Poem ‘Talking to Myself’ By Kishwar Naheed (Personal Reviews)

Kishwar Naheed is one of the best known Urdu feminist poets of Pakistan. She was born in Bulandshahr, Uttar Pradesh, India in 1940. Her family moved to Lahore in Pakistan during the the sub-continent of 1947. Kishwar had witnessed violence (including rape and abduction of women) associated with partition. She has published six collections of poems between 1969 and 1990. All her texts are about to redefine the man and woman relationship in the context of female sexuality, politics and social issues.

The poem ‘Talking to Myself’ is about a feeling and dream of a woman who wants to be free. She has a desire to go beyond what the man and this world expected from a woman. In the poem, the persona gives pictures to the readers about pain, misery and oppression that she faced from a person called man. But the most important, this poem purposely gives a sarcastic expression of what tortured and oppressed woman’s feel towards a man. It is based on what the man have done to her. It also tells that the persona can do more than the man expects because she can fight against all bad things that happen to her before and this will give bad effect to the man’s pride.

Poem "My Mother" By Mahmoud Darwish (Personal Reviews)

“My Mother”, another powerful and meaningful poem from Mahmoud Darwish. He was considered to be the most important contemporary Arab poet working today. He was born in 1942 in the village of Barweh in the Galilee, which was razed to the ground by the Israelis in 1948. As a result of his politi-cal activism he faced house arrest and imprisonment. Darwish was the editor of Ittihad Newspaper before leaving in 1971 to study for a year in the USSR. His poems are known throughout the Arab world, and several of them have been put to music. His poetry has gained great sophistication over the years, and has enjoyed international fame for a long time. He has published around 30 poetry and prose collections, which have been translated into 35 languages. He is the editor in chief and founder of the prestigious literary review Al Karmel, which has resumed publication in January 1997 out of the Sakakini Centre offices. He published in 1998 the poetry collection: Sareer el Ghariba (Bed of the Stranger), his first collection of love poems. In 2000 he published Jidariyya (Mural) a book consisting of one poem about his near death experience in 1997.

Katherine Mansfield Biography (1888 - 1923)

New Zealand's most famous writer, who was closely associated with D.H. Lawrence and something of a rival of Virginia Woolf. Mansfield's creative years were burdened with loneliness, illness, jealousy, alienation - all this reflected in her work with the bitter depiction of marital and family relationships of her middle-class characters. Her short stories are also notable for their use of stream of consciousness. Like the Russian writer Anton Chekhov, Mansfield depicted trivial events and subtle changes in human behavior.

"Henry was a great fellow for books. He did not read many nor did he possess above half a dozen. He looked at all in the Charing Cross Road during lunch-time and at any odd time in London; the quantity with which he was on nodding terms was amazing. By his clean neat handling of them and by his nice choice of phrase when discussing them with one or another bookseller you would have thought that he had taken his pap with a tome propped before his nurse's bosom. But you would have been wrong." (from 'Something Childish But Very Natural')

Short Story "Miss Brill" By Katherine Mansfield (Personal Review)

‘Miss Brill’ is a short story written by Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923) - Pseudonym of Kathleen Murry, where by her original name is Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp. She was born in Wellington, New Zealand, into a middle-class colonial family. Her father, Harold Beauchamp, was a banker and her mother, Annie Burnell Dyer, was of genteel origins. She lived for six years in the rural village of Karori. Later on, Mansfield said "I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was, too. But, better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all." At the age of nine, she had her first text published. Later on, she was well-known as the New Zealand's most famous writer and was closely associated with D.H. Lawrence and something of a rival of Virginia Woolf. Mansfield's creative years were burdened with loneliness, illness, jealousy and alienation. Therefore, what comes to my mind that all these have reflected in her work with the bitter depiction of marital and family relationships of her middle-class characters especially in this short story called ‘Miss Brill’.

Arabic Poem "Oblivion" By Ibrahim Naji

At last the cure, I bid farewell to pain,
and welcome with a smile the days to come.
Oblivion comes to me a kingly guest,
with hands compassionate and blessed steps.

My guest comes strongly on,
folding the distances, the dark unknown.
Proffering a cup that takes away
old pain, and banishes all regrets.
So drain it to the dregs and have no fear-
For long you have suffered, your thirst your only drink.
Oblivion now envelops me, and I
thank God for its overwhelming flood,
Surrendering to the waves which engulf me,
happy to embrace a void without memories.

Arabic Poem "The Burning Flute" By Ibrahim Naji

How many times my love
as the night covers the earth
I wander alone, and in the dark
no one complains but me.
I make the tears a tune
and I make the potery a flute
And would a wreck responds
that I inflamed in my ardent love.

Fire stirs in it
and the wind blows away the rest.
How miserable is the flute between
destiny and between fates
He sings and sadly sings
returning my complaints.
Sympathetic from our kept secrets
on the love of innermost secrets
Until a shadow appears.
I have known him in my youth
He comes close to me and he comes close
to the lips of my mouth
And suddenly my dream disapears
and my eyes wake up
And though I went listening and listening
I wasn't familiar but with the echo.

Arabic Poem "The Dream of Infatuation" By Ibrahim Naji

No love but Wherever held a place and I don't see
for me other than that a homeland and a location
My homeland all nights long is his home
As long and as far away he gets,my love is where he stays.
And when inhabited earth embrace us
its moments are populated daily.

No difference between her north and south
as they are bearing greeting to my heart
And they are pressing my knowledge and seldom
time preserves the custody of my heartbloods.
And if I cry, so I cry from the fear
That our infatuation is just a dream
And maybe the significance of our intention.So I cried out
from before we shed the tears from our distance.

Arabic Poem "Farewell" By Ibrahim Naji

Leave me, my love, it's time to part
this paradise is not my portion.
I had to cross a bridge of flame whenever
I visited this land of bliss.
Yet I've been your life-long companion
since earliest youth and your tender years.
But now I come like a transient guest,
and go away like a bird of passage.


Has anyone drunken with love like us,
seen love like we have seen it ?
We built a thousand castles on our way,
Walked together on a moon-drenched road,
Where joy danced and leapt before us,
we gazed at the stars that fell, and we possessed them.
And we laughed like two children together,
ran and raced with our own shadows.
After this nectar's sweetness we awoke -
how I wished it had never been so !
Night's dreams had vanished, the night was ended
the night that used to be our friend.
The light of morning was an ominous herald ;
dawn loomed up like a wall of fire.

Arabic Poem "A Wild Cat" By Suad Al-Mubarak Al-Sabah

Your love lurks in my veins like a bandit
Commits arson, shatters lanterns
And skulks in the corners of my veins
Like a wild cat with sharp claws
Alert to hunt moths
To pounce on birds
And I lie awake at night waiting for it to come forth
From my blood.


You came with your conquering army, and caused an upheaval
That changed my life
You sequestered all my possessions
Bound me with chains of gold
And put me under house arrest
Within the limits of your eyes
You locked me in the cell of love
And took the keys away with you.

Arabic Poem "You Alone" By Suad Al-Mubarak Al-Sabah

You alone . . . control my history
And write your name on the first page
And on the third, and on the tenth,
And on the last.
You alone are allowed to sport with my days
From the first century of my birth
To the twenty-first century after love.
You alone can add to my days what you wish
And delete what you wish
My whole history flows from the palms of your hands
And pours into your palms.

Arabic Poem "Free Harbor" By Suad Al-Mubarak Al-Sabah

Many ships have asked for sanctuary
In the harbor of my eyes
I refused asylum to all of them
Your ships alone
Have the right to take refuge
In my territorial waters
Your ships alone
Have the right to sail in my blood
Without prior permission.

Arabic Poem "Mad Woman" By Suad Al-Mubarak Al-Sabah

I am quite mad and you are wholly sane
From the mind's paradise I've sought to flee
You are all wise, yours are the summer months
So leave the winter's changing face for me.

I'm sick with love and I'm past any cure
Oppressed in body, that is woman's plight
My nerves are taut and should you only whisper
Into the empty air I would take flight.


I'm like small fish lost in the great ocean
When will you lift the siege ? You've hidden away
The key to unlock my house in your own pocket
And enter my life's details day by day.

O love, my passion whirls me dizzily
Gather my scattered soul whose fragments fly
For you are standing at the frozen pole
And I beneath an equatorial sky.

O love, I stand against the ten commandments
History behind is only blood and sand
To love I owe allegiance. Lemon trees
Within your breast my only native land.

Arabic Poem "Shade And Noon Sun" By Muhammad Al-Maghut

All the fields of the world
At odds with two small lips
All the streets of history
At odds with two bare feet.

Love,
They travel and we wait
They have gallows
We have necks
They have pearls
And we have freckles and moles
They own the night, the dawn, the afternoon sun and the day
And we own skin and bones.


We plant under the nooday sun,
And they eat in the shade
Their teeth are white as rice
Our teeth dark as desolate forests,
Their breasts are soft as silk
Our breasts dusty as execution squares
And yet, we are the kings of the world:
Their homes are buried in bills and accounts
Our homes are buried in autumn leaves
In their pockets they carry the addresses
of thieves and traitors
In ours we carry the addresses
of rivers and thunderstorms.
They own windows
We own the winds
They own the ships
We own the waves
They own the medals
We own the mud
They own the walls and balconies
We own the ropes and the daggers.

And now beloved
Come, let us sleep on the pavements.

