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Pakistan
Shadab Zeest Hashmi is the editor of the annual Magee Park Poets Anthology. She graduated from Reed College in 1995 where she completed “Passage Work”, a creative thesis comprising poems that explore the impact of British colonialism on the culture of her native Pakistan. Her poems have appeared in New Millennium Writings, Hubbub, Poetry Conspiracy, The Bitter Oleander, Nimrod International and Pakistani Literature. Her work has also appeared online, in poetsagainstthewar.org and the online publication of Poetic Matrix. In 2007, she won the Andalusia Prize for Literature, in 2004 she received the Stout Award for one of the poems published in Hubbub and was invited as the Laurie Okuma guest poet at San Diego State University. She won the SAARC medal for literature in 1991. She holds an MFA from Warren Wilson.

Passing through Peshawar
 
 
English version

Passing through Peshawar

I know each poplar and willow of this town,
how telephone wires sag with the weight of belligerent crows,
the Tonga-horses wait at red lights.
I know afternoon shadows on slate verandahs,
the squeaking of a rusted see-saw,

the breaking open of a walnut in a door-hinge;
its embossed shell, a secret cracking;

the winter sun warming the mosque’s marble,
plums sold in crates on the road-side,
corn with salt and lime,
the radio at the tandoor playing
filmi songs, the whiff of Lux soap.

I almost say to you,
Look out the window,
look, look, look!
My library with beetle-eaten furniture,
my raw silk bazaar, my ancient fort!
And look, the bakery that sells pink coconut rolls!
And look, there I used to get my hair cut.


One turn and my town will once again
socket into its timeless hollow
what I remember, what I know.
The bus will pass
all these things
before you click pause on your video game.
It’s Your Marmalade House
 
 
English version

It’s Your Marmalade House

where the goats are the sentries

Tonight’s turnip stew
is burning
while you read a masnavi
lying on a rope cot

I’m on a rickety stool
threatening to break
prayer beads

I break your fountain pen
wipe off the ink on your curtains
and with the celerity of a djinn
climb the roof

causing dusty pigeons to flutter

From here I see kites teasing
fallen feathers
I see our sentries
dozing

Look how my suddenness
has tripped time itself

for the house
was sold
twenty years ago when you died
Guantanamo
 
 
English version

Guantanamo

A guard forces you to urinate on yourself
Another barks out louder than his dog
the names of your sisters
who live in the delicate nest
of a ruby-throated hummingbird
Each will be a skeleton he says

Was there someone who gave you
seven almonds for memory,
a teaspoon of honey every morning?
Cardamom tea before bed?
Someone who starched your shirts
in rice water, then ironed them?
Held your chin
To say the send-off prayer
before school?

You’re tied to a metal coil
And memory
is a burnt wire.