Four Poems by Sutputra Radheye
By Sutputra Radheye
Flowers wore burkhas
And sat in rows
To form a bagh
Posts tagged ‘Poetry’
Sep 28
Three Poems by Sukla Singha
By Sukla Singha
Shakuntala Road reeks of stale gerberas and lilies.
It silently awaits July rains, wedding
invitations and dead bodies,
in no particular order.
Poem: A Searing Jeremiad on Water Scarcity from Zehra Nigah
By Raza Naeem
The child laughed a lot watching the peacock dance
As if in those large eyes
Filling all the peacock’s colours
The light beating of the awakened tiny soft palm
Broke the swaying jungle’s calm.
Poem: Home
By Somrita Ganguly
I hear the historians discuss history
I hear the linguists discuss etymology
I hear politicians talk about patriotism and nationalism
And wonder where my allegiance lies
বাংলাদেশ/مشرقی پاکستان/ हिंदुस्तान
Bharat/ India/ Hindustan.
Poem: Partition, 1947
By Varsha Sundriyal
Wives tearing their hair out.
Not sindoor but blood on heads.
Clutching their tattered clothes running for their lives.
Hiding children on their breast shielding them from the bullets.
Poem: Home as Home
By Sourav Debnath
Never have I thought home as home
Until I was dragged out from mine own.
In that unconscious, uncertain turn,
I left my home to burn.
News of Drought
By Man Prasad Subba
With a flick of the remote control
I teleport myself
to an entertainment channel
And to another whisky
On ice
Guest Editorial
By Pooja Garg Singh
In this Café Dissensus issue on Faiz, we bring together essays on Faiz’s life and on his poetry of love and protest. The essays, stories, and poems in the second half of the issue are inspired by Faiz’s poetry.
This stained light, this night-bitten dawn
By Ali Madeeh Hashmi
It has been more than three decades since Faiz’s death in Lahore. “Subh-e Aazadi” remains as relevant as ever, sixty eight years after Pakistan came into being. If anything, the sorrows and agonies of Faiz’s native land have intensified and perhaps this time it is Faiz, like Waris Shah, who is being asked to ‘speak from inside his grave’.
A conversation with Salima Hashmi
By Saba Ahmad
Once Faiz accepted a Sardarji’s offer to inaugurate his shop in London, when I asked him what the shop sold, he had no idea. He just said, “He asked me with so much love, I could not say no, it would break his heart.”
A conversation with Kanwaljit Singh
By Azam & Akbar Qadri
A conversation with Kanwaljit Singh.
Faiz Ahmed Faiz—The defiance of an exile
By Zafar Anjum
I remember Faiz as a poet of love and a poet of protest. In him, I see a lover who is also a revolutionary, a big-nosed man with a hard Punjabi face and smiling eyes, surrounded by curls of cigarette smoke, worrying about the injustices of the world, injustices that come in the way of a lover – rubbish that must be cleared away from the path of love.
Faiz Ahmed Faiz and the Bangladesh Liberation War (1971)
By Mosarrap H. Khan
As an admirer of Faiz and his vision of justice, I have been asking myself: What was Faiz’s particular position on the Pakistani Army repression in East Pakistan which began on 25 March, 1971? What was his view on the East Pakistani resistance that culminated in the death of millions (this number has been contested often and no consensus exists) and rapes of thousands of women?
Faiz: Fire And Silk – Bringing Faiz alive for the contemporary reader
By Vinita Agrawal
For Faiz, separation from one’s beloved is not something that stretches only between the two people involved. Instead it encompasses the entire universe, clings to the stars, ravages the skies, and gores the moon. Faiz has the ability to make metaphors for conditions; for example, hijr or distance is not merely the non-proximity between two lovers but the homelessness of being – the final wandering, the final journey.
And in such myriad ways your memories come to me
By Bhupinder Singh
Faiz was with me as I travelled across countries. The pages of the book turned brown. It accumulated jottings of Urdu words that I did not know the meaning of. The original words became part of my vocabulary. Over the years, I am beginning to forget them again. Sometimes, their meanings come back to me. Sometimes, they don’t.