Arabic Poem "From the Doorstep to Heaven" By Muhammad Al-Maghut

Now,
With the sad rain
Drenching my sad face,
I dream of a ladder of dust,
Collected from hunched backs
And hands clinging onto knees,
To mount to highest heaven

And discover
What becomes of our prayers and sighs.
O my beloved,
All the prayers and sighs,
All the laments and cries for help,
Springing from
Millions of lips and hearts,
Through thousands of years and centuries,
Must be gathered somewhere in heaven,
Like clouds.
And maybe
These words of mine
Are now close to those of Jesus.
So let us await the tears of heaven,
O beloved.

Arabic Poem "To Two Unknown Eyes" By Muhammad Al-Fayturi

Mistress...
Should these enamored words chance to meet your eyes
Or pass between your lips
The forgive me; it was your eyes
In whose shade one evening I leaned resting
And snatched brief slumber
In their repose I caressed the stars and moon
I wove a boat of fancy out of petals
And laid down my tired soul
Gave to drink my thirsty lip
Quenched my eye's desire.


Mistress...
When we met by chance as strangers meet
My sorrow too was walking on the road
Bare, unveiled
With heavy tread
You were my sorrow.
Sadness and loss
Silence and regret
Were embracing a poet consumed by struggle.
For poetry, mistress, is a stranger in my land
Killed by emptiness and void
My spirit trembled saw you
I felt suddenly as if a dagger delved into my blood
Cleanse my heart, my mouth
Prostrated me with soiled brow and supplicating hands
In the shade of your sweet eyes.

Mistress...
If suddenly we meet
If my eyes see those your eyes
High-set, green, drowned in mist and rain
If on the road by another chance we meet
And what is chance but fate?
Then would I kiss the road, kiss it twice.

Arabic Poem "Mailman" By Buland Al-Haidari

O mailman,
What is your desire of me?
I am far removed from the world,
Surely you are mistaken,
For the earth holds nothing new
For this outcast.
What was,
Still is, as it was before.
It dreams,
It buries,
And tries to regain.

People still have their festivals,
And mourning connects one festival with the next.
Their eyes dig in the graveyard of their minds
Looking for some new glory
To quiet some new hunger.
China still has its wall,
A legend once effaced brought back by time.
The earth still has its Sisyphus,
And a rock that does not know
It desires.

O mailman,
surely you are mistaken,
For there is nothing new ...
Return along the path whence you came,
The path that so often brings you.
What is your desire of me?

Arabic Poem "Old Age" By Buland Al-Haidari

Another winter,
And here am I,
By the side of the stove,
that a woman might dream of me,
That I might bury in her breast
A secret she would not mock;
Dreaming that in my fading years
I might spring forth as light,
And she would say:
This light is mine;
Let no woman draw near it.



Here,
By the side of the stove,
Another winter,
And here Am I,
Spinning my dreams and fearing them,
Afraid her eyes would mock
My bald, idiotic head,
My greying, aged soul,
Afraid her feet would kick
My love,
And here, by the side of the stove,
I would be lightly mocked by a woman.

Alone,
Without love, or dreams, or a woman,
And tomorrow I shall die of the cold within,
Here, by the side of the stove.

Arabic Poem "The Pigeons Fly" By Mahmoud Darwish

The pigeons fly,

the pigeons come down...

Prepare a place for me to rest.
I love you unto weariness,
your morning is fruit for songs
and this evening is precious gold
the shadows are strong as marble.



When I see myself,
it is hanging upon a neck that embraces only the clouds,
you are the air that undresses in front of me like tears of the grape,
you are the beginning of the family of waves held by the shore.
I love you, you are the beginning of my soul, and you are the end...
the pigeons fly
the pigeons come down...

I am for my lover I am. And my lover is for his wandering star
Sleep my love
on you my hair braids, peace be with you...
the pigeons fly
the pigeons come down...

Oh, my love, where are you taking me away from my parents,
from my trees, small bed and from my weariness,
from my visions, from my light, from my memories and pleasant evenings,
from my dress and my shyness,
where are you taking me my love, where?
You take me, set me on fire, and then leave me
in the vain path of the air
that is a sin ... that is a sin...
the pigeons fly
the pigeons come down...

My love, I fear the silence of your hands.
Scratch my blood so the horse can sleep.
My love, female birds fly to you
take me as a wife and breathe.
My love I will stay and breasts will grow for you
The guards take me out of your way
my love, I will cry upon you, upon you, upon you.
because you are die surface of my sky.
My body is the land,
the place for you...
the pigeons fly
the pigeons come down...

Arabic Poem "Pride and Fury" By Mahmoud Darwish

O Homeland! O Eagle,
Plunging, through the bars of my cell,
Your fiery beak in my eyes!
All I possess in the presence of death
Is pride and fury.
I have willed that my heart be planted as a tree,
That my forehead become an abode for skylarks.



O eagle,
I am unworthy of your lofty wing,
I prefer a crown of flame.
O homeland!
We were born and raised in your wound,
And ate the fruit of your trees,
To witness the birth of your daybreak.
O eagle unjustly languishing in chains,
O legendary death which once was sought,
Your fiery beak is still plunged in my eye.

Arabic Poem "Passport" By Mahmoud Darwish

They did not recognize me in the shadows
That suck away my color in this Passport
And to them my wound was an exhibit
For a tourist Who loves to collect photographs
They did not recognize me,
Ah . . . Don't leave
The palm of my hand without the sun
Because the trees recognize me
All the songs of the rain recognize me
Dont' leave me pale like the moon!



All the birds that followed my palm
To the door of the distant airport
All the wheatfields
All the prisons
All the white tombstones
All the barbed boundaries
All the waving handkerchiefs
All the eyes
were with me,
But they dropped them from my passport

Stripped of my name and identity?
On a soil I nourished with my own hands?
Today Job cried out
Filling the sky:
Don't make an example of me again!
Oh, gentlemen, Prophets,
Don't ask the trees for their names
Don't ask the valleys who their mother is
From my forehead bursts the sword of light
And from my hand springs the water of the river
All the hearts of the people are my identity
So take away my passport!

Arabic Poem "Psalm 9" By Mahmoud Darwish

O rose beyond the reach of time and of the senses
O kiss enveloped in the scarves of all the winds
surprise me with one dream
that my madness will recoil from you.



Recoiling from you
In order to approach you
I discovered time.

Approaching you
in order to recoil from you
I discovered my senses.

Between approach and recoil
there is a stone the size of a dream
It does not approach
It does not recoil.

You are my country
A stone is not what I am
therefore I do not like to face the sky
nor do I die level with the ground
but I am a stranger, always a stranger.

Arabic Poem "Diary of a Palestinian Wound" By Mahmoud Darwish

We do not need to be reminded:
Mount Carmel is in us
and on our eyelashes the grass of Galilee.
Do not say: If we could run to her like a river.
Do not say it:
We and our country are one flesh and bone.



Before June we were not fledgeling doves
so our love did not wither in bondage.
Sister, these twenty years
our work was not to write poems
but to be fighting.

The shadow that descends over your eyes
-demon of a God
who came out of the month of June
to wrap around our heads the sun-
his color is martyrdom
the taste of prayer.
How well he kills, how well he resurrects!

The night that began in your eyes-
in my soul it was a long night's end:
Here and now we keep company
on the road of our return
from the age of drought.

And we came to know what makes the voice of the nightingale
a dagger shining in the face of the invaders.
We came to know what makes the silence of the graveyard
a festival...orchards of life.

You sang your poems, I saw the balconies
desert their walls
the city square extending to the midriff of the mountain:
It was not music we heard.
It was not the color of words we saw:
A million heroes were in the room.

This land absorbs the skins of martyrs.
This land promises wheat and stars.
Worship it!
We are its salt and its water.
We are its wound, but a wound that fights.

Sister, there are tears in my throat
and there is fire in my eyes:
I am free.
No more shall I protest at the Sultan's Gate.
All who have died, all who shall die at the Gate of Day
have embraced me, have made of me a weapon.

Ah my intractable wound!
My country is not a suitcase
I am not a traveler
I am the lover and the land is the beloved.

The archaeologist is busy analyzing stones.
In the rubble of legends he searches for his own eyes
to show
that I am a sightless vagrant on the road
with not one letter in civilization's alphabet.
Meanwhile in my own time I plant my trees.
I sing of my love.

It is time for me to exchange the word for the deed
Time to prove my love for the land and for the nightingale:
For in this age the weapon devours the guitar
And in the mirror I have been fading more and more
Since at my back a tree began to grow.

Arabic Poem "Identity Card" By Mahmoud Darwish

Record !
I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the nineth is coming after a summer
Will you be angry?



Record !
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks...
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself
at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?

Record !
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew.

My father..
descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather..was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house
is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title !

Record !
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards
of my ancestors
And the land
which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!

Therefore !
Record on the top of the first page:
I do not hate people
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger
And my anger !

Arabic Poem "My Mother" By Mahmoud Darwish

I long for my mother's bread
My mother's coffee
Her touch
Childhood memories grow up in me
Day after day
I must be worth my life
At the hour of my death
Worth the tears of my mother



And if I come back one day
Take me as a veil to your eyelashes
Cover my bones with the grass
Blessed by your footsteps
Bind us together
With a lock of your hair
With a thread that trails from the back of your dress
I might become immortal
Become a God
If I touch the depths of your heart.

