomb.

When Byron’s eyes were shut in death,
We bow’d our head and held our breath.
He taught us little; but our soul
Had felt him like the thunder’s roll.
With shivering heart the strife we saw
Of passion with eternal law;
And yet with reverential awe
We watch’d the fount of fiery life
Which served for that Titanic strife.

When Goethe’s death was told, we said:
Sunk, then, is Europe’s sagest head.
Physician of the iron age,
Goethe has done his pilgrimage.
He took the suffering human race,
He read each wound, each weakness clear;
And struck his finger on the place,
And said: Thou ailest here, and here!

He look’d on Europe’s dying hour
Of fitful dream and feverish power;
His eye plunged down the weltering strife,
The turmoil of expiring life—
He said: The end is everywhere,
Art still has truth, take refuge there!
And he was happy, if to know
Causes of things, and far below
His feet to see the lurid flow
Of terror, and insane distress,
And headlong fate, be happiness.

And Wordsworth!—Ah, pale ghosts, rejoice!
For never has such soothing voice
Been to your shadowy world convey’d,
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.
Wordsworth has gone from us—and ye,
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we!
He too upon a wintry clime
Had fallen—on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round;
He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears.
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth,
Smiles broke from us and we had ease;

The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o’er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return’d; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furl’d,
The freshness of the early world.

Ah! since dark days still bring to light
Man’s prudence and man’s fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe’s sage mind and Byron’s force;
But where will Europe’s latter hour
Again find Wordsworth’s healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breast to steel;
Others will strengthen us to bear—
But who, ah! who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny,
Others will front it fearlessly—
But who, like him, will put it by?

Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha, with thy living wave!
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

Verse 55, Al A’raf

ادْعُواْ رَبَّكُمْ تَضَرُّعًا وَخُفْيَةً إِنَّهُ لاَ يُحِبُّ الْمُعْتَدِينَ

OdAAoo rabbakum tadarruAAanwakhufyatan innahu la yuhibbu almuAAtadeen

Little Girl And Her Moon

By Sheebah

I was staring at my books listlessly in the noon,
as I thought of a story about a girl and the moon.

Once upon a time, there lived a young, enthusiastic girl,
who had charming eyes and lovely brown curls.
She was fond of the shape shifting celstial body
and would sing lullabies about its beauty daily.
At nights, she would wait near the wooden door,
hoping that one night it will land on the porch.
She imagined riding it to the chilly North Pole,
thinking about it somehow calmed her soul.
She would often address it as “My Dear Moon”
and for the humanity, she considered it to be a boon.
“Come down to the earth, come play with me,
come pay me a visit, come down to me”.
She watched it change its shape every night
and everytime she would be pleased with its sight.

A few years passed and the girl grew older
Her hopes for the Moon’s visit became fainter.
One night, when she wasn’t waiting anymore
She heard a soft knock on the wooden door.
The beloved Moon had come down to the earth,
to visit the girl who appreciated the reflector’s worth.
“Dear Moon?”, whispered the admirer doubtfully
as the beloved Moon stood on the porch silently.

As I watched the girl walk towards the door
Something started pulling me down on the floor,
As I fell towards the floor and kept falling continuously
I heard some footsteps and then a door creaked slowly
I continued falling down when someone shook my shoulder
“Oh dear! You’re sleeping again”, said my mother
“Dreaming and exploring, Mother”, I said to her,
as I thought about the fate of the Moon and its admirer.

Sheebah is a student of class XI whose hobby is to write poetry.

The Wet

By Wani Hadii

Looking like pearl on flower petal top
Falls the rain drop by drop
Soothing and slow is the falling rain
Falling on mountains and on plain
On the greenery when it goes down
Plummeting and alluring seems the uptown
Dropping down on dusty thoroughfare
Removing its dust by making it clear
Loving to play in this slow falling rain
Lessening my pain and deadly strain
On this rainy day my sister made a boat
Keeping that on water and making it float
Jovial the sight when falling from the cloud
Thundering along to make it sound loud
Truly said that bundle of our sin
Prevents rain from falling in

Wani Hadii is a lover of poetry who likes to write on nature.
Instagram handle : @landofpoems13

The Lit Sky

By Khushi Singh

Sitting under the lit sky
While holding my weak hand,
Your eyes shined with protracted rays
Of enlivened spirits,
Trying to vanquish
My pesky soul.

You stroked your hand
In my labyrinth of malignant thoughts.
Untangling each situation,
With love and care.

Hearsays didn’t matter to you,
As you knew my story which was the least popular— The Truth
You faced the fusillade of questions,
As a forthright ally while matching your steps
With mine during the dark nights.

You bore my pain as yours,
With a great fortitude
Fighting the ephemeral battles,
With the faulty souls.

Sitting under the lit sky,
While holding my weak hand.
We promised ourselves,
To stay by each others’ sides
Till infinity.

Khushi Singh, a high-school student, is a reader by day and writer by the night, who tells story through poetry.

