Ayesha Masood is a poet whose work dwells in the quiet, often unnoticed spaces of human experience. With a sensitivity to emotional nuance and an eye for the ordinary, her writing traces the subtle thresholds that shape our lives—between memory and movement, silence and expression, staying and letting go. Drawing from both personal reflection and shared cultural landscapes, her poetry illuminates tenderness, endurance, and the unseen labour embedded in everyday existence. Unsung Thresholds, her debut collection, marks the arrival of a thoughtful and restrained poetic voice that invites readers to pause, reflect, and recognise the beauty within life’s in-between moments.
The Literature Times: What inspired you to explore the idea of “thresholds” as the central theme of your collection?
Ayesha Masood: The idea of “thresholds” wasn’t something I set out to write about—it revealed itself as I went. I realised my poems were less about fixed moments and more about in-between states—the quiet space between who we were and who we’re becoming. Those crossings felt more honest to me than neat conclusions ever could.
A threshold is subtle. It doesn’t announce itself. You often only recognise it after you’ve already crossed it—when a place begins to feel like home, when a version of you no longer fits, when something shifts internally without explanation.
Across the book, these thresholds take different forms—between humans and animals, between innocence and conflict, between cities, identities, and expectations. But at their core, they all speak to one thing: becoming.
I wasn’t interested in writing about arrival. I was interested in those quiet turning points that shape us without spectacle.
Unsung Thresholds is, in that sense, a record of attention—to the moments that changed us, even when they didn’t ask to be named.
The Literature Times: Many of your poems focus on quiet, everyday moments—what draws you to these subtle experiences?
Ayesha Masood: I’ve always been an overthinker—long before I had the words for it. As a child, I was constantly observing, imagining multiple scenarios, following thoughts to their quiet conclusions, and feeling things perhaps more deeply than I could explain at the time.
Because of that, I don’t experience moments at face value. Even the most ordinary situations tend to unfold into something larger in my mind—questions, patterns, meanings that aren’t immediately visible.
That’s what draws me to quiet, everyday experiences. They’re often overlooked, but they hold the most truth. There’s no performance in them, no need to dramatize—they just are. And in that stillness, I think we come closest to understanding ourselves.
This book is really a culmination of years of that internal process—of thoughts, opinions, and observations that stayed with me long enough to matter. The poems that made it into the final collection are simply the ones that stood out the most, the ones that felt complete enough to be shared. For me, writing isn’t about creating something new—it’s about noticing what was already there, waiting to be understood.
The Literature Times: How do personal memory and collective experience intersect in your writing process?
Ayesha Masood: For me, personal memory is often the entry point—but it rarely stays personal for long.
I might begin with something specific—a moment from my own life, a feeling I’ve carried, a memory tied to a place, a person, or even an animal. But as I sit with it, I start to see how it connects to something larger. The emotion underneath it—grief, love, displacement, protection, becoming—is never mine alone.
That’s where collective experience enters.
For example, a poem may come from my own relationship with a city, but it becomes about identity and belonging in a broader sense. A deeply personal reflection can expand into something that speaks to societal patterns—whether it’s how we treat animals, how war touches innocence, or how young people navigate uncertainty. I think the intersection happens in that shift—from this happened to me to this is something we all, in some way, recognise.
I don’t consciously try to universalise my experiences. I just follow the truth of the emotion far enough, and it naturally opens outward. Because the more honestly you sit with something personal, the more it begins to reflect something collective.
That’s why I believe if a reader sees themselves in a poem, it’s not because I wrote about them—it’s because I wrote honestly enough about something human.
The Literature Times: Your work often highlights “unseen labour.” What does this phrase mean to you in the context of poetry?
Ayesha Masood: To me, “unseen labour” is everything that sustains life but rarely receives recognition.
In the context of my poetry, it’s the quiet effort behind what appears effortless—emotional endurance, silent sacrifices, care that goes unacknowledged, and even the way people hold themselves together without ever being asked how they’re doing.
It can be a mother carrying fear so her child can sleep in peace, as in Sleep, My Love…. It can be animals offering loyalty and love without language or reward. It can be the inner work of becoming—processing grief, rebuilding identity, choosing to rise again without applause. Even nature, in many ways, reflects unseen labour—continuing to give, to heal, to hold us, despite how carelessly we treat it.
Poetry, for me, becomes a way of noticing this labour. Of pausing long enough to acknowledge what the world moves past too quickly. I’m not trying to amplify the loud—I’m trying to give presence to what was always there, just not seen.
Because often, what shapes us the most… is exactly what no one thought to name.
The Literature Times: Can you share how your cultural background has influenced the themes and tone of your poems?
Ayesha Masood: My cultural background has influenced my writing in ways that are both subtle and deeply formative.
I grew up in an environment that was, in many ways, ahead of its time—one that encouraged independent thought, curiosity, and a certain openness in how I saw the world. At the same time, I was also taught the importance of staying rooted—holding onto values, identity, and a sense of grounding.
As I grew older, I began to notice a quiet tension. The same space that had once allowed freedom also felt the pull of community expectations—especially around who I should be and how I should exist within that structure. But I’ve never been someone who could follow something I didn’t believe in. That instinct—to question, to understand, and to choose consciously—has always been central to who I am.
That contrast shaped me, and it naturally finds its way into my writing. I don’t approach it in a confrontational way, but in a reflective one—exploring identity, womanhood, and the space between authenticity and expectation.
