One
A POEM FOR THAT WHICH IS MERELY NOT DEATH
Translated by Dr. Shehla Naqvi
I can’t write poetry.
When I think about a poem
In another word, bitterness.
The thing which is merely not death
Crawls under my tongue,
Invades my eyes.
I see naked Iraqis
Piled upon each other
Tied in ropes.
Or that child
Who has haunted me
Since the first bombs
fell on Baghdad.
How will he live
Without his hands?
(This is a pointless thought
That life cannot be lived
Without one’s hands)
Foucault’s pendulum keeps swinging:
The licensed same-sex marriages
Must ease his spirit
But his power of knowledge
In other words, the only concept of power,
Continues to taunt me.
Thank you, Baudrillard.
You logically explained to me
The Gulf war didn’t take place.
It was only a trick
Of television, camera and computer.
And I sleep peacefully.
But when I awaken
I again think about that
Which is merely Not death.
It is being endured
Not only by those living
In the ruins of Baghdad
In the refugee camps of Rafa and Gaza
But also by those in New York.
(For a long time I have stopped talking about Karachi )
I see them daily
Running in this tunnel
That in a thousandth of a second
They might miss their train
And end up late for work.
This much care for a thousandth of a second?
Where I am, life is still traveling
On the ox cart Trundling out of Mohen- jo- daro.
Mohen-jo-daro:
The mound of the dead
Why is it called the mound of the dead?
Don’t the living have their own mound?
Were they also people like us?
Was their life also like this:
A thing which is merely Not Death?
But it is said that it came into being later
With money, with capital
Banks, interest, profit.
Then came weapons capable
Of reducing this world to ash
In only seconds.
Modern, modern, modern
And now, post-modern
Yesterday someone sang the song of postmodernism
With Narang’s flute, and I thought
Was Baudrillard correct?
That this was all an effect
Of camera, computer and modern technology?
Truth:
Reality is nothing.
There is only CNN
There is only McDonalds,
Madonna and Disneyland.
Bombs on Baghdad
Children missing hands
The land of Palestine
The long wall of the refugee camp
Life on one side and death on the other
But there is no reality.
This wall is a place
Where thousands upon thousands of people live
Between life and death
Which is not life
Which is “Not Death”
This wall, From Palestine, Baghdad, Kabul
Somehow reaches New York.
In the subway waiting for the train
Trying not to miss it in the thousandth of a second,
The woman rushing down the steps
And in the train, a hand with lipstick and mirror
Another holding a sandwich
The stink of urine from a homeless man
The night security guard nodding off
This wall, which is merely “Not Death”
And is not life.
I can’t write poetry
Because thinking about poetry
Makes unpoetic thoughts barge in
And the poem goes away.
_____________________________
N.M. Danish is a Professor of Urdu at NYU. He is considered one of the greatest living
writers of ghazals today.
Dr. Shehla Naqvi is a pediatrician by profession who is regarded with great respect as
both a poet and essayist.
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