Rafiq Kathwari, the first non-Irish recipient of the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award, obtained his MFA from Columbia University and an M.A. in political science from the New School. His recent poetry collection is My Mother's Scribe (YodaPress); his translations from the Urdu of selected poems of Muhammed Iqbal (1877-1938), many individually published here at 3QD, are forthcoming soon. He divides his time between New York, Dublin, and Kashmir where he was born a Scorpio at midnight. Email: rafiqkathwari [at] gmail.com
Website: https://www.rafiqkathwari.com
Dear Shahid Many thanks for your lively note concerning ghazals Just what I need to write: heart-rending ghazals Meant to call you but have been busy this fall at school New assignments every week, none for mapping ghazals Enrolled in Prosody with Alfred Corn; Poetics with Lucie Madness with Howard; precious time for encoding ghazals…
Search a Little Longer A version by Rafiq Kathwari After Sir Mohammad Iqbal Lift the veil from your face The stars are witness Stop teasing Reveal yourself Passion is in your heart Become a healer Stop begging on the mountain like Moses The flame is within you Create a new Mecca with every breath Rid…
Mother Writes to Indira Gandhi The Hon’ble Mrs. Indira Gandhi, Prime Minister, Murti Lane, New Delhi. 7 July 1975, Dear Madam, How are you? What’s with this Emergency? India’s star is fading while you’re sexing guru Brahmachari? A pilot bucklemeups in his sexjet. Pompous rogue has intensified wireless: whispering, murmuring: shanti, ashanti. Indira Ji, please…
Childhood A Version after Iqbal Earth & sky were new realms for me My mother’s embrace the world If anyone made me weep, I found Comfort in rattling the door chain O to gaze for hours at the moon Journeying silently amidst clouds Above mountains & deserts Astonished at the blend of truth & lies…
Bright Rose A Version after Iqbal You cannot loosen the heart's knot, perhaps you have no heart, no share in the turmoil of this garden, where I yearn but gather no roses. Of what use to me is wisdom? Once out of the garden, you are at peace. I am anxious, scorched as I search.…
Withered Rose A version after Iqbal By what words can I deem you desire of the nightingale's heart? The morning breeze was your cradle, the garden a tray of perfumes. My tears rain like dew, and in my barren heart your ruin an emblem of mine, my life a dream of roses. By Rafiq Kathwari,…
by Rafiq Kathwari Nine days in October 1947 that mapped the future of Kashmir October 23, Thursday On my walk in the evening, I saw refugees arriving from Muzaffarabad, where it appears some trouble had started and tribesmen had infiltrated into Muzaffarabad. I found lorries arriving in large numbers with Hindu and Sikh refugees. October…
Haiku As I fling my arms Wide to greet dad at Heathrow He extends his hand By Rafiq Kathwari whose new collection, ‘In Another Country’ is now available at DoirePress.com
I translate, from the Urdu, Mother’s dream for Harry the shrink Naked, except for my nikab, roped to a round pillar on a sand dune the sun’s anvil, my feet dancing. The turbaned Bedouin, henna-dyed beard, Champion Lovemaker peace be upon Him raked His fingers at me. Quicksand rose to my thighs. My heart sank.…
Ataturk Turkish Embassy, Karachi 16 August, 1957 Mrs. Mariam Jan, “Katrina” Pindi Point, Murree, West Pakistan Dear Madam, I have received your letter. Thank you very much for good wishes expressed therein. I have pleasure enclosing herewith a photograph of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, as requested. Yours faithfully for Ambassador of Turkey Ercument Yavuzalp, First Secretary.
Lines 6 July 1956 General Dwight D Eisenhower, Embassy of the United States Karachi. Dear Mr. President, First of all, I wish you good luck in your bid for re-election. You’re my president as well leader of all who seek freedom from oppression of all hues. America is a bulwark for liberty, a terror for…
To Tariq, Younger Brother 7 November 1952 – 7 November 2014 Lines written at Raj Bagh Cemetery and at Jewel House The root of our life, the life below the life Richard Howard At Raj Bagh Cemetery Aha! There you are buried at Father’s feet, next to uncle Rasool. Are you still not talking to…
by Rafiq Kathwari My friend Irfan and I drove a Gypsy with faulty brakes to Baba's shrine nestled in the Himalayan foothills. “You must go show your respect,” Mother had urged when I told her I was flying to Srinagar. “Say a prayer for your health and wealth.” Her father, Sultan Bastal, a prosperous cashmere…
Fragments from Firefly after Iqbal A candle among the roses In the garden A shooting star A loop of the moon's robe A speck in the sun's hem In and out of eclipse Consul of day In night's kingdom Unknown at home Lucid in exile Unlike the moth The firefly is light *** Song is…
OLD FORMS WILL NOT BE ENTERTAINED (a sign at the India Consulate, New York) For David Barsamian Old chants to the Ganges shall not be entertained Dead cows float in holy water unrestrained Family roots shall be ascertained Nationality of mother should reign Old friends shall not be entertained I pledge allegiance to the newly-famed…
A RESURRECTION My mother tells this story about her childhood in Kashmir years before she married my father. “I remember our horse Burak, hoofs scuffing snow, nostrils fuming, hitched to an open cart. Relatives, showering rice and rose petals on Mohammed’s shrouded body— the son my father always wanted to whom I was betrothed— wailed…
CARPE DIEM For Agha Ashraf Ali You light a candle Carp the darkness With your usual flourish Debone a carp Add a pinch of salt In your carpeted kitchen Discourse on the next course To scrape or not the fish head, Gaadkalley: Honorific. You offer a scrap of history Bestowed once by the people On…
GARDEN IS AIR after Iqbal’s Shabnum aur Sitaray (Dew and Stars) A star said to a dewdrop: “Tell the story of a garden far from the heavens to which the moon sings.” The dewdrop replied: “O star not a garden, but a world of sighs; the breeze visits only to return; the rose, garden’s flourish,…
GOOD FORM for Keith Bayard, a demigod Winsome nymphs in thongs over gym tights, nebbishes nerds nudnicks aging stud-muffins, twitterbots, bloggers, gal jocks with polished fingers racing down the steps without touching the chrome banisters, I love it here. First day of work out I all but faint on the green broadloom as you cradle…
FIRE TREE Tips of his mustache whip braided, a turbaned invader four centuries ago carried Persian saplings in a caravan across the Himalayas to Kashmir. “Our chinar will last a thousand years,” my grandfather said as rustling boughs reigned above the tin roof of the house where I was born a Scorpio at midnight. Every…