Step into the world of Wounds and Wonders, where Dr. Sazina Khan unfurls a collection of 100 poems that shimmer with the raw beauty of being human. This isn’t just a collection—it’s a pilgrimage through love’s tender ache, grief’s heavy shadow, and the stubborn bloom of resilience. With a pen dipped in both wound and wonder, Khan crafts verses that feel like whispers from the soul, turning the everyday into something sacred and the personal into a mirror for us all. In this interview, she pulls back the curtain on her craft, sharing how she balances life’s jagged edges with its fleeting marvels. What follows is a glimpse into the heart of a poet who doesn’t just write but beckons us to feel—to linger in the quiet spaces where pain and hope collide, stitching us closer to ourselves and each other.
1. In the context of this anthology, how do you personally define “wonder”? Is it a spark from within or something you stumble upon out there in the wild world?
“Wonder,” to me, in Wounds and Wonders, is a curious beast—it’s both a whisper from the soul and a thunderclap from the cosmos. It’s that jolt of awe when you realize you’ve got more grit than you thought, rising from the ashes of some private calamity. But it’s also the gobsmacked delight of spotting a glint of beauty in a world that’s cracked and jagged. Wonder stitches together the ethereal and the earthy, nudging us to rummage through life’s overlooked corners for meaning. It’s not just a fleeting “aha!”—no, in this collection, it’s a full-on pilgrimage, a tussle between your restless curiosity and the cryptic dazzle of existence. Pain morphs into purpose; the mundane flips into something downright magical. These poems wrestle with wonder as a lifeline, a flicker in the gloom that says, “Look closer.” It’s less about nailing down answers and more about cozying up to the questions that crack us open. Picture it: your inward squinting meets the world’s wild pageant, and suddenly, you’re humming a tune you didn’t know you knew.
2. This anthology juggles heavy hitters like love, grief, resilience, and aspiration. How do you keep them from toppling over each other in one book?
Keeping love, grief, resilience, and aspiration from turning into a chaotic bar brawl takes some fancy footwork. In Wounds and Wonders, I see them as threads in a mad, beautiful tapestry—tangled, sure, but stronger for it. Love sneaks up in grief’s shadow, proving they’re two sides of the same coin, minted from joy and ache. Resilience claws its way out of despair’s muck, while aspiration flickers like a lantern in the dark. To stop any one from hogging the spotlight, I play with light and shadow—hope sashays in after pain’s had its say, then they swap places again. Each poem’s a standalone rhapsody, but together they hum a bigger tune. I lean on tones that zig and zag—sometimes brooding, sometimes bursting with hallelujahs—to mirror how messy and marvelous these feelings are. They’re not solo acts; they’re a rowdy choir, harmonizing life’s highs and lows. The trick? Letting each breathe, then watching them collide and spark. That’s the rhythm of being human, isn’t it?
3. “Wounds” seem to be the beating heart of this collection. How do you reckon pain and healing dance together in your work?
In Wounds and Wonders, pain and healing are locked in a slow, transformative tango—cyclical, messy, and downright alchemical. Pain’s the sharp-edged teacher nobody asked for, slicing through illusions to show us what we’re made of. Wounds—those raw, tender gashes, physical or otherwise—etch stories into our skin, badges of battles fought. But here’s the twist: they’re also the doorway to healing, to grit, to something tougher than steel. Healing isn’t about slapping a Band-Aid on the hurt and calling it quits; it’s about weaving that ache into who we are, letting it sculpt us. These poems don’t shy away—they linger on how wounds tutor us in empathy, patience, even a quiet ferocity. It’s no straight shot, though—more like a ramble with stumbles and sudden vistas. Think of a shattered pot cradling fresh blooms; that’s the vibe. Pain and healing aren’t foes—they’re conspirators, proving our scars don’t shrink us but stretch our capacity for wonder wide open.
4. Can you spill the beans on how “wounds” and “wonders” balance each other out? How do they play nice together?
The push-and-pull of “wounds” and “wonders” is the backbone of Wounds and Wonders—not a tug-of-war, but a peculiar duet. They’re not rivals; they’re kin, lighting each other up like fireflies in a storm. Wounds are the grit and grime—the losses, the bruises, the nights you wonder if you’ll make it through. Wonders? They’re the unexpected grace notes—the resilience that blooms, the joy that sneaks in uninvited. In these pages, wounds anchor us in the real, raw muck of life, while wonders swoop in with a wink, lifting us above it. A poem might start with a gut-punch of sorrow, then pirouette into a quiet epiphany. It’s life’s own chiaroscuro: dark makes the light sing louder. They’re two halves of a cracked whole, showing how anguish can birth awe. Readers get to sit with both, to feel the weight and the lift, and maybe see their own scars as part of something vast and wondrous.
