On silence – 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 I style it “Tao”
– Lao Tsu
Until her knife had pared 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.
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?
How does a poem resist?
When you say thrush
It removes the palpable green from your
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
– it is transformed as it is birthed: as it becomes it is no more
– master’s tool no more, but the inch that peels off the foot
– it reverses the voyeuring oppressor’s gaze; it has survived by looking back, unrepentant, unfazed
– build your ivory tower upon it, and it spits it out, whole
– it is the silence that gnaws, knows