If I come back
Use me as wood to feed your fire
As the clothesline on the roof of your house
Without your blessing
I am too weak to stand.

I am old
Give me back the star maps of childhood
So that I
Along with the swallows
Can chart the path
Back to your waiting nest.

Poem "Becoming A Woman" By Hilary Tham (Personal Reviews)

Hilary Tham Goldberg, 58, a poet, painter and teacher who viewed the world from the perspective of a Chinese-Malaysian converted Jewish wife and mother in suburban America. She died in June 24 of metastatic lung cancer at her home in Arlington. Mrs. Goldberg was born in Klang, Malaysia, the daughter of Chinese immigrants, and was educated at a convent school taught by Irish nuns. Her grandmother grumbled that she wasted too much time with her nose in a book, but a high school English teacher urged her to continue reading and to write poetry. She received a master's degree in English literature in 1969 from the University of Malaya and immigrated to the United States in 1971 after her marriage to a Peace Corps volunteer in Malaysia. She lived in New Jersey before moving to Arlington in 1973.



In addition to writing poetry, she did Chinese brush painting. For Mrs. Goldberg, who wrote under the name Hilary Tham, poetry -- and painting, for that matter -- grew out of the closely observed world around her, her daily life and deep relationships and her rich multiethnic heritage. In a 2001 Potomac Review essay, she wrote: "I am a writer, a woman, a blend of many cultures: Chinese-Malaysian by birth, American by love of my husband and Jewish by choice. My identity is trellised on Judeo-western principles and ideals, but my roots delve deep in Chinese lore."
Hilary Tham's "Becoming A Woman" highlight the receiving of maternal wisdom that only women who are going through it. This poem presents various portraits of the transition from childhood to adulthood. This clearly stated in stanza 3 :

“You will bleed
at a special time of the moon.”
she told me. “Use these
to preserve modesty and the secret
of your femalesness.”

Becoming a woman is a rite of passage that starts with the changes of early puberty and ends with a woman's first periods. A girl grows and changes in ways that prepare her to be able to have a baby. These changes occur in certain stages. Gender representation on female clearly take places in this poem. The poet perhaps tell the story within her own experiences on becoming a woman. In stanza 4, the poet told :

Her mother’s way she passed to me
with the few words she had received
at her initiation.

Afterall, it become necessary for a little girl going through this phase; becoming a woman, and it is someone called mother to teached her little child about becoming a woman through her own experienced and from what her late mother’s told her. Then, it becomes a woman responsible, the great responsibilities carry out from generation that men can’t do; give birth. It’s an honour for a woman to give birth and it becomes mother’s responsibilities to carry out their jobs to tell their child especially girl on becoming a woman.

Poem “A Figure Forgotten in Hours Not-of-Need” By Kee Thuan Chye (Personal Reviews)

Another powerful and meaningful poem is by Kee Thuan Chye, “A Figure Forgotten in Hours Not-of-Need”. A little brief about Kee Thuan Chye, he was born on May 25, 1954 in Penang, Malaysia. He was a noted Malaysian dramatist, poet and journalist. Kee graduated from Universiti Sains Malaysia in 1976 and received his masters in drama from England’s Essex University in 1988. Kee served as literary editor and occasional film reviewer for the New Straits Times, arts columnist for Business Times, theater columnist for New Sunday Times, and is now associate editor in charge of the English column, “Mind Our English” for The Star (Malaysia). Other publications featuring his articles and reviews include Asiaweek, Far Eastern Economic Review, and Asia Magazine.



Kee Thuan Chye, “A Figure Forgotten in Hours Not-of-Need” shows that people only totally understand, love and miss their mother when they need her help”. For the speaker in this poem, his mother, up until the point that the poem is written, was no more than a figure. However, the poem itself is an expression of the speaker’s desperation “in helpless moments” when he most understands the figure who had sacrificed so much for him, but whom he had remonstrated in the good times. Spurred on by a poignant sense of helplessness, the speaker ponders his relationship with his mother. He now understands her actions that he once condemned. He says:

You are not the purest of women
but you toiled for your children,
throwing morals coyly to the wind.
How else could we have grown up
with cushioned settees to sit on
and hot cuisine to nourish our hungry souls?

These lines strongly suggest that the speaker’s mother had compromised her morals – engaging in prostitution, perhaps? – to fund her children’s upbringing, the standards of which seemed to be quite high as the words “settees” and “cuisine” insinuate. It is now clear to the speaker that his mother did what she had to do to protect her children from the harsh realities of life. The speaker says:

Now, in helpless moments,
I think of you,
a figure forgotten
in hours not-of-need,
but a comforter of the past
who caught cockroaches with bare hands.

The speaker’s mother caught cockroaches with bare hands, a brave action which the speaker, even as an adult, is still afraid of doing. From a symbolic angle, one can argue that, in the poem, cockroaches represent the filthy realities of life – such as the compromising of one’s morals in order to protect others – which the speaker, unlike his mother, is still unwilling to face as an adult. He says:

And though it’s a sin to grow old
And to lost your dearest treasures,
You stoutly go your humdrum ways
While I curse the drudgery of life.
I am still afraid of cockroaches.

So, it would seem, from this poem, that one’s mother is especially loved, missed and finally understood only when the child is faced by life’s dilemma’s and challenges that the parent had so willingly faced up to all in the name of love for her children. In the last three lines of the poem the speaker laments:

But when I think
how little live I’ve shown you in return,
I sometimes cry.

This poem shows that woman’s sacrifice is more than anything and nothing can be compared with it.

Poem "Censorship" By Kishwar Naheed

Festival Internacional de Poesia de Medeellin/2001

Kishwar Naheed (Pakistan, 1940)

Translated from Urdu to English by
Rukhsana Ahmed

Poem "Censorship" By Kishwar Naheed

In those times when the camera could not freeze
tyranny for ever
only until those times
should you have written
that history
which describes tyranny as valour.



Today, gazing at scenes
transferred on celluloid
one can gauge
what the scene is like
and the sound
when trees are uprooted from the hillsides.

whether you are happy or sad
you must breathe
whether your eyes are open or closed
the scene,its imprint on the mind
does not change.

The trees that stands in the river
alway remain wooden
cannot become a crocodile.

For a long time now;
we have stood
on the rooftops of stories
believing this city is ours

The earth beneath the foundations has sunk
but even now we stand
on the rooftops of stories
assuming life to be
the insipid afternoon's wasted alleyways
with their shattered bricks
and gapping fissures.

Poem "A palace of wax" By Kishwar Naheed

Before I ever married
my mother
used to have
nightmares.
Her fearful screams shook me
I would wake her, ask her
"What happened?"
Blank-eyed she would stare at me.
She couldn't remember her dreams.



One day a nightmare woke her
but she did not scream
She held me tight in silent fear
I asked her
"What happened?"
She opened her eyes and thanked the heavens
"I dreamt that you were drowning".
She said,
"And I jumped into the river to save you".

That night she lightning
killed our buffalo and my fiance.

Then one night my mother slept
And I stayed up
Watching her open and shut her fist
She was trying to hold on to something
Failing, and willing herself to hold on again.

I woke her
But she refused to tell me her dream.

Since that day
I have not slept soundly.
I moved to the other courtyard.

Now I and my mother both scream
through our nightmares.

And if someone asks us
we just tell them
we can´t remember our dreams

Translated from Urdu to English by
Rukhsana Ahmed

Poem "The grass is really like me" By Kishwar Naheed

The grass is also like me
it has to unfurl underfoot to fulfil itself
but what does its wetness manifest:
a scorching sense of shame
or the heat of emotion?



The grass is also like me
As soon as it can raise its head
the lawnmower
obsessed with flattening it into velvet,
mows it down again.
How you strive and endeavour
to level woman down too!
But neither the earth's nor woman's
desire to manifest life dies.
Take my advice: the idea of making a footpath was a good one.

Those who cannot bear the scorching defeat of their courage
are grafted on to the earth.
That`s how they make way for the mighty
but they are merely straw not grass
-the grass is really like me.

Translated from Urdu to English by
Rukhsana Ahmed

Poem "Anticlockwise" By Kishwar Naheed

Even if my eyes become the soles of your feet
even so, the fear will not leave you
that though I cannot see
I can feel bodies and sentences
like a fragrance.



Even if, for my own safety, I rub my nose in the dirt till it becomes invisible
even so, this fear will not leave you
that though I cannot smell
I can still say something.

Even if my lips, singing praises of your godliness
become dry and soulless
even so, this fear will not leave you
that though I cannot speak
I can still walk.

Even after you have tied the chains of domesticity,
shame and modesty around my feet even after you have paralysed me
this fear will not leave you
that even though I cannot walk
I can still think.

Your fear of my being free, being alive
and able to think might lead you, who knows, into what travails.

Translated from Urdu to English by
Rukhsana Ahmed

Poem "Talking To Myself" By Kishwar Naheed

Punish me for I've written the significance of the dream
in my own blood written a book ridden with an obsession
Punish me for I have spent my life sanctifying the dream of the future
spent it enduring the tribulations of the night



Punish me for I have imparted knowledge and the skills of the sword to the murderer and demonstrated the power of the pen to the mind
Punish me for I have been the challenger of the crucifix of hatred
I'm the glow of torches which burn against the wind
Punish me for I have freed womanhood from the insanity of the deluded night
Punish me for if I live you might lose face
Punish for if my sons raise their hands you will meet your end
If only one sword unsheathes itself to speak you will meet your end
Punish me for I love the new life with every breath
I shall live my life and shall doubly live beyond my life
Punish me for then the sentence of your punishment will end.