5. Was there a poem that just tumbled out of you, quick as a hiccup? What was that like?
Oh, Eclipsing—that one barreled out of me like a runaway horse, all wild and unbridled. It sparked from a memory that hit me sideways, some old wound that’d healed into something luminous, and the words just galloped onto the page. Usually, I’m chiseling away, tweaking and fussing, but this? This was a deluge, a flood of clarity I didn’t see coming. Writing it felt like catching lightning in a jar—equal parts release and rapture. It was as if the poem had been lurking in my bones, biding its time, and then—bam!—it unfurled, whole and humming. That spontaneity, that raw rush, it’s a reminder that inspiration’s a sly trickster. Eclipsing sits in the book like a little wildfire, proof that sometimes the muse doesn’t knock—she just kicks the door down.
6. Out of the 100 poems in this tome, got a favorite? What makes it stick to your ribs?
Picking a favorite’s like choosing which star shines brightest, but Silence Speaks—that one’s got a grip on me. It’s a quiet giant, all about the heft of saying nothing when everyone else is shouting. I love how it pits the fool’s bluster against the sage’s hush, that “gilded calm repose” that outshines any racket. Lines like “No answer spoken can the fool disarm, / As well as silence, with its tranquil charm” hit me square in the chest—silence isn’t empty; it’s a fortress, a deep well of strength. It’s a nod to watching instead of reacting, to finding peace in the pause. The imagery’s lush, the rhythm’s steady as a heartbeat, and it’s got this timeless vibe that feels like a secret everybody knows but forgets. It’s my cornerstone, a love letter to the power of holding your tongue and letting the world spin on.
7. Readers might see their own reflections in your lines. Was there a slice of your life that fueled this book?
Wounds and Wonders is stitched from my own unraveling and mending—heartbreak, loss, the whole messy lot. Losing people I loved cracked me open, rewrote my map of grief and grit. This book became my way of sifting through the wreckage, turning private storms into something others could hold onto. Writing it was like panning for gold in a river of hurt—anger, sadness, then a slow dawn of acceptance and renewal. But it’s not all heavy; there’s joy too, snatched from fleeting connections and stubborn dreams. My wounds shaped these poems, but so did my wonders, and I wanted them to echo out there, to catch readers in their own tender spots. It’s personal, sure, but it’s bigger than me—a bridge from my scars to the shared pulse of being human.
8. Who’s the reader you’re dreaming will fall hard for this work?
I picture Wounds and Wonders landing in the hands of folks wrestling with life’s thorny knots—people who’ve tasted loss or doubt but still chase flickers of light. They’re the soul-searchers, the ones who’d rather ponder than skim, who dig for beauty in the rubble. Maybe they’re patching up old hurts; maybe they’re hunting for wonder in the everyday grind. Young or seasoned, I want them to find a mirror here, a whisper of “you’re not alone.” My dream reader’s been knocked down but keeps getting up, knowing the best lessons come from the roughest rides. If they’ve ever felt pain’s weight and hope’s spark in the same breath, this book’s for them—a companion for the trek through life’s wild terrain.
9. Where’s your poetry headed next? Any new trails or tricks you’re itching to try?
My poetry’s itching to roam new ground—identity, belonging, the tangled threads that tie us to each other and this spinning rock. Wounds and Wonders danced with pain and awe, but now I’m peering at purpose, at how we find our footing in a world that’s shifting under us. I’m hankering to mix poetry with prose, whip up some hybrid concoctions that defy the usual fences. Themes like nature’s heartbeat or society’s growing pains are tugging at me, begging to be explored. Maybe I’ll toy with narrative poetry or pen letters in verse—shake things up a bit. The road’s wide open, and I’m giddy to see where it twists. The spirit of Wounds and Wonders will tag along, but I’m ready to plunge into fresh waters, to coax readers into the next leg of this grand, unkempt adventure.
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