ENREDADA IN زبانوں

Looking up and around in Istanbul. 

Tilework and wall details from Makli Qabristan, a government school in Hyderabad, and Badshahi Masjid in Lahore.

Movement in the city. 

First monsoon in Karachi, Pakistan. 

Anila Quayyum Agha’s installation piece “Walking with My Mother’s Shadow” suspends time, space, and memory. The various shapes hanging from the ceiling are carved with delicately intricate patterns inspired by Islamic geometric art, while contained within hardened cubes and pyramids. Yet, the subsequent shadows projected on every corner of the room are what push the boundaries of these shapes and patterns to create an altogether new experience. Agha’s play on darkness and light allows the visitor to occupy both worlds of fantasy and reality, invisible and visible, simultaneously.  However, this work is not only about pushing boundaries. It concerns the intimate relationships we all have to life’s transformations. Through her art, Agha reflects on the recent loss of her mother and her son’s marriage. The title of the exhibit can, therefore, suggest how memory, darkness, and shadows not only haunt, but also guide us to new ways of experiencing the world.  “These materials appear fragile, but are often resilient, hardy, even stubborn just like sorrow when cut, pushed, pulled, scraped, or sewn together.” - Aicon Gallery, New York City, NY Sources: http://www.aicongallery.com/exhibitions/walking-with-my-mother-s-shadow/press-release | http://anilaagha.com/ | http://www.ricegallery.org/anila-agha/

On backseat car rides, the way home always seemed shorter. Eyelids heavy with sleep, we dreamt the moonlight propelled us. On nights like these, I drive home with my windows down. Cool breeze brushing my arm, craving goosebumps to stay awake.

Your name never told you That it is made of birds, Of gift and blessing. It is made for flight.

Your name makes them want. Asking too many questions, Talk to redeem yourself. It grows bitter on the tongue, Burdensome and flashy.

Your name was once heavy. American friends used it for a slingshot on the playground. It broke on landing, dripping from their mouth Syllables pouring out on the gravel. An introduction in excess. An introduction in ugly. 

I want my love handmade and wholesome, Warm and familiar. I want to devour my love, Greedy and gluttonous. Sick with regret, yet full all the same.

You are of clay: mud and molded; An almond tree bearing its fruit; Not their pillaged jewels, not their Halloween.

You entered like a gust of July through wooden shutters: Warm and worrisome. Your arms gathered the backs of my neck and knees: Swept and spinning. With feet on the ground now, my toes curl, heels find root: Deep and digging.

On April 1st I was determined to participate in National Poetry Writing Month and promised myself to write 30 poems in 30 days. As of April 7th, I am officially 7 poems behind.  Anyways… this poem is about rebelling against Western concepts of time/Gregorian calendar in order to learn more about my roots.