Translated from Urdu to English by
Rukhsana Ahmed

Poem "We Sinful Women" By Kishwar Naheed

It is we sinful women
who are not awed by the grandeur of those who wear gowns
who don't sell our lives
who don't bow our heads
who don't fold our hands together.



It is we sinful women
while those who sell the harvests of our bodies
become exalted
become distinguished
become the just princes of the material world.

It is we sinful women
who come out raising the banner of truth
up against barricades of lies on the highways
who find stories of persecution piled on each threshold
who find that tongues which could speak have been severed.

It is we sinful women.
Now, even if the night gives chase
these eyes shall not be put out.
For the wall which has been razed
don't insist now on raising it again.

It is we sinful women
who are not awed by the grandeur of those who wear gowns
who don't sell our bodies
who don't bow our heads
who don't fold our hands together.

Translated from Urdu to English by
Rukhsana Ahmed

Poem "How Crazy Are Those Who Love You So Much" By Kishwar Naheed

With words of chastity he adorned my hands,

chained my feet like prisoners,

and called it modesty.

How sweet and pleasant it sounds,



like a diamond,

like the gleam of a knife!

He says: What more can you ask for?

Walls of marble, clean and shining

to keep you safe. The gold lock and chain

on big, solid black mahogany doors

at least show that it's all for you,

for your security, for your love.

How lovingly and hopefully built,

this home full of ideals and dreams!

It's been tested with screams,

making sure that if a sound

dare penetrate some crevice

it will turn to foam, exhausted,

and nothing will get through.

Tenderly, for you, for your love

this home, this throne, these marble walls.

All for you, my dear,

all because I love you!

Short Stories "Sea of Memories" Written By Via!

This story was writen for the enchanted ages of 6 and over

Once in France on a beautiful beach I did live with my family and of course my Bestfriend Catrina. I, at the time of my birth, was named after my mother's Aunt for she had loved her Aunt dearly and she loved me dearly as she still does for I was her first and only daughter, her only baby girl. And the name of both me and my great aunt was and still is Alesha.



I will be remembered for that name for the rest of my life and even after I die I shall still hold that name with respect. That is what I tell everybody I know or have known, because that is my hope and dream. Just to simply be remembered as myself and for people to remember me for my kindness and acts of love and friendship that my soul has beheld to the ones that I have loved over my life span.
''Hello, Catrina, my dear friend,'' I said cheerfully to Catrina one summer day. For I was eager to play with her on the beach that particular day, for it was my birthday and my mother said I could do as I wished, and I had planned to... It has been many years since that event but it is only now that I have had the courage to write this down for the first time. And as I look at these fresh clean pages of my note book with a scent of ink that I dip my feather pen into upon my desk, I'm beginning to feel a tingle of courage shooting up my spine. Almost as if lightning's shooting across the night sky lighting it up, the stars acting as a million candles shining down upon me in an open field in the middle of a forest with animals and streams and lakes surrounding me... The sound of water flowing triumphantly over boulders which block it.

I will now tell you what I did in a yesteryear, partly because I take joy in telling you new things that have not been heard among the world, to share my adventures with you as you read this, but the following sentiment is what motivated me: Simply to remember my friend Catrina for her kindness and good deeds that she beheld to me during my childhood. In return for mine.

I will begin my story, and you can have my word and trust me when I give you my word because even I consider myself a faithful and a truthful person. I'm truthful because I trust others to tell me the truth, and I want to let people know my respect for them so they will have equal respect for me as most people would want. Anyway enough with the boring rubbish. That's not the exciting story you have chosen to read, that is simply the everyday life and the everyday person's requests and wishes, and they just happen to be mine, one of billions of personalities, and you do not want to read that knowing from my life and knowing simply that that is not something that I would want to read and I have read some pretty borin' stuff and as I have already said I am truthful so I guess I will tell you my story now and I hope that you enjoy it!!! --

My feet hit the sand and it slipped between my toes slightly as I ran out as fast as possible greeting Catrina as she ran towards me. "Hello," we both shouted at the top of our voices, smiles stretched across our faces like on a carved pumpkin. My eyes squinted from the sun as we embraced each other with a small hug of joy and friendship and as I halted to a stop my hair bounced on my back and a tingle of joy ran up my slight and thin bones.
"I can't believe I'm already twelve!'' I cried out. Catrina was one year older than me but she was happy for me as any true friend would be. I was just as mature as she so I was just as happy for her on days when she rejoiced for good fortune. Then we started running briskly towards the ocean holding hands and my hair streamed behind me in the wind, my legs carried me as fast as they could and my feet hit the sand very lightly; my legs lifted them before I really had a chance even to put my feet down. I dragged Catrina behind me then she became a small bit faster and caught up to me, I glanced over into her hazel eyes and we both looked at each other, my large green eyes sparkled as the sunlight hit them, a strand of blond hair lightly flew into my eyes and so with my free hand I stroked it back into its rightful place behind my ear, I still looked into her hazel eyes her chestnut hair hanging down and her silken bangs were tied back in a pink fluffy bow that had been tied earlier in the morning.

That day I had on a blue sunbonnet and a matching dress Mama had sown just for the occasion. My feet numbed slightly as they touched the fresh salt water

"It's cold," I mumbled to Catrina in a soft voice, my eyes still fixed upon her own, she nodded slightly and then we sat down and the water washed up again and saturated us

"I'm soppin' wet," said Catrina shyly. She giggled, felt her garment and then fixed her eyes upon me. She stood up and I reluctantly and timidly followed her. We frolicked in the ice cold waves which slightly heated from the suns powerful rays, for about an hour we continued this activity and we filled that time with happiness and loving talk! ...And then we started to swim in the clear blue waters of the sea. Then suddenly the waves swept our petite bodies out into the middle of the ocean leaving me in a state of shock.

The next thing I was conscious of I was drowsy, disoriented, and laying on a bed of rock. Catrina who had been conscious for the whole time we were in the water, was sitting next to me. She had the right corner of her damp garment on my head to help wake me and leave me in a state of full consciousness like herself. She was playing mother to me as she did often in times like this not that these things were frequent but the few times that small things like this did happen she was always protecting me for she was slightly older. We were still in the middle of the sea but we were on a rather large rock with seaweed and mussels growing around it. Probably was from an eruption of an under water volcano or something.

"After the waves escorted us as far as the strong tide would, I grabbed onto your hand and brought you up to the surface with me. Then I swam as fast as I was capable of swimming and after a long time period of doing this and bringing you to the surface frequently for breaths of air I came across this rather large rock and brought you up for air one final time before coming to this rock to rest for the time being, and that is when I started into my own fit of panic..." Catrina generously continued, breathless from telling me what had happened in my absence from the world as I lay in a state of shock. ''What fit of panic?'' I inquired, not recollecting this incident.

Catrina continued, ''I just had given you mouth-to-mouth which slightly disgusted me. You still hadn't awakened. You were breathing and you coughed up some water but your eyes didn't open. I almost felt that I would faint I was so worried not only because you still hadn't risen but because we were here, in the place we are now and not home on the shore of the beach out there..."

She paused for a moment not to hesitate at all but because she was thinking to herself about all this or maybe just looking for something to say. Maybe she was worried. I do not know myself even though I was with her that summer day and as this conversation was going on the sun was filtering down though my few strands of wet, blond, silken hair covering my eyes.

Well anyway I will go on with my story now for I don't want you to get bored listening to this but I want you to be intrigued listening to the dictates of what happened to me that day as you read this like it was... "...like we truly should be," said Catrina finishing her thought and she pointed over to the distant edge of the water far away from the place we had migrated to in the last few hours, one tear rolled down my cheek not visible to my elder friend for my hair was covering it but then I took my hand and pushed my hair out of my eyes also wiping away my tear. I did not feel as brave as I normally did. I felt sad, but despite that I also felt glad to be with my friend and not alone and I tried to look on the bright side of things but that was hard for I did not see too many bright things to be looked upon on this occasion.

I faintly smiled and put my head on my dear friend's lap comfortably which made me feel a little better. Then Catrina, highlighting her motherly air, stroked my head and looked on into the blanket of mist that persisted over the beautiful sea. The rock we were upon was the gathering place of sea life looking for food, a play mate, or a family member to comfort him. And it was also a place where we could rest until we found a way to get home, we would have to think of something brilliant, but what was the question we asked our selves solemnly in our innocent and somewhat playful minds...

The sun was far from set I must tell you, and the day was still young and plenty of time was left for us to think of our plan even though we were hoping to get home early and we would, sorry for telling you but that will not ruin the story for you because it can't, the way we discovered to get home is the most important part of the story, anyway on with it.

The large rock was simply the place that the seagulls did rest and the dolphins jumped high and the fish and whales did gather. It was simply a large rock with crevices and a rather flat top, good for nesting birds, and other sea life to gather for food. There were many fish for food and literally tons of salt water, also it was not more than two miles away from the shore so birds could fly there as the townspeople gathered to throw bread and crumbs for the dainty little birds, or when they had picnics and left behind tidbits of their food.