There’s also a deep appreciation in my work for what is subtle and often overlooked—emotional endurance, everyday rituals, quiet strength. That comes from observing environments where not everything is spoken, but much is understood.
So while my poems may not always explicitly reference culture, they carry its imprint—in the questions I ask, the emotions I prioritise, and the quiet strength that runs through the book.In many ways, it didn’t just shape what I write about—it shaped how I see, feel, and interpret the world.
The Literature Times: Silence appears to be an important element in your work—how do you approach writing about what is unspoken?
Ayesha Masood: Silence, for me, is not the absence of expression—it’s where the most honest parts of us live.
I’ve always been drawn to what isn’t said just as much as what is. Often, the most important emotions—grief, love, conflict, becoming—don’t arrive in clear language. They sit beneath it. And I think poetry has the ability to reach that space without forcing it into explanation.
When I write, I don’t try to fill every gap. I allow room—for pauses, for suggestion, for the reader to step in with their own understanding. Sometimes what is withheld carries more weight than what is stated.
In many of my poems, silence shows up as restraint. It’s in the way a moment is observed but not over-explained, or how a feeling is implied rather than declared. That’s intentional—because real experiences rarely unfold in complete sentences.
I also think silence is closely tied to awareness. It requires paying attention to what lingers after something is said, or what remains even when nothing is spoken at all.
So writing about the unspoken, for me, is not about trying to define it—it’s about creating space where it can be felt.
Because sometimes, if you say too much, you lose the truth of it.
The Literature Times: How did you decide on the structure and flow of the twenty-one poems in Unsung Thresholds?
Ayesha Masood: Honestly, the structure wasn’t something I engineered—it revealed itself through the process.
I began writing for an author’s competition, and what surprised me was how naturally the thoughts came. They didn’t feel forced or planned—they just flowed. My role was simply to shape them into poetry in a way that felt true to my tone and how I communicate. As I wrote more, I began to notice a quiet pattern. Each poem seemed to come from a different phase of my life—moments I valued, experiences I cherished, or even those that weren’t easy but left a lasting imprint. Together, they started to form a kind of emotional timeline.
So while the collection isn’t strictly chronological, it does move in a way that reflects growth—shifting between inner and outer worlds, between personal memories and broader reflections. There’s a natural progression in how the voice evolves, even if it’s subtle.
In a way, I didn’t organise the book as much as I listened to it—and allowed it to take shape in the order these experiences wanted to be told.
That’s what gives Unsung Thresholds its flow—it’s not constructed, it’s remembered.
The Literature Times: Were there any particular poets or writers who influenced your style or perspective?
Ayesha Masood: Yes—my writing has been shaped by a mix of voices I grew up with and those I discovered later.
Writers like Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton were part of my early reading, and they sparked my imagination—teaching me how storytelling can feel immersive, almost lived. At the same time, Rudyard Kipling introduced a certain rhythm and observational depth that stayed with me.
As I grew older, poets like Maya Angelou and William Wordsworth influenced me in a more reflective way. Maya Angelou’s ability to carry strength and vulnerability in the same breath, and Wordsworth’s attention to nature and the quiet significance of ordinary moments, both resonate with how I approach my own work.
That said, I wouldn’t say my style is directly modelled on any one writer. If anything, these influences shaped how I see rather than how I write—an appreciation for observation, emotional honesty, and finding meaning in what might otherwise go unnoticed.
Over time, that perspective evolved into a voice that feels distinctly my own.
The Literature Times: As this is your debut collection, what challenges did you face while bringing it together?
Ayesha Masood: Bringing this collection together was less about creative difficulty and more about the circumstances I was in at the time.
I had just returned after completing my MBA and found myself in a phase that didn’t feel fully aligned with where I thought I should be. There was a sense of restlessness—I’ve always struggled with the idea of time slipping by without purpose.
During that period, I came across an author’s competition and decided to participate. What began as a small decision quickly became something much more meaningful. In the quiet gaps of that routine—at a desk that didn’t demand much from me—I started writing.
And once I began, the thoughts didn’t stop.
At the time, I was simply excited by the idea of creating and publishing a book of my own. That alone felt like enough. But what I didn’t expect was for it to be recognised the way it was—I went on to receive the 21st Century Emily Dickinson Award for the collection, which made the journey even more surreal. What could have felt like wasted time became the very space where this book was born. Instead of letting that phase pass without meaning, I turned inward—and that’s where Unsung Thresholds came from.
So the challenge wasn’t writing the book—it was being in a place that didn’t feel fulfilling, and choosing to create something meaningful from it anyway.
Looking back, I’m grateful for that contrast. It turned what felt like a pause in my life into something permanent—and something I’m deeply proud of.
The Literature Times: What do you hope readers carry with them after reading Unsung Thresholds?
Ayesha Masood: What I hope readers carry with them is a sense of recognition.
More than anything, I want them to feel seen—to come across a line and think, “I’ve felt this, I just didn’t have the words for it.” Because while the poems are personal, the emotions behind them are universal.
I’ve always believed this collection can speak across age groups, because it moves through experiences we all encounter in different forms—identity, belonging, love, loss, growth, and those quiet in-between moments we rarely pause to acknowledge.
For me, it was never about monetising the book. It was always about connection—and about impact. In fact, my intention is to direct 100% of the proceeds toward animal welfare, which is a cause deeply rooted in the book itself.
So if the words are able to reach people, make them pause, reflect, or feel a little less alone—and at the same time contribute to something meaningful beyond the pages—then Unsung Thresholds has done exactly what I hoped it would.
