Pakistan is often described as a poetic nation, and not without reason. Urdu poetry circulates with ease across class, region, and generation. Verses are memorised, quoted, sung, reposted, and ritualised. A couplet can pass from a mushaira to a wedding stage, from a television studio to a WhatsApp status, without losing its cultural charge. English poetry written in Pakistan, however, inhabits a very different—and far more precarious—space.
This disparity did not emerge accidentally. In the decades following independence, the state actively consolidated Urdu as a national language, both as a unifying symbol and as a corrective to colonial linguistic hierarchies. The result was not simply linguistic standardisation, but the formation of a relatively coherent literary public. An Urdu poet from Sialkot (Faiz Ahmad Faiz) and another from Kohat (Ahmad Faraz) could write in registers recognisable to each other and legible to a shared readership. The tradition, while diverse, was mutually intelligible and part of a living Urdu milieu that continues to produce new generations of writers, a flame that remains unextinguished, as noted by Dr Nomanul Haq in his book Towards the Pebbled Shore.
English followed a different trajectory. As the colonial language, it retained official status, but became socially stratified—associated with bureaucracy, elitism, and professional advancement. “In the pre-Partition subcontinent, Persian—the language of the court—was considered elitist, not English, because English was never the court language in any part of the subcontinent,” says Sirajuddin Aziz, a senior banker, published author, columnist, and poet. “In India, English was made the second state language to help unify the country. Jawaharlal Nehru, a far-sighted politician, said there would be two state languages: one Hindi, the other English. English became the binding, unifying factor. We failed to do that.”
Over time, English accrued symbolic power, often perceived as superior to Urdu, even as it remained distant from everyday cultural life. In Pakistan, unfortunately, English is identified with elitism,” says Aziz. “No matter how good or bad we are grammatically or in terms of vocabulary, we love to speak in English. But our education standards are so low that English is pushed to the last bench of priorities,” he says. “I interview Master’s-level candidates for jobs, and when I ask them to name even one favourite author from the classical canon, they stare back blankly. English poetry can only take off when there are people who read it and when publications actively encourage poetry writing. Since poetry is essentially a great deal of thought condensed into a few words, It requires both the writer and the reader to have the ability to connect it to a larger body of words, ideas, or opinion, and to decipher the meaning between the lines.”
However, with the internet and global media accelerating exposure, the linguistic centre of gravity for many writers shifted toward English. Today, Pakistani writers employ a distinctly local idiom in English across fiction, essays, journalism, and criticism.
As scholars suggest, Pakistani literature written in English has matured into a distinct, rich, and valuable literary tradition that deserves to be recognised and formalised as its own canon. Pakistani Anglophone writing performs three important functions of canonisation: curatorial — through innovations and experiments in genre and style; normative — by presenting exemplary attitudes and wisdom; and dialogical — by engaging in dialogue with other literary cultures and textual fields. Yet when it comes to specifically anglophone poetry, the tradition remains scattered, under-read, and weakly institutionalised.
The situation
Historically, Pakistani poets have produced a substantial body of poetry in English. Before independence, South Asian English poetry drew on epic traditions, metaphysical poetics, and nineteenth-century English romanticism, though it often lacked the formal precision of the ghazal. The modern phase began in the 1930s, marked notably by Shahid Suhrawardy’s Essays in Verse (1937). After 1947, English poetry in Pakistan developed a distinct voice. Its quality and depth stem not from adherence to a single style but from the diversity and richness of its practice. Much of the strongest Pakistani English poetry was written in the 1970s.
This whole tradition produced many Anglophone poets, from Taufiq Rafat to Adrian A. Husain—whose recent book, Knife of the Tide (The Peepul Press, 2025), has just been published—and continues in the work of contemporary figures writing both within Pakistan and in the diaspora, demonstrating that Anglophone poetry has persisted for decades. There are physical journals such as Aleph Review, whose poetry section is led by Afshan Shafi; online publications like Tales from Karachi, led by Taha Kehar; and a sprawling social-media platforms, especially Instagram, in which poets such as Noor Unnahar command vast audiences. Spoken word, too, has had its moments—most notably in the early 2010s, with tours, workshops, and collaborations involving local institutions and international collectives. More recently, initiatives such as Spoken Stage, led by Mariam Paracha, have revived performance poetry, while projects like The Poem Foundry, led by Zain Alizai, have experimented with live, typewritten verse as a mode of public engagement.
There is also a growing cohort of poets who, while based abroad, continue to feed back into the local literary ecosystem—as teachers, editors, and interlocutors; for instance, Fatima Ijaz and Adeeba Shahid Talukder. Over the past decade, anglophone poetry has, in many ways, consolidated itself outside Pakistan, even as it remains tethered to it. This circulation, between here and elsewhere, could yet become a strength rather than a liability. And yet, despite this activity, anglophone Pakistani poetry struggles to translate visibility into readership. There is no equivalent of a top-selling poetry book in English. Bookstores’ bestseller lists tell a consistent story: fiction travels, poetry does not. This is not merely a question of taste. It is structural.
