All posts tagged: Imtiaz Dharker

Post III , Poetry at the Games

Post  is a Review of Poetry Studies from the Irish Centre  for Poetry Studies at the Mater Dei Institute , Dublin City University (D.C.U). The third issue of Post was launched this week , there is  .pdf copy available to interested readers now available online,  I have linked it at the base of this piece. In Michael Hind’s editorial, Post  III,  and the poetry of sport sets the framework for the third issue, and puts some difficulties with it into their proper context.  Contributors are Katelyn Ferguson on  (Brendan) Kennelly on and off  the blocks ,  Jonathan Silverman ‘trackside vigilance’, Christodoulos Makris , Stephen Wilson,  Niall Murphy, Roy Goldblatt , Alexandra Tauvray , Ian Leask ,  and there’s even a review by me about Jeet Thayil’s selection of Contemporary Indian Poets for Bloodaxe.   Christodoulos Markis’  read from Spitting Out The Mother Tongue on the evening of the launch ,  and the poems are available in the Post III .pdf  ,  Christodoulos’  blog is here . The above image is by Derek Beaulieu,  I am also linking to his blog . My contribution to Post …

“Purdah I” by Imtiaz Dharker.

Purdah I by Imtiaz Dharker. One day they said she was old enough to learn some shame. She found it came quite naturally. Purdah is a kind of safety. The body finds a place to hide. The cloth fans out against the skin much like the earth that falls on coffins after they put dead men in. People she has known stand up, sit down as they have always done. But they make different angles in the light, their eyes aslant, a little sly. She half-remembers things from someone else’s life, perhaps from yours , or mine – carefully carrying what we do not own: between the thighs, a sense of sin. We sit still , letting the cloth grow a little closer to our skin. A light filters inward through our bodies’ walls. Voices speak inside us, echoeing in the spaces we have just left. She stands outside herself, sometimes in all four corners of a room. Wherever she goes , she is always inching past herself, as if she were a clod of …