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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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Ecuador, the man said and Shahid clapped aghz hands gleefully together. The following is an excerpt from a conversation with Eric Gamalinda that took place in Ali’s apartment in Brooklyn last April.

Even the Rain

For readers both more and less familiar with this painful history, these essays will prove essential reading. That same evening I was scheduled to meet him at his cottage for my individual tutorial.

I innovate on a note-less raga. Academy of American Poets Educator Newsletter. No one has such small hands, Shahid, not agua the rain. A Book of Ghazals.

Book Excerptise: The veiled suite: the collected poems by Agha Shahid Ali

I like your necklace. It makes me sick. In Lahore the chanteuse crooned “Stop the Night” the groom’s request–after the banquet. I’m still alive, alive to learn from your eyes that I am become your veil and I am all you see. I need chunks of time, which can be just one day or two days, but I don’t need to go away to one of those places. This online tribute corresponds with a printed tribute in the spring issue of Rattapallax.


A stray gull cried, but that was not all: I want to be the blackberry rumble, thunder closing in from overhead. One of the classical Arabic musical modes. The language is always urbane, with individual lines and stanzas seldom calling attention to themselves.

He’s brought the desert too. Now I hold the half-inch Himalayas in my hand.

My parents sleep like children in the dark. And I remembered another moment that refers only to itself: He hacks We establish the bond of phrases, the festival goats, dressed in the couplets of Ghalib. Mirror after mirror, textiled by dust, will blind us to our return as we light oil lamps.

On the sea his qasidas stitched seamless in Arabic. And then grant me my generous sense of plot: I recall those sounds of the world, the joy of it all, the toddler whose face was a miracle as she chased her red ball. So what white will the heart wear till the soul is its own blood-filled crystal ruby refuge for a fugitive angel? Entombed at the centre of this soaring edifice lies his mother: His entire presence is imbued with an Indian-ness that transcends political divides.

What comes to your mind when you hear the word exile? Shahid democratically spent one evening socializing with the entire class. He was so much a poet, in point of fact, that the lover get the better of the poet. I want to be faith undressed in a garden full of loose-fitting flowers and overgrown green weeds, unhindered smell of licorice.

I can do that also. Will you, Beloved Stranger, ever witness Shahid — two destinies at last reconciled by exiles? Eager to impress, I showed up at the appointed time, not one second too early or a minute too late.


Agha Shahid Ali

No, for Shahid sex, it seems, had to rhyme. Little girls shouldn’t wander off in search of strange flowers, and they mustn’t speak to strangers.

At an exhibit of miniatures, what Kashmiri hairs! Do your friends know where you are? Kashmir days [Agha’s family] were Shia, who are a shhid amongst the Muslims of Kashmir.

What I say is: As one ghazal couplet puts it: You have to respect your art, your form — that is just as important as what you write about. The contents drained As who should step down from a crystal coach.

World, should Ghalib keep weeping you will see a flood drown your terraced cities, your marble palaces. Mughal ceilings, let your mirrored convexities multiply me at once under your spell tonight. So enter our houses, conquerors, and loems the wine of our mellifluous Mouwashah.

Executioners near the woman at the window. And who is the terrorist, who the victim?

My book’s been burned? In time it became one of the central subjects of his work: The candles go out as travelers, unable to light up the velvet Void. X and Y and I were busy trying to make shahhid 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.