I, myself being a normal teenage girl at the time, was quite terrified at being stranded in the ocean sitting on a rock in wet clothes although at times I felt like my faithful companion was happy like this. I was most of the time an optimist and made the best of serious situations but in this one I must admit I was temporarily being a pessimist to my slightest surprise. Don't blame me for my misfortunes, but your expectations must not be too high upon me at this certain time period which lasted for a rather short time. The situation was not one normally found each day continually or even just periodically, I doubt any other person has been in this situation before. It was just my normal instinct that any girl taught properly, would act. And although I might not have been exactly proper at times, I still was at the least normal. I'm sure if you were under these same circumstances you would have acted as I did. Catrina, who was acting as a temporary optimist, was normally not one but a pessimist, not in a bad way, but she often was frightened and complained about things when I was making the best of the same circumstance. As I observed to myself later in my life we had switched personalities for the time being. I thought that inside she might be thinking those same frightened and discouraged feelings that I was, that she was scared just as I, but pretending to be happy, not only to conceal her fears to me but also to conceal them from herself. I am still not sure of any of this after all those years have passed by and all of those years I have asked myself more questions about this incident, merely because you can never be sure of something that someone else thinks, or feels, even if you think you know someone from the middle of your heart. Of course you don't have to believe my words for You are entitled to your own opinion in things as I, and you can't say I'm wrong but I can't say you are either because we can all think what we think. But I don't want to bore you with all this so I will go on with my story as it truly happened, you may trust me when I tell you this for this is the truth that I tell you and it is actually what happened to me and no one can deny that and if they do that doesn't stop me from knowing what I know for I will always know that what I tell you is the truth and nothing else it is simply like I say it like the words that come out of my mouth and I will swear on a stack of Bibles piled up to the sky if I will have to in order to make you believe my story. I will go to great lengths if I must.

Well, anyway, I sat there with Catrina talking about a way to get home for the longest time span you could imagine and It seemed even longer than it truly was for when you are stranded, I'll put it this way, Time doesn't exactly go by quickly. We could not swim all that way again for two reasons, a rather ticklish possibility was that we would run, Correction SWIM in to packs of sharks rather quickly and if not that happened then chances were the tide would probably just take us back to where we had been escorted to the last time we had gone swimming in the cold blue water earlier that day in the morning shortly after the sun had risen from the depths of the water before drowning under the sea again in the wondrous night.

We didn't know what we would do. Are choices were slim. As we thought and thought a wooden board floated by slowly. I jumped into the deep water as I saw it out of the corner of my eye. I started to sink but reached up and grabbed on to the board.

"I've got it!" I quickly spit out along with some unwanted water. "What is it Alesha?" asked Catrina excited that her dear friend might have an idea to get both girls back safely to their home on the beach. "Why don't you see if the board can fit us both, we'll get a, a, some sort of paddle and float back," I said.

The board was clearly just a piece of an abandoned boat or something of that sort; Catrina cried out one word describing exactly what her friend's plan was and the word was this, "Brilliant!!!"

Catrina plucked seaweed off the rock and handed it gently to me. I carefully wedged the weed around and between the small cracks of the board so no water would seep through. Then we needed to find a board to paddle with. A grin was stretched across my damp face as I made the board stronger and safer to use for the particular use I had grabbed it for. As I did this Catrina thought of how to fashion a paddle. "Catrina, I'm done, do you have a paddle yet?" I asked calmly.

"Nope, still thinkin'." she answered a minute or two later. She walked to the other end of the rock. She disappeared for a moment, and then sat down near the edge of the rock again. She took a dead clam shell left behind by a sea gull and attached one side to one thin, yet strong stick with slippery sticky weeds it worked like glue. Catrina handed one to me then started on another one for her self.

"Where did you find sticks like this?" I said examining mine carefully.

"There were two abandoned nests, and I wedged a few sticks out." mumbled Catrina, being careful not to look up from her meticulous work.

She presented the second paddle to me saying, "Would you hold my paddle while I climb on?"

"Yes, of course," I said calmly holding the board steady for my friend. When her already outstretched foot touched the board, she skidded forward and then put her hands down to stop her from falling off the board. "Guess I slipped," giggled Catrina through laughter which faded into forced laughter, and then into oblivion.

We glanced at each other's grins on both of our faces now Catrina lay down extra sticks from the birds nests and looking down at her pale hand and then up at me again she questioned me saying, "Ready?"

"Sure," I responded. I stretched out my left hand which had a paddle in it, she stared for a moment, and then she looked at my arm, followed it down, saw my hand, and reached for the object I clutched in it. She took the paddle and we started to row slowly the water rippled slowly as our paddles hit the water.

Not much was to be said on our journey back but unfrequent remarks like, "It's lucky you thought of this," and "The suns so bright today." Or "I can't wait till I see such and such next."

We paddled for an hour longer and then we reached the shore of a beach, I recognized the beach, but it was not our home. I didn't no where I recognized it from. We sat there for a minute or two while I thought. Then it all came back to me. I had almost forgotten it, but I still had it in the back of my head. When I was not more than two years of age I had been walking and was separated from my Mama. I waited for her yet no one came but a girl her name was Alexandra and she took me home after I spent the night with her this was where I had been. I told this to Catrina and I manually turned around the board. Catrina helped me up on the board again and we slowly paddled until we came to a string of about I houses we kept going on I glancing from the corner of my eye over at all the cabins, shacks, and houses of different sizes.

Finally I blurted out, "That's your house!" in joyful discovery. We rejoiced to see something we both knew, and we knew we were safe at long last. Catrina's house came before mine. I heard the familiar buzz of hummingbird wings flapping rapidly as they sucked pollen out of Catrina's honeysuckle flower's she planted when she turned 13 in August. A tingle of joy went up my spine and a smile was stretched across my tanned face. My back was slightly sun-burned but now I was myself again and on a normal basis.. I was optimistic again.

My eyes squinted to protect them from the strong rays of the sun. Catrina and I held hands and frequently we glanced at one another. We let the board float merely because we were drowsy and lazy and, well, it was more convenient for us. We were a few houses down from mine. The water was shallow and I looked down to see my reflection in the water. I combed through my tousled hair with my fingers and washed my face with the cool water I stood up and shook the sand out of my garment. I put my sun bonnet on my head and tied it in a fluffy bow under my chin. I saw a fly and cupped in my hand, I stretched my arm as far is would go and let go the fly and it flew off in pursuit of another person to bother and bore like it had me.

A young tot not old enough to talk, but on the verge of walking, with its mother walked into the house in a pretty flowered dress. She pointed to the board with us sitting on it. She stared intently at us. I raised my finger to my mouth giving her the signal to quite down, and not to draw attention to them. The small girl put her finger down, and filled a bucket with wet sand. Calm as could be she then put the bucket upside-down to form a turret on a sand castle. From the next house a pitiful brunette woman, apparently a mother, sat down a tot the same age as the first who was determined to knock down the turret of the sand castle.

I splattered water on Catrina's face for she refused to wake herself from a state of drowsiness.

"What is it!" she said unpleased and impatient.

"We're back. Straighten your hair, re-tie your hair ribbon, shake off the dust from your dress." I complained, angry that she was acting so lazily. She rubbed her eyes and looked at her gleaming and glimmering reflection in the cold sea water. She cupped her hand and splattered her face with the water, rippling the reflection distorting her face slightly. She shook the sand from her dress and hastily she combed though her hair and re-tied her ribbon as I had just previously recommended.

I whispered in Catrina's ear, "This will be OUR secret. Ok?"

She clasped her hands around my ear and whispered, "Ok."

We embraced each other in a hug of joy and then let go smiling at each other in happiness. We climbed off the board and into the water, my feet were numbed slightly and I was unsure of it all. Catrina and I decided to drag the board into the back yard of my small, yet cozy, and comfortable house. Once more I checked my reflection in the water and then I opened the door to my house. Catrina stood outside tidying her messy hair busily. I headed for Mama and Papa's bedroom for Mama always took an afternoon nap and this was the perfect time to wake her. She would be groggy and do any thing to go back to sleep yet she liked to be awoken better than being disturbed when she was doing her art or other work.

I pushed open the door Mama lay stretched on the single bed in the room, a book on her chest. It was titled, "One Hundred Art Masterpieces." Mama wore a white petticoat and skirt over her corset and pantaloons. The yellow dress she had been wearing was sitting on the night stand waiting for her when she awoke along with perfume and lip gloss. I closed the door behind me and walked towards the bed. I turned off the night light and opened the curtains of the window, light streamed down on Mama.

"Wake up, Mama!" I said.

"What is it darling?" said mama with her French accent. She removed the book from her chest and yawned. "Here, come sit by me," she said sweetly patting a place next to her.

I sat down on the bed and asked in my nicest voice "I was wondering can I, can Catrina stay for the night. since it's my birthday. Just this one time?"

"Catrina is as welcome as you are in this house," said Mama. "Thank you so much, Mama," I sang merrily and I left the room closing the door behind me gently. After I left Mama lounged around in her bedroom leisurely not hurrying herself. Back to the story. I ran out in front of the house

"You can stay, Catrina!!!" I told her joyfully.

"Good!" she yelled out in amazement. We played on the beach and frolicked in the water until Mama called us in for dinner at sunset.

"What are we having to eat?" I questioned her as I seated myself in a chair at the table, my clothes were dry at last.