The Darkling Thrush

By Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Verse 54, Al A’raf

إِنَّ رَبَّكُمُ اللّهُ الَّذِي خَلَقَ السَّمَاوَاتِ وَالأَرْضَ فِي سِتَّةِ أَيَّامٍ ثُمَّ اسْتَوَى عَلَى الْعَرْشِ يُغْشِي اللَّيْلَ النَّهَارَ يَطْلُبُهُ حَثِيثًا وَالشَّمْسَ وَالْقَمَرَ وَالنُّجُومَ مُسَخَّرَاتٍ بِأَمْرِهِ أَلاَ لَهُ الْخَلْقُ وَالأَمْرُ تَبَارَكَ اللّهُ رَبُّ الْعَالَمِينَ

Inna rabbakumu Allahu allatheekhalaqa assamawati wal-ardafee sittati ayyamin thumma istawa AAalaalAAarshi yughshee allayla annahara yatlubuhuhatheethan washshamsa walqamara wannujoomamusakhkharatin bi-amrihi ala lahu alkhalqu wal-amrutabaraka Allahu rabbu alAAalameen


By Wani Hadii

Is it a bit good or a bit bad? it’s very confusing
Oh yeah! It’s name is life about which I am talking,
A word with several different meanings
It is full of unusual feelings
It sometimes makes us jovial and sometimes upset
Whatever it gives us by love we should accept
Always offering us challenges to face
We should be brave in every tough case
Sometimes it is jovial, cool and fun
But anytime it could be among them none
Giving hardships to scrutinise our patience
Or else daring to check our tolerance
Why sometimes it becomes so difficult and boring
And suddenly it turns much easy and alluring
Somebody wants to change it and other wants to savour
Somebody wants to live it and other wants to end it here
Should I compare it with flowers that bloom and wither away
Or else with charming birds that glide in the air and play
Whether to compare it with time that once gone is never back
Or else with piano, jubilation as white and tribulation as black
We know it is not going to last for long
So why to end it instead of enjoying
Almighty Allah bestowed us with it
So it must be a beautiful and precious gift

Wani Hadii is a lover of poetry who likes to write on nature.
Instagram handle : @landofpoems13

کہنے کو تو سب کہتے ہیں

By Tayyaba Haroon

کہنے کو تو سب کہتے ہیں
مگر مانتا کون ہے
دنگے فصاد کرنا فضول ہے
مگر مانتا کون ہے

لرتے ہیں جھگڑتے ہیں تنہا رستوں پر بھٹکتے ہیں
اپنی عزت کو کر رُسوا اوروں کو ترغیب کرتے ہیں
وہی آخر
مگر مانتا کون ہے

اخلاق کی بلندی خوبصورتی سے افضل ہے
پھر بھی فطرت سے لاچار ہیں
نا کی قردار کا مہذ حسیں دکھنے کا سدھار کرتے ہیں
کہنے کو تو سب کہتے ہیں
مگر مانتا کون ہے

حق کی علامت ایماں داری سے پروان پہنچتی ہے
سمجھتے ہیں سمجھتے ہیں
مگر سہولت خاطر مختصر رستا ڈھونڈ لیتے ہیں
اپنے ھقیوق بھول کر باطل کا رستہ کر منتخب
کیوں خد کو اعلیٰ و افضل سمجھتے ہیں
آخر وہی
کہنے کو تو سب کہتے ہیں
مگر مانتا کون ہے

Tayyaba Haroon lives by the rule, “For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.”


By Mixbah Zaffar

The mysterious sounds, the horror scene, the sweating of whole body. I felt he was the angel of death, who had come to depart my soul. Red eyes, black, white face, small bearded patches, wide open mouth. Ahh! I couldn’t figure out if he was smiling or making me feel worse. Don’t know who he was! But the image of innocence; of horror that reflected simultaneously from his face was quite surprising. I could feel the distance that fell short with each second. I gazed at him, as he tried to make an eye contact for a long time. His appearance dragged me to some different dimension of my past. He reminded me of my mistakes, sins; my pious deeds too. He made me calculate my perfection. I was like, what is my overall gain? What I’m gonna be in my future? Do I serve the motive of my life or I’m just living superfluous? What if this is an angel of death; come to take me over? What he gonna do with me? Make me feel the reality or fly with my soul? The whole body sweating, forelimbs trembling with fear, heart sunk, heartbeat increased, eyes blurred; tears started to flow. I felt like my breath fell short with time. Head flew above the marks, my soul was just pointed with a giant fork; itching me. I gathered up my courage, helped myself to stand up on my own. As I stood up, I took few steps ahead and approached him. Sunk heart, thousands of questions in my mind, trembling hand, I forwarded it with all my strength; touched his mysterious face. All I could feel, see, say was, “Oh! It’s a Laughing Clown!”

Mixbah Zaffar, from Jammu and Kashmir, India, is a class XI student who loves to write.

The Voice

By Thomas Hardy

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,
Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,
Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.