Wound is our memory, our witness, our free country. The bed sheet as a material is conceived of as a storehouse of memory, presence and absence, and testimony in itself.
Who would have dreamt of coloured shrouds in war? Sewn by pale but promising hands and autumnal eyes blinking to Wait, witness and dream Seamstress sat all day at her window and in their embrace they became one — a Witness Who would have dreamt of remembrance in war? She did, for she knew what forgetting meant When she died near her window, a thousand memories lay trembling on her body — a rainy memorial embraced in moss and wild berries she stole as a child in one long summer She lay there, amid rain, needing no tombstone enwombing a promise, a prayer, a nostalgia for future, when children running barefoot towards her would cry — To the Seamstress who stitched our dream!
The Graveyard of Paradise The works depict war weaponry germinating from the earth and as casting shadows from the sky, dislodging the mainstream notions of peace and beauty. Memories surface from the deepest rubbles like the promise of resurrection My mind is a trellis where the ivy grows inconsolably. Ro Rahe Hai Yeh Zameen, Ro Raha Hai Asmaan The landscapes in these works are inscribed with memories and take the urgent role of witnessing; sky, earth, clouds, trees all become witnesses. Nameless trees stand intimately, rooted but almost paralytic, embracing each other in all seasons waiting for the bugle for a final march against tyranny of time a grand march for flow.
Flowing, flow, flowed. Waiting to Testify The works shows men and women testifying and waiting for their disappeared kin. Moon, Sun, Reflections as elements endow these images with poetry. Your face is etched on my being — that quivering moment before your existence slipped between presence and absence. I grapple with your presence, my absence, your absence, my presence — all boundaries blurry. I have conquered time fought with the sun, the moon, the stars, the earth, the sky My womb is a mausoleum My feet — rivers Your absence has seeped into my skin The crimson of my blood is your presence I grapple with your presence, my absence, your absence, my presence— all boundaries blurry.
And when people ask me what do I remember of you my son I only laugh hysterically!
16 - Beyond Glory: First World War Poetry and Cultural Memory
Fellowship of Pain and Resistance These works depict a reunion and congregation of protesting women. The movement for the disappeared has emerged as a vibrant space of dissent, mobilisation, expression of solidarity and sisterhood of pain and resistance.
These gatherings are units of strength, support and solidarity giving way to new friendships and bonds. We know the pain of erasure. We, the poets of persistence. We, who outran our destiny. We, who cradle the ache of an unsung longing, a lingering history. We, who bear the burden of outliving our children. We, who survived a genocide of colours, a massacre of language.
Those Winter Sundays | Modern American Poetry
We, who enwomb within us evanescence. We, who have tricked forgetting. We, within whom, flows a dark river of impossible love.
We, the wandering minstrels of hope. We the balladeers of dawn. We the elegists of night.
My Childhood Christmas Memories
We the bards of loss. We hear you. Do you?
Mourning is Loving In these works everything is in a state of mourning — people, landscape, homes; emanating from and touching the deepest realms of pain. Mourning is an act of love, remembering, and resistance.
Every night death thaws in our embrace homes burn in our dreams hope screams, desires become memories — redundant We cradle the ache through all seasons Mourning is loving mourn me, love me in antiphon when all is quiet hold my hand and we will walk home. Language of Longing In these works, martyrdom is evoked as an articulatation of longing and its culmination. Winter of my eyes took flight Did you see?
These are not the same eyes colors of which you would patiently decipher sitting under the sun for hours gray dreams refusing to dissolve in waters of Lethe. My hands clutch autumn now My feet feel nostalgic Spring in my veins crawls back My eyes hid that one dream in the rubble of countless others I had to. They, who trampled our fields of saffron? They who murdered the colour and smeared it on their foreheads.
… without pretension since 1995.
We carry gallows around our necks Do you hear the sound of fetters? You said, I love the winter in your eyes. Razed Homes, Raised Fists A binding theme in these works is the portrayal of the crumbling border between home and the street. Home, conceived of as a safe space, becomes the very center of oppression in a place like Kashmir and streets provide opportunities of mobilisation and togetherness.
Memory is a room invaded and turned into a battlefield memory is the battlefield In other words, we let everybody find her own figure of speech. Not that it—speech—lay thick on the The heart, the surgeon says, does not reveal the small rifts, the hairline cracks which split the hairline cracks they conceal cops and robbers in a stretch of skin flaunting star-scars with show of blood bone the ledges of what it holds tight in checkmate moves I like the lady horses best, how they make it all look easy, like running 40 miles per hour is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.
I like their lady horse swagger, after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!
Based on the 300 Tang Poems, Chinese English translations and occasionally French
Ars Poetica Twitter Facebook Print. After college, he enrolled at Harvard Law School, but he put his studies on hold to become first an ambulance driver and later a captain of artillery during World War I. He graduated from Harvard in