"Mashed potatoes and orange juice and a garlic roll," said Mama, cheerfully laying down the food. Mama ate quickly and excused herself, putting her plate on the counter. She went outside with her sketch pad and painted the sea. Then she came inside again and collected the plates and washed them slowly in the sink. Catrina and I stayed up until dawn talking and then we almost fell asleep during breakfast but the sea air streaming against our worm cheeks woke us as Mama opened the window half way and sat next to Papa.

Oatmeal was served shortly after that since Mama knew it was my favorite thing to eat for breakfast, and my parents slowly sipped their hot cups of coffee as I joined Catrina in our first sip of herbal tea. I looked out the window to see a bird swoop by and pick up a small jellyfish in his talons, he then swooped back up in the sky and flew into the distant sun making him invisible to our eyes as we watched calmly in disarray. I looked down again at my food and placed the full spoon in my mouth looking at it in sheer distaste, "Something wrong, my darling?" asked Mama politely to me.

"No, Mama," was my prompt answer as I shoveled the food into my mouth and swallowed it down.

"Don't be in such a hurry," reassured Mama calmly as she stared at me with a look that said, "Eat calmly darling, we have a guest!"

I of course paid no attention the first time but as she kept on giving me that look, I stopped and gave a look to her saying, "Ok, you won." And I started to slowly raise the spoon to my hungry mouth as Mama propped her up and ate her last bite of food. Then she disappeared into her bedroom and changed from her nightgown into a pale blue dress that almost matched the color of the ocean which lay just out the door and a sweater was in her thin arms. She cleared the table and washed the dishes and then went out for her morning walk along the beach which helped her get inspirations for paintings and also she just felt it was calming which it was.

Catrina listened to the wind whistle and sat in a corner next to the house as we played our favorite game. I was a princess and she was my mother. We made up rules and other such things while we played, so each game had an aura of surprise.

"Come dear, Catrina." a voice rang out. Catrina turned her head and saw her mother. "Can I stay for just a little bit longer?" she asked.

Catrina's mother shook her head and gave an expression that said "No!"

Her glaring eyes convinced Catrina that she had to go that very moment so Catrina and I exchanged a glance meaning clearly, "Mothers!"and we embraced each other in a hug saying goodbye, but it was also more than this, 'cause she whispered in my ear, "I had a great time, sorry I have to leave but, well, you know, parents."

She let go and I gave her a reassuring, "Uh huh," before it was too late.

"See ya sometime," called Catrina as her mother dragged her through the sand reluctantly.

"Use proper English next time!" scolded Catrina's mother as she trotted off. I sighed, and then appreciated my mother for not doing that to me. "I was worried sick about you last night!" scolded Catrina's mother.

"Sorry, I won't do it again." apologized Catrina.

Well, I should say not!" said Mrs. DeClare, squeezing Catrina's arm tightly and glaring down at her with disgust.

"Bye!" I shouted across the beach to my dear friend being dragged off into the distance. She just glanced back, her eyes rolling till they turned almost white completely. A sigh came from her mouth and that was the last I could hear.

I looked solemnly at my friend 'til she vanished into her house, then I ran into my own and that's when I realized how lucky I was having my family which loved me so much and a friend like Catrina to trust. Life to live and adventure to seek. I realized nothing would stop me from being what I choose. So, ever since then, I've lived my life like I've chosen and not how others wanted me to be. To this day I still remember it as my birthday, my favorite birthday, full of adventures and I was with my favorite people on my favorite beach living my life as myself and nothing more. Just the way I've always wanted it!!!"

The End

Poem Love's Ghost By Voltairine deCleyre

Among the leaves and the rolls of moonlight,
The moon, which weaves lace on the road-white
Among the winds, and among the flowers,
Our blithe feet wander --life is ours!



Life is ours, and life is loving;
All our powers are locked in loving;
Hearts, and eyes, and lips are moving
With the ecstasy of loving.

Ah! the roses! they are blooming;
And the June air, throbbing, tuning,
Sings of Love's eternal summer--
Chants of Joy, life's only Comer;

And we clasp our hands together,
Singing in the warm, sweet weather;
Kissing, thrilling with caressing,
All the sweet from Love's rose pressing.

Ah, so easy!--Earth is Heaven,--
Darkness, shadows, do not live;
Like the rose our hearts are given,
Like the rose whose bloom is given,

To the sun-gold, and the heaven.
Not because it wills or wishes,
But because 'tis life to give.

Poem Hurricane By Voltairine deCleyre

The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore;
Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun;
The sea complains, but its great voice is low.



Bitter thy woes, O People,
And the burden
Hardly to be borne!
Wearily grows, O People,
All the aching
Of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn!
But yet thy time is not,
And low thy moaning.
Desert thy sands!
Not yet is thy breath hot, Vengefully blowing;
It wafts o'er lifted hands.

The tide has turned; the vane veers slowly round;
Slow clouds are sweeping o'er the blinding light;
White crests curl on the sea--its voice grows deep.

Angry thy heart, O People!
And its bleeding
Fire-tipped with rising hate!
Thy clasped hands part, O People,
For thy praying Warmed not the desolate!
God did not hear thy moan:
Now it is swelling
To a great drowning cry;
A dark wind-cloud, a groan, Now backward veering
From that deaf sky!

The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths,
The whirled-White sand heaps with the foam-white waves;
Thundering the sea rolls o'er its shell-crunched wall!

Strong is thy rage, O People,
In its fury
Hurling thy tyrants down!
Thow metest wage, O People.
Very swiftly,
Now that thy hate is grown:
Thy time at last is come;
Thou heapest anguish,
Where thou thyself wert bare!
No longer to thy dumb.
God clasped and kneeling.
Thou answerest thine own prayer.

Poem Sleep Watcher By Lance Blake

Shake dreams from your head, my love
You wear sleep like a gown
Cool skies soar above the wind
As you lie in your place of rest



Your blankets cover your beauty like a shadow
Love fills my heart as you smile in your sleep
Dreaming of symphonies filled with white music
And the life that you lust for

Are you ready?
The movie of your mind is about to start
Showing soft petals fall in the rain
And special friends singing your name

I reach out to you with my love
Hoping that it will make it through your garden of dreams
I do not want to intrude on your slumber
But you must know that I love you

I want to sing to you of my love
But, the lyrics to my song elude me
So, you must settle for my heart
It is all I have to offer

When you awake, tell your mother you are my girl.

copyright 1998 Lance Blake

Poem Long Ride Home By Lance Blake

The foggy road unfolds before me
Into the dark tomorrow
Objects blurr by
As we turn into a new direction



Other worlds blow past
Aren't we going fast,now
Stop ourselves from this
Dark field of dispair

A shammin chants in my head
Guilding me to the missing
Temptations bring me back
To the wants already found

I swear this road has broken
But it still grows on forever
Showing dfferent faces
Living lives you will never know

The lights are brighter here
This ride is closing rapidly
And what can I do about it?
Nothing, we're home.

copyright 1998 Lance Blake

Poem Street Fiddler By Julia Vinograd

A young black fiddler
naked except for a gold lamé loincloth
blowing in the wind, semi-egyptian,
and heavy anklets of morris bells
high stepped his way down the avenue
jaunty hip by step and turn.
And I expected to see King Tut
tut-tutting after him.



But no one gave him more than a glance
and a nod for the fiddle work.
And suddenly I didn't want to know why.
I didn't want the fiddler to be a balancing act
between silly and a tarot card
like so much of the street.
I didn't want hungry meanings to curl around this smile
like mosquitoes.
I didn't want to see someone following him
in ordinary time passing out flyers
about a band or a rally or a reason.
I've had too many explanations;
it's like strangling in health food.
I didn't even want a poem
he was complete in himself.
He came from nowhere, he was lovely and he's gone
cradling his old fiddle against his young neck.

Poem "House By The Side of the Road" By Samual Walter Foss

THERE are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.



Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Poem Harbor Boulevard By Kurt Nelson

There was this prostitute who worked
off of Harbor boulevard,
She was missing the foot from one leg,
I imagined this made her work difficult,
But she seemed confident,
Grating, tar soaked voice
Street con abruptness,



"You wanna party" she kept asking,
as she struggled along side,
on noisy crutches,
I gave her a five spot to make her go away,
not a sympathy five,
it was a bribe,
a blackmail,
She rolled me and I ate it with a smile,
What skill,
What grace,
And wit,
She cheated a five with sickness,
I'd give you a piece of my soul,
for ten.

Poem Beauty Goes On Without (Part I) By Kurt Nelson

There is a path to the southeast of here,
It's well worn and tended in my memory,
Its red clay cut deep into green rises and shallows,
Wasting not a glance before ducking out of my sight,
I would watch… harmless beneath a stand of cottonwood.


Its scent, I recall, was blunt and warm,
Beneath April and other months of bloom,
It would fill my lungs with greetings, and embraces,
Fill my heart with longings and aspirations
Offer redemption to my equitable corruption.

And now, quick along furtive switchbacks,
It would climb tight, through stubborn scrub,
I would take it in through my blurry recollection,
As it breaks clear beside a silent creek fed pool,

I would hold my breath to take in the noise,
Of the silent world on all sides,
And fall in love under a veil of thistledown,
Caught in the commotion of God.

There is a path to the southeast of here,
I have not seen nor trusted its guide for some time,
But, I am sure, it is well worn and tended.

