Agha Shahid Ali (February 4, 1949 – December 8, 2001) was an Indian-born poet, of Afghan and Indian descent, who immigrated to the United States, and became affiliated with the literary movement known as New Formalism in American poetry. His collections include A Walk Through the Yellow Pages, The Half-Inch Himalayas, A Nostalgist’s Map of America, The Country Without a Post Office, and Rooms Are Never Finished, the latter a finalist for the National Book Award in 2001. The University of Utah Press awards the Agha Shahid Ali Poetry Prize annually in memory of this “celebrated poet and beloved teacher.”
Ghazal: CALL ME ISHMAEL TONIGHT
Agha Shahid Ali
Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight?
Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?
Those “Fabrics of Cashmere—” “to make Me beautiful—”
“Trinket”— to gem– “Me to adorn– How– tell”— tonight?
I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates–
A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.
God’s vintage loneliness has turned to vinegar–
All the archangels– their wings frozen– fell tonight.
Lord, cried out the idols, Don’t let us be broken
Only we can convert the infidel tonight.
Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities
multiply me at once under your spell tonight.
He’s freed some fire from ice in pity for Heaven.
He’s left open– for God– the doors of Hell tonight.
In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed
No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.
God, limit these punishments, there’s still Judgment Day–
I’m a mere sinner, I’m no infidel tonight.
Executioners near the woman at the window.
Damn you, Elijah, I’ll bless Jezebel tonight.
The hunt is over, and I hear the Call to Prayer
fade into that of the wounded gazelle tonight.
My rivals for your love– you’ve invited them all?
This is mere insult, this is no farewell tonight.
And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee–
God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.
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CREMATION
Agha Shahid Ali
Your bones refused to burn
when we set fire to the flesh
When would have guessed
you’d be stubborn in death?
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HANSEL’S GAME
Agha Shahid Ali
In those years I lived
happily ever after. And still do.
I played with every Gretel in town
including Gretel, my sister.
I walked into the forest,
trailing moon-sharpened pebbles
and traced back a route
from the grave to the womb
Such stories end happily,
Mother said.
Darling, go out into the world,
the womb’s no place for a big boy like you.
I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t.
She pushed
but I stuck on like gum.
So she baked garlic bread,
she knew I loved it.
And I dropped like a coin
once again into the world.
And again I walked into the forest,
lost in toadstools, thickets, ferns, and thorn,
and Gretel was hungry,
but I threw the bread,
crumb by crumb,
to light my route
from the womb to the grave.
When the moon rose,
the crumbs were gone.
A witch had to be somewhere near.
Well, I knew the ending,
I knew she would end badly,
a big boy now, I knew what witches do:
They drain big boys and ice them
with almonds and thick chocolate.
I didn’t let her, I played innocent.
And Gretel and I lived
happily ever after. And still do:
We have a big ice-box
in our basement
where we keep the witch.
Now and then we take portions of her
to serve on special occasions.
And our old father washes
her blood from the dishes.
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Ghazal: THE ONLY LANGUAGE
Agha Shahid Ali
The only language of loss left in the world is Arabic—
These words were said to me in a language not Arabic.
Ancestors, you’ve left me a plot in the family graveyard—
Why must I look, in your eyes, for prayers in Arabic?
Majnoon, his clothes ripped, still weeps for Laila.
Oh, this is the madness of the desert, his crazy Arabic.
Who listens to Ishmael? Even now he cries out:
Abraham, throw away your knives, recite a psalm in Arabic.
From exile, Mahmoud Darwish writes to the world:
You’ll all pass between the fleeting words of Arabic.
The sky is stunned, it’s become a ceiling of stone.
I tell you it must weep. So kneel, pray for rain in Arabic.
At an exhibition of Mughal miniatures, such delicate calligraphy:
Kashmiri paisleys tied into the golden hair of Arabic!
The Koran prophesied a fire of men and stones.
Well, it’s all now come true, as it was said in Arabic.
When Lorca died, they left the balconies open and saw:
His qasidas braided, on the horizon, into knots of Arabic.
Memory is no longer confused, it has a homeland—
Say Shammas: Territorialize each confusion in a graceful Arabic.
Where there were homes in Deir Yassein, you’ll see dense forests—
That village was razed. There’s no sign of Arabic.
I too, Oh Amichai, saw the dresses of beautiful women.
And everything else, just like you, in Death, Hebrew, and Arabic.
They ask me to tell them what “Shahid” means –
Listen: it means “The Beloved” in Persian, “Witness” in Arabic.
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STATIONARY
Agha Shahid Ali
The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheets, reams
of silver handmade by you.
The night is your cottage industry now,
the day is your brisk emporium.
The world is full of paper.
Write to me.
======
THE WOLF’S POSTSCRIPT TO ‘LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD’
Agha Shahid Ali
First, grant me my sense of history:
I did it for posterity,
for kindergarten teachers
and a clear moral:
Little girls shouldn’t wander off
in search of strange flowers,
and they mustn’t speak to strangers.
And then grant me my generous sense of plot:
Couldn’t I have gobbled her up
right there in the jungle?
Why did I ask her where her grandma lived?
As if I, a forest-dweller,
didn’t know of the cottage
under the three oak trees
and the old woman lived there
all alone?
As if I couldn’t have swallowed her years before?
And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf,
now my only reputation.
But I was no child-molester
though you’ll agree she was pretty.
And the huntsman:
Was I sleeping while he snipped
my thick black fur
and filled me with garbage and stones?
I ran with that weight and fell down,
simply so children could laugh
at the noise of the stones
cutting through my belly,
at the garbage spilling out
with a perfect sense of timing,
just when the tale
should have come to an end.