I
The Invocation
I have become this poem
and before this poem,
I became Arifa, Zarmina,
Amail
Sweta. Safar and Lima
their tongue, their pen, their
leaf,
their scrap of paper
veined in writing,
mottled with tears.
Something:
for the pocket to hide,
the firewood to shun
the wind to carry west.
II
The Stone
The river is dry.
I steal a stone
from its bed of clay
and will cast it back
when the rains come
or at him
when he turns mad
moving to flog my body
as if its slight bones
were a stack of grain
My burqa is torn.
I pull a thread
wanting to unravel
this blue shroud and lift
my hair
in wind, in light
the plumage of a bird.
A long-tailed bird
hanging loose in the air,
absorbing the ripe scent
of almonds --
the black gravel beneath
(grave of my sisters)
marked with its shadow.
The house is bare.
I blow out its breath
and unlatch the door.
The lamp sends its snuffed
flame
to the sky, a ghost of smoke
but then my hope
with only this stone, this
staple,
wanders into exile with it.
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I love the concept and the need
of writers to give voice to the voiceless. As Alison Hawthorne Deming states --
"The grief we feel
at abuses of human power is the first positive step at transforming that power
for the good." And art allows us to accomplish that goal in certain ways;
especially through the expression and recognition of our humanity; its
suffering, its injustice as well as its compassion, strength and dignity. This
brought to mind Marsha Hamilton who started the "Afghan Women's Writing
Project".
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