{"id":4816,"date":"2021-09-15T12:12:35","date_gmt":"2021-09-15T12:12:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/?p=4816"},"modified":"2021-09-15T12:12:35","modified_gmt":"2021-09-15T12:12:35","slug":"three-poems-by-kashmiri-american-bard-agha-shahid-ali","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/three-poems-by-kashmiri-american-bard-agha-shahid-ali\/","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems by Kashmiri American Bard Agha Shahid Ali"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"
Agha Shahid Ali, photographed by Neil Davenport, 1996 (courtesy of Ali’s brother).<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

<\/h4>\n

Agha Shahid Ali<\/h4>\n

Tonight\u00a0<\/strong><\/h4>\n

\u00a0\u00a0Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2014Laurence Hope<\/p>\n

Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell\u00a0tonight?
\nWhom else from rapture\u2019s road will you expel tonight?<\/p>\n

Those \u201cFabrics of Cashmere\u2014\u201d \u201cto make Me beautiful\u2014\u201d
\n\u201cTrinket\u201d\u2014to gem\u2014\u201cMe to adorn\u2014How tell\u201d\u2014tonight?<\/p>\n

I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates\u2014
\nA refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.<\/p>\n

God\u2019s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar\u2014
\nAll the archangels\u2014their wings frozen\u2014fell tonight.<\/p>\n

Lord,\u00a0cried out the idols,\u00a0Don\u2019t let us be broken;
\nOnly we can convert the infidel tonight.<\/p>\n

Mughal\u00a0ceilings, let your mirrored convexities
\nmultiply me at once under your spell tonight.<\/p>\n

He\u2019s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.
\nHe\u2019s left open\u2014for God\u2014the doors of Hell tonight.<\/p>\n

In the heart\u2019s veined temple, all statues have been smashed.
\nNo priest in saffron\u2019s left to toll its knell tonight.<\/p>\n

God, limit these punishments, there\u2019s still Judgment Day\u2014
\nI\u2019m a mere sinner, I\u2019m no infidel tonight.<\/p>\n

Executioners near the woman at the window.
\nDamn you, Elijah, I\u2019ll bless Jezebel tonight.<\/p>\n

The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer
\nfade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.<\/p>\n

My rivals for your love\u2014you\u2019ve invited them all?
\nThis is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.<\/p>\n

And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee\u2014
\nGod sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.<\/p>\n

\n

At the Museum<\/h4>\n

But in 2500 B.C. Harappa,
\nwho cast in bronze a servant girl?
\nNo one keeps records
\nof soldiers and slaves.
\nThe sculptor knew this,
\npolishing the ache
\nOff her fingers stiff
\nfrom washing the walls
\nand scrubbing the floors,
\nfrom stirring the meat
\nand the crushed asafoetida
\nin the bitter gourd.
\nBut I\u2019m grateful she smiled
\nat the sculptor,
\nas she smiles at me
\nin bronze,
\na child who had to play woman
\nto her lord
\nwhen the warm June rains
\ncame to Harappa.<\/p>\n

\n


\nZaynab\u2019s Lament in Damascus<\/strong><\/h4>\n

Over Hussain\u2019s mansion what night has fallen?<\/p>\n

Look at me, O people of Shaam, the Prophet\u2019s
\nonly daughter\u2019s daughter, his only child\u2019s child.<\/p>\n

Over my brother\u2019s
\nbleeding mansion dawn rose–at such forever
\ncost?<\/p>\n

So weep now, you who of passion never
\nmade a holocaust, for I saw his children
\nslain in the desert,
\ncrying for water.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Hear me.\u00a0 Remember Hussain,
\nwhat he gave in Karbala, he the severed
\nheart, the very heart of Muhammad, left there
\nbleeding, unburied.<\/p>\n

Deaf Damascus, here in your Caliph\u2019s dungeons
\nwhere they mock the blood of your Prophet, I\u2019m an orphan, Hussain\u2019s sister,
\na tyrant\u2019s prisoner.<\/p>\n

Father of Clay, he
\ncried, forgive me. Syria triumphs, orphans
\nall your children.\u00a0 Farewell.<\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 And then he wore his
\nshroud of words and left us alone forever.<\/p>\n

Paradise, hear me–
\nOn my brother\u2019s body what night has fallen?<\/p>\n

Let the rooms of Heaven be deafened, Angels,
\nwith my unheard cry in the Caliph\u2019s palace:<\/p>\n

Syria hear me
\nOver Hussain\u2019s mansion what night has fallen<\/p>\n

I alone am left to tell my brother\u2019s story
\nOn my brother\u2019s body what dawn has risen<\/p>\n

