July\/August 2012<\/p>\n
Lamp and Mirror <\/strong><\/p>\n The time was faint and hesitating. Afghan Box Camera Project <\/strong><\/p>\n Islam, Muhammad, beauty, crime of loving, But, it\u2019s no crime if they don\u2019t let you study, It is no crime if they drown you in Helmand River; But it\u2019s a crime if you question God\u2019s will And I still wonder who or what could I could not summarize your story But you are my poet sister You seem alone, behind these high walls, They won\u2019t allow you to go to school, (Writer retains all rights)<\/em><\/p>\n \n\t\t
\nThere, I threw a glance at something.
\nI threw a glance of agony at him.
\nHis eyes betokened wonted fear, dim
\nAnd dimmer. A semi- and demi-semi
\nUneasy feeling. Then he said to me:
\n\u201cWhat is it you see? Tell me, dear.\u201d
\nIt was a sort of torture in the air
\nAnd a tendency to tell something,
\n\u2013 Anything, definable for the feeling.
\nI gazed dramatically into the face,
\nLess into the eyes. And in measured pace:
\n\u201cWhat do I see?\u201d I said, to gain more time.
\nBut time itself refused to chime.
\nThe wonder was I was wonted to all
\nAmorphous face and fear. That\u2013 was\u2013 all.
\nBut I then murmured, \u201cOh\u201d, and again, \u201cOh\u201d.
\n\u201cWhat is it\u2013what?\u201d he said, but low.
\nFrom eye to nose and back to eye,
\nFrom sigh to tone and back to sigh,
\nFrom lips to mouthing and back to lips,
\nFrom glimpse to gaze and back to glimpse,
\nFrom fear to the figure and back to fear.
\nSo back and forth: Undone, unclear.
\nSupremely so, extremely little else.
\nI rubbed his face with my hand. Now less faceless.
\nAnd I, since I had no good thought to declare
\nTurned the lamp off. \u2013A man, beset by cares,
\nLeft the bathroom, and turned to my affairs.<\/p>\n
\nCrime of featuring two lovers in your poetry,
\nFor that would defile your honor.
\nThe purpose-driven life of having
\nTo choose between two potential lovers\u2013
\nAnd, if not, you attempt some means of suicide
\nOr lock a door behind you
\nAnd set yourself alight.
\n\u2013A poet who then dies tender.
\nYet, your body could not be good tinder
\nTo set alight, a lantern maybe, for dark minds.<\/p>\n
\nAnd you write the world thus:
\nYou won\u2019t allow me to go to school,
\nI won\u2019t become a doctor;
\nRemember this:
\nOne day, you will be sick.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nNo crime if your husband\u2019s brother
\nShaves your head and
\nChops you into pieces, like a duck, or a chicken.<\/p>\n
\nWith a distinctive language and voice.
\nI suppose your God is my sick God,
\nWho\u2019s deaf and dull
\nWhen it comes to the Middle East,<\/p>\n
\nCure your sick nation. You, who are
\nSick of war, sick of writing in stealth;
\nSick of forced lovemaking with someone
\nOld, older than your father!
\nSick of crying Give me water, Give me water.<\/em>
\nAnd no one gives you water, so, you burn.
\nOut, out, young poet!
\nTo-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow
\nWe may <\/em>wonder: why she burnt at all.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nIn one landai, or rubaiyat, or quatrain
\nAddressed to the Taliban, to the world, to you,
\nOr to the West, who tells you to eat
\nTwo kilos of tomatoes
\nTo be cured of cancer!<\/p>\n
\nIn the Himalayan foothills
\nUttering your landai under
\nThe pouring of peace-seeking, peace-bringing bombs,
\nWhile you mouth words into the sky of my sick God,
\nAnd the Taliban\u2019s one-eyed leader is at your back,
\nAnd your coward lover is stealing looks at you
\nFrom a safe distance.<\/p>\n
\nBut I tell you this:<\/p>\n
\nYou won\u2019t become a doctor.
\nBut, one day, they will be sick,
\nMy Afghan poet-martyr.<\/p>\n