Poem Floating Away By George E. Neilson

They suddenly feel the rush of Wind,
the Force of which
not likely to descend;



Cool, silent, faithfully Pale,
the sheet of Water,
the Keel, sets it's Sail.
Anger, Trust or utter demise,
the Sailor turns bow
against the Rise - -
toward Shore, toward Beach,
Away to float!

The distant call of younger Day,
the solemn reminder of the Grey;
pent with relief,
goaded by Pain, the Mast
bends stronger to the Stay.

On Land the foot holds
to stable things;
On Sea the bird may take to Wings;
dance on air and drift with pride,
only the Strenght is on his side!

The Truth of old established Times,
hold fast to those who know
the Everlasting rhymes;
The Infinite Testimony
for better Crimes !

Poem Perfection By Elana Alice Pane

Exhausted and in pain
a new kind of tired
tired only i can feel
feelings i only know
i sit and watch you marvel at my existence
can you not see that mine is just as ordinary
mine is just as pointless as you feel your is
my reality is twisted and tainted
my soul is tired and scourged
being pulled in every direction
except where i want to go



dragged and fighting in every direction
where all of you want me to go
maybe you know what is best for me
maybe you can decipher the truth
maybe i am your disciple
as your example the flaws of my youth
tempting me to no longer be humble
as you make yourself lower than i
making me feel exalted
as i do what i think to be right
i wish sometimes they wouldn't see me
and wonder at my ways
to them i seem like an enigma
but really i am just the same
i feel pain and love
wrath and warmth
yet you treat me as I'm invincible
the conqueror of all that is wrong
yet i see in myself such a weakness
unable to be overlooked
why can't you notice my weakness
and why don't you make me feel low
help me to get past my weakness
by disgracing all that i know
for all i want is perfection
something you cannot conceive
all that i want is perfection
that you won't help me receive
your blindness is making me weaker
it is scourging and tempting my soul
making my life full of chaos
forcing me back in control
to be your picture of perfection
your vision on a pedestal of lies
making me appear perfect
but only through your pathological eyes
there are some who see these weaknesses
and do decide to make me pay
because they are the perfection
i long to achieve someday
but i know that i never will
never break free of my chains
never will you berate me
so i may learn and change my ways
never rip me down enough
to make me lose all of my pride
to make me finally feel humble and make me feel low inside

Poem Pillar of Salt By Elana Alice Pane

Torment, on a river of deceit
I close my eyes and you take me away to a special place
away from my attackers
to a heaven above
Gliding in air immaculately clean
free of love and pain
where nothing rules my heart
no lust no obsessions
no chains no rules
no him only you
only us,



our souls and minds intertwined
a higher being than ourselves
taken away to a better place
above the heavens and sea
never turning back to the hell behind us
the lives we have always known
our secret unexpressed not lived desires fulfilled
shared together as one
we are one in the same mind and in body
but i must look back
i have too much to lose
only looking back to become a pillar of salt
i cannot resist
i cannot look forward with out looking back
all that is left of me,
no more than a pillar of tinged salt
tainted with the mud of damnation
Impure and ravaged
naked and raped left for dead
in a sea of confusion and longing
lost and scattered
blown to the farthest point away from you
that way you are safe from hell and damnation
free of my woes and pain
and someday i know you shall find me
to bring me back to myself
teach me i need not look back
to beat the odds
defeat all consequences
rise about my poor sinful status
be reborn in your perfection and light
to become your immortal beauty
as you show me the path to your kingdom
and tutor me in the ways of the righteous
you cleans me of my rape and impurities
and on this day we will conquer as one.

Poem Identity Card By Mahmoud Darwish

Record!
I am an Arab
And my identity card is number fifty thousand
I have eight children
And the nineth is coming after a summer
Will you be angry?



Record!
I am an Arab
Employed with fellow workers at a quarry
I have eight children
I get them bread
Garments and books
from the rocks..
I do not supplicate charity at your doors
Nor do I belittle myself at the footsteps of your chamber
So will you be angry?

Record!
I am an Arab
I have a name without a title
Patient in a country
Where people are enraged
My roots
Were entrenched before the birth of time
And before the opening of the eras
Before the pines, and the olive trees
And before the grass grew

My father.. descends from the family of the plow
Not from a privileged class
And my grandfather..was a farmer
Neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Teaches me the pride of the sun
Before teaching me how to read
And my house is like a watchman's hut
Made of branches and cane
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name without a title!

Record!
I am an Arab
You have stolen the orchards of my ancestors
And the land which I cultivated
Along with my children
And you left nothing for us
Except for these rocks..
So will the State take them
As it has been said?!

Therefore!
Record on the top of the first page:
I do not hate poeple
Nor do I encroach
But if I become hungry
The usurper's flesh will be my food
Beware..
Beware..
Of my hunger
And my anger!

Poem The Iron Iris By Ruxn Analysis

Stanza 1
“Live in the East and the West side, Leave out the North and the South” means the poet is looking at the East and the West side of the world. While he pauses looking at the North and South side of the world for a moment. Actually, he tries to look at what is happening around him in this world. The word “Red-eye” in “Red-eye of devil keeps razing” resembles the bad congregation of certain people who live in this world with too much manipulation and seem so happy to see people suffer from what they have done without clemency. “The million of green hungers whose wishes are blown away to the conurbation of evil” describes on no matter how much hopes for better days the victims give towards the war, it seems like the hopes that they wish for will not come true. The most sadist thing if the war still happens from one generation to one generation until the end of time. The victims may be dying because of the oppression that they are going through and all the hopes to have a peaceful life seems demolished. “Green hungers” means the people who seek for peaceful life.



Stanza 2
Overall, this stanza means that the poet reads newspaper in order to know what is happening in the other side of the world. In the newspaper, he can find a lot of sorrowful things such as the helps that are seeked by the war victims (“Full of rising hands”) and the pain that they endure (“Bleedings are breathing and the dropping of tears”). In the line of “While our eyes are like steel. Limbs are sealed” , the word “our” refers to the poet as well as the people on earth. This line means that our eyes can only see everything occurs around us and it seems that our eyes are already get used to see all those things and sometimes we tend to feel that war makes us tired and fed up because it happens almost everywhere and we just cannot do anything to stop it from occurring.

Stanza 3
This stanza generally means that, even we read a lot in the newspaper about the agony of the war victims and we lay our deepest sympathy to them, but our life has to continue on. We seem cannot spend much of our time thinking and sorrowing about other people as we have our on job to work on. We have to leave out all those sad things for a while and continue our normal life.

Stanza 4
“Live in the North and the South side, Leave out the East and the West” means the poet is looking at the East and the West side of the world. While he pauses looking at the East and West side of the world for a moment. That line is contrast to the first stanza. It seems that the poet changes his view on the North and South side of the world where finally he sees all 4 directions of the world which are North, South, East and West. He uses newspaper as a medium for reading and gaining information. As he reads the newspaper, he finds that the war is still happening ( “The evils are still breathing”) and it looks like we would never able stopping it.

Stanza 5
The word “winter” in line 1 means death or hopeless. The word “summer” in line 2 means the hope or life. “Does it dry up like raisin in the sun?” The word “it” in this line means hope. This line generally means to compare hope to a raisin dried in the sun that portrays terrible shrinking from fresh to dry. This line contains of very deep meaning which means something that really has happened and will it happen again?. Overall, this stanza elaborates on the hopes that are wished seem will not come true, unless those wicked people are eliminated from living in this world. Whatever happens around us, the eyes seem have to bear it and get used to see it and swallow all the bitterness in order to continue our life journey.

Poem The Iron Iris By Ruxn

Live in the East and the West side
Leave out the North and the South
Red-eye of devil keeps razing
The million of green hungers
Whose wishes are blown away
To the conurbation of evil.



Listen to the voices
Of black and white newspaper.
Full of rising hands,
Bleedings are breathing,
And the dropping of tears.
While our eyes are like steel.
Limbs are tightly sealed.

Look at the moving numbers of the clock
The long rail of life has to catch
The sounds of newspaper
Need to be muted
The eyes have to be blinded
The ears have to be deaf.

Live in the North and South side
Leave out the East and West
Hands flip the pages
Of black and white newspaper.
The evils are still breathing
To the battle that we never taste the victory.

Blow hopes to the forever winter
The summer is not for long
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
The eyes cannot endure anymore
To the sights that are violated
And the eyes have to bear.[2005]

Poem SONNET 71 By William Shakespeare

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with the vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it, for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
Lest the wise world should look into your moan
And mock you with me after I am gone.



POEM ANALYSIS

Sonnets 71-74 mainly resemble and associate the poet’s thoughts on his own mortality or death. This sonnet does not focus to any gender specifically whether to man or woman and the person who the poet refers to (in this sonnet) is rather be called as his beloved. The first quatrain, in line 2 (Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell), In Renaissance era, “passing-bell” was rung many times as an honor to the deceased’s life at funerals. In the first quatrain, generally it conveys that the poet is already died and left his life and his beloved. The poet asks his beloved not to lament when he is dead or even remember his name. In line 4 (From this vile world, with the vilest worms to dwell: ), actually signifies the transaction of living in the world to the grave.

