Showing posts with label Agha Shahid Ali. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Agha Shahid Ali. Show all posts

Friday, May 31, 2019

The Living Dead


~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

Land

Swear by the olive in the God-kissed land—
There is no sugar in the promised land.

Why must the bars turn neon now when, Love,
I’m already drunk in your capitalist land?

If home is found on both sides of the globe,
home is of course here—and always a missed land.

The hour’s come to redeem the pledge (not wholly?)
in Fate’s “Long years ago we made a tryst” land.

Clearly, these men were here only to destroy,
a mosque now the dust of a prejudiced land.

Will the Doomsayers die, bitten with envy,
when springtime returns to our dismissed land?

The prisons fill with the cries of children.
Then how do you subsist, how do you persist, Land?

“Is my love nothing for I’ve borne no children?”
I’m with you, Sappho, in that anarchist land.

A hurricane is born when the wings flutter . . .
Where will the butterfly, on my wrist, land?

You made me wait for one who wasn’t even there
though summer had finished in that tourist land.

Do the blind hold temples close to their eyes
when we steal their gods for our atheist land?

Abandoned bride, Night throws down her jewels
so Rome—on our descent—is an amethyst land.

At the moment the heart turns terrorist,
are Shahid’s arms broken, O Promised Land?

– Agha Shahid Ali (1949-2001)


Some of us who also play over at dVerse Poets' Pub, particularly in this year's 'Poetry Form' series, are currently trying our hands at the ghazal, an ancient Persian form which has also been adapted into other languages such as Urdu and Hindi.

So I thought I'd look for one by a famous contemporary exponent. Though originally from Kashmir, Ali, who lived and worked in the United States from 1976 until his death, wrote his poetry in English; perhaps that gives those of us who write in English an even better idea of the ghazal form. Then again, I think his style must be unique, even when the form is traditional. In the Introduction to his book, Ravishing Disunities, featuring ghazals in English by a number of other poets, Ali is firmly in favour of the traditional form, including the connections of theme.* 

Kashmir, where he grew up, a disputed territory between India, Pakistan and China, became so war-torn that eventually it was no longer feasible for him to make return visits home – all the more sad in that previously Kashmir had long been famous for its great beauty. His beloved homeland was the subject of much of his poetry.

His personal sadness about his homeland seems to inform this poem, along with an expatriate's ambivalence as to which country is 'home'. From this he seems to extrapolate to sorrows, disappointments and blights of various kinds pertaining to other lands; for instance some of his lines make me think of the Israel-Palestine conflict. Other references are so personal that we can't know any details beyond what is mentioned – yet that doesn't matter, the point being the moods of the various moments in the various lands, adding up to overall beauty, love and grief. That's my reading, anyway.

Wikipedia describes the ghazal as 'a form of amatory poem or ode. ... [which] may be understood as a poetic expression of both the pain of loss or separation and the beauty of love in spite of that pain'. It seems that they are often sung, as you can discover on YouTube. Ali was greatly influenced by the famous – described as 'legendary' – Indian singer of ghazals (and other classical Indian music) Begum Akhtar, with whom he formed a friendship.

As well as becoming a noted poet in English, he had an academic career in America. His Wikipedia entry lists his occupation as 'Poet. Professor.' and adds: 'Ali taught at the MFA Program for Poets & Writers at University of Massachusetts Amherst, at the MFA Writing Seminars at Bennington College as well as at creative writing programs at University of Utah, Baruch College, Warren Wilson College, Hamilton College and New York University. He died of brain cancer in December 2001 and was buried in Northampton, in the vicinity of Amherst, a town sacred to his beloved poet Emily Dickinson.'

Despite his sad, early death, he made his mark on the world with his own poetry, which won various awards, and with his translations from the Urdu of another renowned ghazal poet, Faiz Ahmed Faiz.

In his obituary the KashmirWalla newspaper notes: 'To commemorate his legacy, the University of Utah in Salt Lake City has constituted an award in his name — Agha Shahid Ali Prize in Poetry, for young poets and writers.'


Books by and about him are at Amazon, and you can find here a series of quotes from his work.

_____________________

*He says (in a much longer context): 'When poets go crazy with the idea of composing thematically independent couplets in a free verse poem, they manage to forget what holds the couplets together—a classical exactness, a precision so stringent that it, when brilliant, surpasses the precision of the sonnet and the grandeur of the sestina (I do mean that) and dazzles the most untutored of audiences. The ghazal's disconnectedness must not be mistaken for fragmentariness...' and, 'If one writes in free verse—and one should—to subvert Western civilization, surely one should write in forms to save oneself from Western civilization?'




Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may be out of copyright). The photo of Agha Shahid Ali, from his Wikipedia entry, is used according to Fair Use.

Friday, July 10, 2015

The Living Dead

Honouring our poetic ancestors 

Even the Rain
by Agha Shahid Ali (1949-2001)

What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain?
But he has bought grief's lottery, bought even the rain.

"our glosses / wanting in this world" "Can you remember?"
Anyone! "when we thought / the poets taught" even the rain?

After we died—That was it!—God left us in the dark.
And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain.

Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house.
For mixers, my love, you'd poured—what?—even the rain.

Of this pear-shaped orange's perfumed twist, I will say:
Extract Vermouth from the bergamot, even the rain.

How did the Enemy love you—with earth? air? and fire?
He held just one thing back till he got even: the rain.

This is God's site for a new house of executions?
You swear by the Bible, Despot, even the rain?

After the bones—those flowers—this was found in the urn:
The lost river, ashes from the ghat, even the rain.

What was I to prophesy if not the end of the world?
A salt pillar for the lonely lot, even the rain.

How the air raged, desperate, streaming the earth with flames—
to help burn down my house, Fire sought even the rain.

He would raze the mountains, he would level the waves,
he would, to smooth his epic plot, even the rain.

New York belongs at daybreak to only me, just me—
to make this claim Memory's brought even the rain.

They've found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these?
No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain.

I love the ghazal form, and sometimes try to write ghazals — but I find the strict rules difficult, so I break them and label the results 'free ghazals'. This beautiful poet does no such thing. He shows us how to write a true ghazal. And I think he takes it to heights of meaning and emotion. The allusion — almost homage — to cummings is beautifully done, too. (I find that he does rather run to literary allusions in his poems.)

Several sources credit him with popularising the ghazal in American poetry. The (Great) Indian Poetry Project notes that he also wrote in free verse and in other traditional forms, notably the sestina and canzone.

Brought up in Kashmir, he later studied in the United States. The link on his name, above, is to an Academy of American Poets article. There is also some information at Wikipedia, which tells us: 'He held teaching positions at nine universities and colleges in India and the United States.' 

His parents, too, were academics. The enotes study guide says, 'English, Urdu, and Kashmiri were all spoken in his home. Ali considered English to be his first language (it was the only language in which he wrote) and Urdu to be his mother tongue.'

He was always affected by the troubles in his war-torn country of Kashmir, as this ghazal demonstrates.

As you see by the dates next to his name, he lived only to 52. He died of brain cancer. He had a distinguished career, both academically and poetically, and is remembered affectionately by readers, colleagues and students.

There are articles and reminiscences about him all over the web, attesting to this. But I can't find a photo that's not firmly copyrighted, and I fear it would take time to pursue the necessary enquiries to get permission to use one. But you can easily see them for yourself: here.

Meanwhile there is a collection of his poems at PoemHunter, and his books are on Amazon. They include his last book, Call Me Ishmael Tonight, (pictured above) and a 'collected' (also pictured), The Veiled Suite, produced posthumously.

Wikipedia tells us: 'The University of Utah Press awards the Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize annually "in memory of a celebrated poet and beloved teacher".'

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Poets United Mid-Week Motif ~ Mirror

“The time will come when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome.” 
― Derek WalcottSea Grapes


Today’s motif: Mirror

What do you see when you look in a mirror?  What is the best mirror you ever looked in? Do you have a mirror story that needs a poem?

I am inspired today by Agha Shahid Ali and Sylvia Plath:


I See Chile in My Rearview Mirror
     By dark the world is once again intact,
     Or so the mirrors, wiped clean, try to reason. . .
                                                 --James Merrill

This dream of water--what does it harbor?
I see Argentina and Paraguay
under a curfew of glass, their colors
breaking, like oil. The night in Uruguay

is black salt. I'm driving toward Utah,
keeping the entire hemisphere in view--
Colombia vermilion, Brazil blue tar,
some countries wiped clean of color: Peru …

- See the rest at 
http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16090#sthash.05S3zAB8.dpuf



Mirror
by Sylvia Plath (from The Collected Poems)

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike ...

See the rest at https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/172450-i-am-silver-and-exact-i-have-no-preconceptions-whatever







Please:
  1. Post your mirror poem on your site, and then link it here.
  2. Share only original and new work written for this challenge. 
  3. Honor our community by visiting and commenting on others' poems.



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