On the demand side, the problem is not the absence of an audience but the absence of a committed readership. Poetry circulates widely—especially online—but rarely settles into sustained reading practices. Social-media consumption privileges immediacy over depth, affect over form. Poems are liked, shared, and forgotten. There is little incentive to return to a book, to follow a poet’s development, or to situate new work within a lineage. Canon formation becomes nearly impossible under such conditions.
On the supply side, the issue is not talent but infrastructure. Most anglophone poets write in isolation, without access to consistent mentorship, rigorous editorial processes, or serious critical engagement. When I asked Fatima Ijaz, poet and author of several books, including The Shade of Longing and Story Circle: Letters on Creativity & Friendship, about the dire situation, she said, “In Pakistan, I feel English is used and imagined as a more functional or professional language, rather than one in which poetry is written. Perhaps more mainstream exposure to English poetry can rectify this suppressive myth. However, this should not be readings alone, but rather dynamic dialogue about the poetry. I feel that if it is presented as an intellectual entity, it would have a wider reach. It could also be properly taught in colleges and universities in the same vein.”
Many come from non-literary academic or professional backgrounds; for instance, Haseeb Sultan, a dentist by profession, and Ammara Younas, a zoologist—neither of which is a flaw in itself—and both of whom have achieved significant international recognition, accolades, and fellowships in anglophone poetry. But without institutional scaffolding—workshops, syllabi, review cultures, archives—poetic craft in general struggles to mature. Poetry, then, becomes an overflow of emotion, often earmarked for online goosebumps and reshares, rather than a sustained engagement with form, tradition, and technique.
This absence of exquisite craft is, in fact, a pedagogical failure. Poetry is not simply felt; it is learned too. Urdu poetry thrives in part because its modes of transmission are social and oral, yet formally intricate, shaped by rhyme, metre, and refrain. Mushairas train both poets and audiences: repetition, call-and-response, and memorisability ensure that poems are not private artefacts but shared events. English poetry in Pakistan, by contrast, lacks comparable spaces of collective apprenticeship, apart from a few exclusive circles.
There is also the matter of literary accessibility: English poetry often relies on private reference, especially when compared with cosmopolitan Urdu poetry, which can be readily evoked in everyday life for its universal virtuosity and moral insight. Metaphors become sealed, meanings inward-facing. While ambiguity is central to poetry, excessive obscurity forecloses reader engagement. Fiction, essays, and journalism, by contrast, offer narrative or argumentative anchors. They guide the reader. Poetry demands a different kind of literacy, one that is rarely cultivated locally.
Institutional neglect compounds this problem. Universities seldom teach contemporary Pakistani poetry in English. Publishers hesitate to invest. Reviewing cultures are thin, sporadic, and often promotional rather than critical. Archival practices are weak, leading to a loss of memory. Poems appear in journals, circulate briefly, and vanish. Without preservation, there can be no lineage; without lineage, no tradition.
Language politics further complicate matters. English remains socially marked. At literary festivals, audiences frequently object to “over-anglicised” discourse, even when they understand it. The discomfort is not purely linguistic; it is symbolic. Urdu is imagined as the rightful carrier of cultural expression, while English is relegated to functional or professional use. Poetry in English, then, appears as an anomaly—too elite for mass circulation, yet too local to fit comfortably within the global Anglophone canon.
This creates a double bind. Anglophone Pakistani poetry is often deemed too Pakistani abroad, saturated with cultural references that resist easy translation. At home, it is seen as insufficiently rooted, insufficiently accessible, insufficiently “ours.” The result is fragmentation: poets publishing in small journals, diaspora writers consolidating recognition elsewhere, and local scenes struggling to cohere.
Some silver linings
And yet, there are reasons for cautious optimism. Programmes such as the National Youth Poets Laureate Pakistan represent the international iteration of the U.S.-based National Youth Poet Laureate Programme, which supports laureates across more than 100 cities and states. As part of YPL Pakistan, finalists—young poets aged 16–25—include the top 20 winning poets (the latest cohort features prodigies like Momina Raza and Malalai Noor Khan). These poets complete poetry portfolios and are paired with professional Pakistani poets and artists through a structured mentorship process, and some are invited to monthly online workshops.
Community-driven initiatives also play a vital role. The Dead Poets Society of Pakistan, which I founded with Mahnoor Rehan, draws inspiration from Dead Poets Society by Nancy H. Kleinbaum and brings together a community of anglophone poets across Pakistan and the diaspora, with diverse backgrounds ranging from literature to engineering to medicine. We are currently preparing to launch our first anthology, “After the bells.” In the absence of robust mentorship and institutional structures, such platforms can serve as launchpads, especially for emerging poets, to engage, learn, and find continuity. More such communities are needed.
For Anglophone Pakistani poetry to move from fragmentation to coherence, deliberate investment is required. Poetry must be taught, not merely performed. While many diaspora poets have received formal training through MFA programmes, such opportunities remain scarce locally. Poetry must also move beyond its perception as an elite form and become more accessible, an effort that requires critics and reviewers to unpack poems rather than merely summarise them. Publishers must take risks, universities must assign texts, and archives must preserve them. Above all, poetry must be reimagined not as a private indulgence but as an intellectual and cultural practice worthy of sustained public dialogue.
Furqan Ali is a Peshawar-based researcher who works in the financial sector. He can be reached at alifurqan647@gmail.com
All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer
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