I met him on that untrod road & he eyed the menace in my eye, said “look! behind you, there’s the buddha you were looking for.” I looked back, nothing, and the buddha went a-scamper cursing that oft-quoted license to kill, yearning for that time under the tree, when hunger & fire sat side by side with love in them howl eyes and menace -
Look into the mouth of horror & you’ll find everyday foibles wanting to sleep by the kerb side, if only for a few more minutes of untarnished dream -
Is my mouth political or just its corners, when it turns not mind ful of euphs and misms? Is the Twitch of my nose mere biology or is the canvas larger, mindful of the oophs, the eeks & the isms?
– there are no silences, only doors that refuse to open to let the mute sun in
– if silence was certain, doors would be humorless
Each story runs late
the verbs are hassled, thunderous grammar is a tasseled adjunct to power that refuses to give tao runs dry but no sooner than the parch soars, new words begin to form as grammar vows blood – the story as parchment & love
A resonant lamp
resounds distance is three harks away 1. come no further than the eye’s hover 2. seek no earth that claims sky as father 3. while away this distance as you while away your grandmother’s patience
In the murk the Way advances as the knife of the slow word - in the murk there is a mark that breathes which poem gets lost in that breath? the knife of the slow word cuts only when the river flows - I collect quills and count moons - where the worries are taken to pitch and the quills remain, there I anchor my poem -
I do not know its name– Lao Tsu
I style it “Tao”
Until her knife had pared– Sylvia Plath
The moon to a rind of little light.
I did everything in every field, I just didn’t like cleaning jobs like sweeping and dusting. My mind was always towards creating different things. If in a day I wasn’t able to make something, or complete something, I would feel my day is wasted.
I had so many questions about religion. I go for logic, you know, unless something convinces me with logical reasoning, I wouldn’t accept anything.
Being a mother… I don’t know… I passed the formative years of my children very busy in my work. I would stitch clothes for children and supply to shops. Most of my time was busy in stitching away…
…and I don’t remember how much attention I paid to them… though my children are always saying ‘Mummy you did so many things for us, you made such lovely clothes for us, you cooked such lovely meals, you did everything for us,’ so I don’t know.
In a way it’s a good thing to get yourself ready for your final exit from this world. I created so many things, so many things, I’m proud that I did so much work…I’m not materialistic, I like to collect art, that’s it, I like beauty…I made something, for everybody, I took interest in so many things and it was worthwhile living life like that.
Quotations are from an interview Khadija gave to Sakina Marvi (her cousin’s daughter) a few years ago.
Mother-in-law, Creator of all things beautiful
January 23, 1940 – February 10, 2021
In my daughter’s nameAudre Lorde
I bless your child with the mother she has
with a future of warriors and growing fire.
Buying a plot of land, I saved the deed on my hard drive, and it began to run out of space. Not knowing what to do – imagination limited by happy endings and twist plots from too many movies – I attempted to de-fragment the drive only to find it had already been optimally atomized. How do you come to terms with a drive that has opted out of alternative spaces? Overnight, the plot thickened into a miasma filling up dropbox which then complained of fatigue, oversubscribed by technophiles dreaming of escaping to Mars and buying a plot of land.
I am silence of the boat
carved of necessary wood –
Will I sink with the voice of
the heaviness of name or
Will the fight in me fly home as
song, as the otherhood of song?
It is pointless to resist power – the brea(d)th of powerlessness is precisely the point
The only truth is non-truth & the whole of it is untrue, therefore full of holes
The macro is but the sum of individual micros – even plus odd is forever odd
The foremost poet wrote perhaps the greatest poem ever written, but it was untrue
There is no alternative, no such thing as society, except when you forget, except when you don’t
How does a poem resist? When you say thrush It removes the palpable green from your Hooved beginnings Why does a poem resist? If the chances taken Are multiplied by its hoofsteps, you get Nothing as quotient Who does a poem resist? Ice, palindromes, hoovicles And clarified ribosomes, mainly because Structure is a myth
Poet as indigenous
as tenacity is indigenous
does it grow with the river or will the seed of word become song?
The dwelling is indigenous
there are as many indigenouses
as there are houses nestling the words that hint of becoming song
The poem is indigenous
to the steel that is fraught with love
that burned as seed that was housed in spring to become song –
The rich earth shall speak
soft tears & we who know
earth, between us, we shall
drink both that year & this.
We shall sit here, softlyAudre Lorde, from “If you come softly”
Beneath two different years
And the rich earth between us
Shall drink our tears.