My sister read an old poem of mine and demanded of me, “why don’t you write more poetry?” I didn’t have an answer except for these words by Vivian Gornick, “I would look at the words on the page – still do – and think, This is so naive. This is so stupid. Who’s going to want to read this? How will I ever get another sentence out?”
But then I read a line in a poem that makes me believe in its power to heal, to shake people, to just hold us, dare I say, to even save us. Yet we often wonder, what is the role of poetry in times of war? What would mere words do when the world is tearing at the edges. Reading poems written by people suffering the worst of humanity, by people hurting so much that all our personal hurt feels trivial in the face of such cruelty, answers that naive question. Their words constantly remind us of the human spirit, which essentially wants to tell its story, however painful. History tells us time and again that we tend to pick up a pen/phone to write our stories to the best of our abilities, in order to connect with each other and in an attempt to pass it down to others. Poets protest, bear witness, mourn.
Here’s a poem in that vein by late Refaat Alareer, a Palestinian writer, poet, professor, and activist from the Gaza Strip, who was killed in an Israeli airstrike in December 2023.
If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze —
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself —
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above,
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love.
If I must die
let it bring hope,
let it be a story.
Recommendations Corner
Fun (and sometimes offbeat) travel experiences, meaningful films, shows, books that I enjoyed as well as poetry that made its way to me.
Travel
The last few months of this year have seen a lot of travel, and some ugly experiences too. I was in a new town last month, where my safety was at stake, I still managed to get out of it by sheer luck and then got pleasantly surprised by the sweetest driver/guide who completely changed my opinion of the place. I was in Kerala and I have been to the state with my partner before. The solo experience (as a woman) of the place wasn’t exactly memorable until the last 12 hrs. But I will continue to walk through life with an open heart. It has mostly proven worthy.
Read
Chaar Phool Hain Aur Duniya Hai by Vinod Kumar Shukl
Yah chetaavani hai
ki ek chhota bachcha hai.
Yah chetaavani hai
ki chaar phool khile hain.
Yah chetaavani hai
ki Khushi hai
aur ghade mein bhara hua pain
peene ke layak hai,
hawa mein saans li ja sakti hai.
Yah chetaavani hai
ki duniya hai
bachi duniya mein
main bacha hua
Yah chetaavani hai
main bachata hu.
Kisi hone wale yuddh se
jeevit bach nikal kar
main apni
ahmiyat se marna chatta hu
ki marne ke aakhiri kshanon tak
anantkaal jelene ki kaamna karun
ki chaar phool hain
aur duniya hai.
The Deluge and the Tree by Fadwa Touqan
When the hurricane swirled and spread its deluge
of dark evil
onto the good green land
'they' gloated. The western skies
reverberated with joyous accounts:
"The Tree has fallen!
The great trunk is smashed! The hurricane leaves no life in the Tree!"
Had the Tree really fallen?
Never! Not with our red streams flowing forever,
not while the wine of our thorn limbs
fed the thirsty roots,
Arab roots alive
tunneling deep, deep, into the land!
When the Tree rises up, the branches
shall flourish green and fresh in the sun
the laughter of the Tree shall leaf
beneath the sun
and birds shall return
Undoubtedly, the birds shall return.
The birds shall return.
From the Sky by Sara Abou Rashed
After Lorca
When I die,
bury me in the sky—
no one is fighting over it.
Children are playing soccer
with empty bomb shells
(from the sky I can see them).
A grandmother is baking
her Eid makroota and mamoul
(from the sky I can taste them).
Teens are writing love letters
under an orange tree
(from the sky I can read them).
Soldiers are cocking new rifles
at the checkpoint
(from the sky I can hear them).
Under fire, death and water
are brewing in the kitchen
(from the sky I can smell them!).
When I die, bury me in the sky,
I said, for now, it is quiet—
no one owns it and no one is claiming to.
Watch
We Teach Life, Sir by Rafeef Ziadah
Wildflower of the day: Wind flower
The wild anemone commonly known as the wind flower, has large white flowers of 3.5-5 cm across, filled with yellow stamens and tinged with pink on the reverse. We have several species of anemones in the Himalayas and each one is prettier than the other. Some flower in the spring and some in the autumn. The word ‘anemone’ comes from the Greek, ‘anemos’ i.e. wind.
‘Within the woods, whose young transparent leaves scarce cast a shade, gay circles of anemones. Danced on their stalks’ - wrote Byrant of these flowers.
यदि तुम्हारे घर के
एक कमरे में आग लगी हो
तो क्या तुम
दूसरे कमरे में सो सकते हो?
यदि तुम्हारे घर के एक कमरे में
लाशें सड़ रहीं हों
तो क्या तुम
दूसरे कमरे में प्रार्थना कर सकते हो?
यदि हाँ
तो मुझे तुम से
कुछ नहीं कहना है।
देश कागज पर बना
नक्शा नहीं होता
कि एक हिस्से के फट जाने पर
बाकी हिस्से उसी तरह साबुत बने रहें
और नदियां, पर्वत, शहर, गांव
वैसे ही अपनी-अपनी जगह दिखें
अनमने रहें।
यदि तुम यह नहीं मानते
तो मुझे तुम्हारे साथ
नहीं रहना है।
इस दुनिया में आदमी की जान से बड़ा
कुछ भी नहीं है
न ईश्वर
न ज्ञान
न चुनाव
कागज पर लिखी कोई भी इबारत
फाड़ी जा सकती है
और जमीन की सात परतों के भीतर
गाड़ी जा सकती है।
(सर्वेश्वर दयाल सक्सेना की एक लंबी कविता का अंश)