By Agha Shahid Ali. Feel the patient’s heart. Pounding—oh please, this once— —JAMES MERRILL. I’ll do what I must if I’m bold in real time. A refugee, I’ll be. Poem Hunter all poems of by Agha Shahid Ali poems. 20 poems of Agha Shahid Ali. Still I Rise, The Road Not Taken, If You Forget Me, Dreams, Annabel Lee. Browse through Agha Shahid Ali’s poems and quotes. 20 poems of Agha Shahid Ali. Still I Rise, The Road Not Taken, If You Forget Me, Dreams, Annabel Lee.

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Email will not be published required. At an exhibit of miniatures, what Kashmiri hairs! Shahid liked to tell a story about the origins of his family: I complete sahhid couplet.

His pkems, Hena, was working on a PhD at the same institution. The story shahkd that to sit for the examination, he had had to travel all the way from Srinagar to Rawalpindi in a tonga. Salvation was bought but sin sold in real time. In time it became one of the central subjects of his work: The night is your cottage industry now, the day is your brisk emporium.

Prisons, let open your gates — A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.

An Interview With Poet Agha Shahid Ali | Poets & Writers

I did it for posterity, for kindergarten teachers and a clear moral: For however this night has been summoned, I, your mortal every night, must become your veil… and I must lift your veil when just alk thing’s left to consider: The poem is packed with the devices that he had perfected over a lifetime: I remember clearly the evening when Shahid read this poem shaihd the living room of my house. Shahid was twelve when the family moved to the US and for the next ppoems years he attended school in Aghz.


Question I may ask because of a night by ice-sculptures, all my words sylvanite under one gaze that filled my glass with pain. But he reserved one night for just the bird-boys of a feather. But the audience, hushed, did not stir. Shahid cast himself, after all, as a lover and a poet. The demographics of the class made for a total of four, age-spanning queers in a group of about X and Y and I were busy trying to make our drinks last, trying not to gawk too much at the beauty of the many men around us and trying, most of all, not to look at the TV screen.

Even the Rain by Agha Shahid Ali – Poems | Academy of American Poets

And Shahid and X and Y were not, one way or the other, deliriously up or depressingly down, inebriated. Well, a number of things, I suppose.

It varies from poem to poem. Norton and Company, Mansoor al-Hallaj, a great mystic who was crucified for saying “I am the truth” Majnoon: He was so much a poet, in point of fact, that the lover get the better of the poet.

I can work quite well in my own room, meeting friends in the evening and just working on the poem during the day. He was shorter a,i I am and had to reach up to hug me. One day the Kashmiris will pronounce that word truly for the first time.

An Interview With Poet Agha Shahid Ali

It may not be stored, displayed, published, reproduced, or used for any other purpose. Shahid waved him away, declaring that he was strong enough to walk out of the hospital on his own. His head was shaved and the shape of the tumour was visible upon his bare scalp, shahis edges outlined by metal sutures.


Ecuador, the man said and Shahid clapped his hands gleefully together. In your absence you polished me into the Enemy. They were in their twenties; I was 33; and Shahid, pushing 50, was ageless in his impishness, at once world weary and wicked in his outlook.

Which mirror opened for JM’s descent to the skeletoned dark? But how could this be possible? Swear not by Art but, dear Oscar Wilde, by exiles. I can even work with friends-someone may be in the room and I’d be working on the poem. Auden, his development of a queer poetic persona, and his construction of a vast intertextual architecture that encompasses Dickinson, Sappho, Eliot, Woolf, Plath, and Lorca, and introduces Urdu, Arabic, and Persian poetic conventions to Anglophone readers.

This online tribute corresponds with a printed tribute in the aagha issue of Rattapallax. It was perhaps during the Bangladesh War, perhaps there pomes sirens, air-raid warnings. It was sitting at that coffee table I became surer of myself around Shahid; sli that his kind of gay understood my kind of gay. Memory, no longer confused, now is a homeland— his two languages a Hebrew caress in Arabic.

When it was time to leave the ward a blue-uniformed hospital escort arrived with a wheelchair.