Weep for my brother
\nWorld, weep for Hussain.<\/p>\n

\n

 <\/p>\n

Agha Shahid Ali (b. Delhi 1949; d. Amherst 2001), was an American poet, gay, Shiite, secular, from a highly educated family from Srinagar, who later lived near him in the United States as well (and who affectionately called him Bahiya). He grew up in Kashmir, then attended university in Delhi and in the United States. He wrote a thesis of literary criticism on TS Eliot (and admitted playfully that he was bored and hooked on One Life to Live <\/em>at the time), translated the celebrated Urdu poet Faiz Ahmad Faiz (The Rebel\u2019s Silhouette<\/em>, 1992), wrote nine books of poetry, and taught and directed creative writing programs at Hamilton College, the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, with stints at NYU and Princeton. He read his poetry to raptured audiences internationally, and his collection Rooms are Never Finished<\/em> (2001) was a National Book Award finalist.<\/p>\n

His poetry is stunning, with not a boring moment\u00ad. It is remarkable for its breadth, steeped in cultural artifacts and reflections \u2014 Urdu, Hindu, Kashmiri, Syrian, or Andalusian \u2013 about longing, love, displacements both mythical, historical, and current. Composing unabashedly dramatic, lyrical poetry, Shahid sustains buoyancy, humor, and an uninterrupted sense of the absurd. He was life-long friends with poet James Merrill, naturally collaborated with artists and writers, loved recounting experiences of wonder and delirium, of Urdu poetry, or what it was like to attend the concerts of Begum Akhtar. He was at ease with all these elements together, and wrote free-verse and ghazal poetry with equal fluency and originality, weaving mythical, historical, biblical, koranic references in a modern American idiom. Rendering these vast expanses of time and geography meaningful to all, he grounds us in a vernacular sensibility.<\/p>\n

When he was at University of Massachusetts at Amherst he would regularly decide to cook for his friends, and the next day invite them as he passed by, laughing and joking and welcoming, until he had some 40 people due to appear on his doorstep the next evening. He would start cooking at 8 am, giant pots of Kashmiri stews and rice and a mountain of tangy salad diced so finely. We would all sit on the floor and eat with our hands from a rimmed metal platter\u2014Shahid\u2019s gift, and our spiritual initiation into hot hot food, his magical worlds and presence. He was curious and magnetic, holding his geographies, languages, diverse friendships, and artistic influences in effortless simultaneity, with warm humor, like no one I had ever met before or since.\u00a0 He was funny, hugging and kissing the many he loved, disarming everyone. (He once admitted to Edward Said in a car journey with his CDs playing that European classical music \u201cbored him to tears,\u201d and of course Edward was fascinated, and not offended, as much by Shahid\u2019s alien tastes, I imagine, as by his naughty frankness.) Once in Northampton we only found an Italian restaurant open for dinner on a Sunday and he threw me a stricken glance, remarking that Italian food (likewise) \u201cbored him to tears.\u201d We went home and ate my leftover maqloubeh instead (\u201cit\u2019s subtle,\u201d he commented diplomatically after taking a bite from the pan, arching his brows comically), and he was happy as a lark once I added lots more spice and hot peppers.<\/p>\n

Shahid was magnanimous, and grounded somehow, in both his art and person: he felt Kashmiri, proud of his warm family, at once culturally Shiite and secular, considering himself an American poet, and persistently interconnecting his worlds both inherited and adopted. He left us with an oeuvre of beauty, distinctiveness, and surprise. Once you start to listen to or read his poetry it begins to inhabit you, draw you into dreams, prehistoric worlds, antiquity, tragic loves and empires lost, from the Tucson desert to Kashmir, Amherst, Palestine, and back again to the beginning of time. Beloved Witness<\/i>\u00a0is the title one of his poetry books, all puns, evoked by writers and fans to\u00a0refer to him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2014Jenine Abboushi<\/strong>
\nMarseille, 2021<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Agha Shahid Ali Tonight\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2014Laurence Hope Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell\u00a0tonight? Whom else from […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":140,"featured_media":4819,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[24,34,62],"tags":[597,732,931,982,1060,1555,1724],"article-category":[],"article-type":[],"coauthors":[1867],"class_list":["post-4816","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-review","category-poetry","category-tmr-13-origins","tag-enchantment","tag-ghazal","tag-james-merrill","tag-kashmir","tag-love","tag-shiite","tag-ts-eliot"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree Poems by Kashmiri American Bard Agha Shahid Ali - The Markaz Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/themarkaz.org\/oldmarkaz\/three-poems-by-kashmiri-american-bard-agha-shahid-ali\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Three Poems by Kashmiri American Bard Agha Shahid Ali\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Agha Shahid Ali Tonight\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u2014Laurence Hope Where are you now? 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