Tags Posts tagged with "kashmir poetry"

kashmir poetry

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Of thoughts divested of the language that narrates them, Of minds and imaginations captured and purged of their dreams, Of painters without hands, dancers paralyzed chest downwards, young who are old, and dimpled faces with smashed smiles, Of having died long before one’s death and continuing to die long after one has died, Of a paradise that’s a hell, Of wanting to scream out but retreating into thickening silence as one remembers the smallness of one’s story, Of the worst smallness, Of a story with no story to tell its readers who have heard it over and over. Suhail Khan has studied International Journalism and Political Science from the University of

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“As night falls on my journey far I find myself at a riverbank. I search my pockets and not a cowry there. What shall I pay for the ferry fee?”   It started with a wedding and ended in a march. In between many innocent souls were murdered ruthlessly on the streets of Kashmir. Love was the chain that pulled and bound many of us, and it also set us free. Love of a belief that refuses to die – a belief in a just world, a belief that people’s power can give impetus to a peaceful process for the

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How is Kashmir, Toru? Dear Toru, my letters to your brother elaborate on how our colony was burnt. Remember our colony, Toru? The man-holes, the electric wires? The transformer would explode every other day.   I’ll let you rummage through the letters once I return. I am gradually getting accustomed to the life in Batanagar.   It is empty, silent, and so poignant in the evenings. The bus takes almost an hour to move from one stop to another.   Things I do to be in the outskirts.   How is Kashmir, Toru? How well have you progressed with Azadi?

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An island of a man Damn he’s cursed Notice the palms of his hands Damn he’s hurt Focus on this man With the color of dirt Sketched in with coal So his skin is scarred with the color of earth Green and vermillion blue A tinge of red and the rest is black hue So from the blackness flew a winged creature With features skewed Screaming a pitched howl with more sadness than most knew If you only knew. * Kosal Khiev Kosal Khiev is a poet, tattoo artist, and survivor of the US prison system. Born in a Thai

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Deep and deep into the woods I would sink; on and on would I walk; till I reach the forest hoods! Shepherd; aah! Be that I could! Taking the sheep, I would move, from noise to less; to tranquility. The welcome note would Coo the Dove; at the brink of the forest, mighty! Sheep the grass, juicy would enjoy; So would I, my moments calm. Under the bower I would coy; In mind of-course, a melodious psalm! At night, my sheep would recline and I would take, to tree trunk; Moon’s sight would slide me to cloud-nine, In peace and

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Crowning his Friday After the disastrous snow Blood-stained his threshing lines Life’s receding billow Will leave him for the eternal calm He is yet to know.   Out from his threads of thoughts there was a window time preserved there, dreams whispered there everything soaked in mourning there every thought of freedom executed there.   Chants of hope tinkling, not knowing about his breathing last. His sighs cried for solitude his resistance frightened the enemy his unknown sobbing died before its rise.   He cried when the guards laughed Only eternity witnessed him His heart bled for freedom and eyes

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“Where art thou?” Kashmir needs a Shahid tonight “O, please free her with poesy,” pleads a Shahid tonight A red path marks the entrance to my home “Come on in, it’s okay,” greets a Shahid tonight There will be silent-shouting words, echoes of words Yet only one bullet makes a Shahid into a shaheed tonight It’s time to give a tongue of fire to shackles All mother’s breastfeed a Shahid tonight Where do these loud, lurid words come from, Ruhan, Does the spirit of an Agha lead a Shahid tonight? * For Agha Shahid Ali on his birthday, posthumously.

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Haqeeqat e Kashmir Dear comrades let us do an exercise / polish this new guise, an exercise in memory / memory will set us free Let us begin, bloodied, let us bathe in memory / it is an urgent decree – before they whitewash us like frescoes of Shalimar / bury our bones under molten tar on which they make goodwill roads / that ease the flow of gun-toting hoards who fill the Rambiarah with their lies / there water with shame forever sighs Let us bloody begin now / I will show you how – I know we are

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By  Shubhrastha Cultivated love withers with weather-ed change. Just as the radios distributed have withered away in rust, in want of signals- that hang limply in desperate search. The tendons of snapped cables, doctored channels, filtered news. News freeze in memory too curfewed to kiss the caskets called brain sockets- just as my neighbor’s blood lies buried under layers of this snowy ‘paradise’ in an awaited wish to unstiffen and thaw. To release bloody tears of ‘special status’ happiness. Can you see the bunkers behind the green paints? Or do you think it’s the lush green valley rosy with bloody

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The Jhelum snakes its way. Silent, silent, ever so silent, through a city cold and beautiful- so red, so red, ever so red.   A city so red from the blood of kin. A city so red from the anger within. A city so red from the love in hearts. A city so red from hearts torn apart.   The Jhelum snakes it way. Quiet, quiet, ever so quiet. So many secrets to keep, so harsh, so harsh, ever so harsh.   A secret so harsh– there are bodies in my heart. A secret so harsh– dead, unknown, none to

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