The second quatrain indicates that this sonnet is written or created in order to solace his beloved after his death. In line 6 (The hand that writ it, for I love you so) points out that this sonnet is written and dedicated to his beloved and it illustrates a romantic relationship between the poet and his beloved. In addition to that, the poet believes that he would die before his beloved and it made him writing this sonnet in order to console his beloved after his death oneday. The poet also does not want his beloved to keep thinking about him and try to forget him as it makes his beloved in sorrow for the rest of his beloved’s life.

The third quatrain explains how the poet urges his beloved to completely “decay” him and their love relationship along with his dead body in the grave. In the final couplet, it expresses how the people would mock him and his beloved after his (the poet) death and they would be mocked by people about their past relationship when the poet was still alive. Overall, the poet concerns about his beloved’s life after his death especially what would his beloved face in his or her life after his death. And the reason for writing this sonnet is to solace his beloved’s emotion after his death and stop mourning after his death and live in contentment.

Ronggeng-Ronggeng By Lee Kok Liang

Ronggeng-Ronggeng is a short story written by Lee Kok Liang, who lives on the island of Penang and his family has been domiciled for four generations. Besides being active in writing, Lee was also engaged in politics. As a well-known writer, many of his writings have been published in magazines and anthologies. For example, his first collection of short stories is ‘The Mutes in the Sun and the Other Stories’ in 1964 then, his novel, ‘Flowers in the Sky’ came out in 1981. After that, a second collection of his short stories, ‘Death is a Ceremony and Other Stories’, was published in 1992, before his death. His novel, ‘London Does Not Belong to Me’ is due in 2003. Although Lee was educated in Chinese and English, his literary works still reflect his identity as a truly Malaysian in many of his short stories such as, ‘Return to Malaya’. Lee proves that one’s language background will not affect his/her identity. This work of his does contribute to the Malaysian Literature in English as it reveals the importance of identity and attachment of one’s root.



Ronggeng-Ronggeng presents the story with rural and semi-urban backgrounds-villages and town areas. All events in the story are in realistic tradition presenting the identity of Malaysian such as cultural shows Ronggeng, Bangsawan, Hokkien Opera, and Westerns. The significant of the story can be seen through their lifestyle including the way they dressed.

Our reading of this short story gives us a strong feeling that the writer is trying to present the importance of not forgetting ones origin and to achieve that, Lee Kok Liang has created a protagonist named Che Siti, who represents a very Malay character through the story and she has to sacrifice a lot to earn a life. She has to work as a dancer at Ronggeng-Ronggeng in order to feed her mother and younger brothers. She had gotten married once but, unfortunately her man left her for a richer woman. Pity on her but, there is one man named Mat had taught her the rhythm and steps of the ronggeng. Furthermore, she still had her beauty by the time. This package helps her to get a lot of customers during the ronggeng. Here is where the issue of women exploitation comes up. It can be seen clearly in this story when women had been use as an ‘entertainment’ for men. Women have to do the ‘Ronggeng’ to get the money even though, deep inside Che Siti’s heart, she doesn’t want to work like that.

Therefore, in order to achieve the outcome of making the story to stand out as a prominent figure as well as to make the central theme speaks for itself, the narrator has chosen to present the story from an omniscient point of view. Through the utilization of this perspective, the narrator is able to give us the highlights the inner feelings of the characters. Consequently, this leads the readers to obtain a deep understanding of the characters’ feelings, without having the narrator to intrude much because the narrator has the freedom to move in and out of the characters’ minds. In other words, readers are then allowed to have access to the perceptions and thoughts of all the characters in the story. Other than that, the narrator uses him omniscience to trek deeper into a character that we otherwise do not really come close to understanding. For example, there are plenty of inner monologues throughout the story, especially the main character of the story, Che Siti . Here are some examples:

~ She loved gold- a beautiful anklet on her foot would bring out the texture of her skin. And how the other girls would be so jealous. And the men would look at her foot instead of her breasts.
~ Siti looked at the men closely and saw that he was young. And he was not bad-looking at all, despite the gold tooth. He had a high nose, unlike most Chinese and very kind eyes. They said the Chinese worked hard and saved a lot of money. Was this one rich?
~ As he lifted his arms, blond hairs stuck out like coconut fibers from his armpits, and he smelt. Are white women like that too? But how could they? They had looked so pretty in the pictures and in their pretty shoes, with such slim straps and very sharp heels, just the stems of flowers.

Apart from that, the writer utilized the sacrificed of a woman by explaining about what is the hardship that Che Siti had to go through. For example, every night, her feet hurt and her legs ache because of the dancing. In fact, according to Mat, she was the most serious girl of the lot and saved most of her earnings. She had the idea that if she tapped lightly her shoes would last twice as long. It is then strengthen again by Che Aminah, who is Che Siti’s friend when Che Aminah asks her to get a new shoes but she refused and said, she still can use it instead of buying a new expensive one. In this part, it is very clear about the physical restriction according to the gender. As in this story, women have to wear high heels to look beautiful in the eyes of men even they have no money and ‘ronggeng’ women have to wear tight and short kebaya to make the men glanced at them during the dance. The issue of sexual harassment also appeared while Che Siti dancing with the drunken white soldier, Johnnie.

The value of having identity is portrayed throughout this story. Lee nativizes the text by including the local slang and the national language in the story to create a sense of origin that still slightly remains in the protagonist and other characters in this story such as “-lah”, “ronggeng”, “sarong”, “kebaya”, “songkok”, “pondok”, and “bangsawan”.

Poem "Becoming A Woman" By Hilary Tham

When I was twelve, my mother initiated me
into the mysteries of becoming a woman
with a pound of rice-paper, the unadvertised
kind made from stalks and leaves, the stubble
after the harvest.



She taught me the art of crumpling,
stretching, folding the sheafs inot
a likeness of Modess-factory-rejects.

"You will bleed
at a special time of the moon."
she told me. "Use these
to preserve modesty and the secret
of your femaleness."

Her mother's way she passed to me
with the few words she had received
at her initiation.

Each full moon I curse the tides
within my body. I abandoned
tradition's rice-paper.

I have forgiven the moon since
Our children came, spores of sunrise
In their new born hands.

Fasting, Feasting By Anita Desai - Reviews (Part 1)

Anita Desai

In her novels, she has explored the lives of outsiders within Indian society and within the West.

Her fiction has covered themes such as:
-women’s oppression and quest for a fulfilling identity,
-family relationship and contrasts,
-the crumbling of traditions.

In Desai’s literary world, East and West have been treated as mirror images of each other.





Fasting, Feasting Novel

Story told from the point of view of Uma in India and Arun in America.

Depicts the struggles of Uma, Aruna and Arun to strike a balance between their parents’ expectations and their own personal realization.

Compares and contrasts:
-Two cultures
-Two societies
-Two families that represent their culture and society

PapaMama and Children

PapaMama:
-Discuss, plan, plot, control, govern the activities of their children, e.g. marriage, going abroad for studies.
-Does not consider possibility that children could have their own lives

Uma: Victim of patriarchy – repressed, suppressed and imprisoned at home; Wants life beyond confines of home

Aruna: Caught in mad pursuit of perfection; neurotic – controls family

Arun: Feels trapped by the education that is meant to liberate him; wants to be left alone

The Pattons

Mr and Mrs Patton:
-not really doing duty as parents
-let children do what they want

Mr Patton: quiet and self-centred

Mrs Patton: no identity or purpose in life; cannot handle family

Rod: obsessed with physical needs

Melanie: self-imposed starvation; lost in a free world

Fasting, Feasting: Question 1

Question:
In what ways do the two terms of the title—"fasting" and "feasting"—apply to family life and society in general in India and the United States?

Question 1: Answer

Title:
-food as metaphor for emotional sustenance

Fasting:
-Deprivation in Indian culture and religion
Uma: deprived of attention
Arun: deprived of freedom of choice
Miramasi: religious aestheticism

Feasting:
-Consumer society; Excess and opulence in American lifestyle
Mrs Patton: provide for family - shopping for food.
Rod: obsession with body

Fasting, Feasting: Question 2

Question:
What differences and similarities are there between the Indian and American families?

Answer: Draft
-Similarities:
-Differences:

Similarities and Differences

Indian

-Patriarchal
-PapaMama control children’s lives
Uma
Aruna
Arun
-Family is everything
-Tradition and cultural beliefs strong

American

-Patriarchal
-Children given the freedom to choose their way of life
Rod
Melanie
-Disintegrating family values
-“Corrupt” way of life

Fasting, Feasting: Question 3

Question:
What roles and expectations are open to women and men in the India and America of Fasting, Feasting?

Answer: Draft
-Men: Indian vs. American
Roles and expectations
-Women: Indian vs. American
Roles and expectations

Roles and expectations of men and women

Indian

-Men: to be in charge of family; provider
Papa: “God”; autocratic
Arun: not happy
-Women: subservient, oppressed; marriage
Mama: no identity
Uma: suppressed
Aruna: not happy
Anamika: killed

American

-Men: to be in charge of family; provider
Mr Patton: not responsible
Rod: obsessed with body
-Women: free to be and do what they want
Mrs Patton: providing for family – shopping
Melanie: neglected

Revision: More questions?

What kinds of freedom and what specific freedoms do the characters seek?

What instances and images of imprisonment and entrapment occur in the novel's two parts? To what extent is entrapment of one kind or another envisioned as an inescapable fact of life?

How does Desai establish Mama and Papa's identities as separate persons and, at the same time, as the single, and singular, Mama and Papa? In what ways do "they have the comfort of each other," as Uma later realizes?