Agha Shahid Ali: A

Glimpse of His Poetry

My book’s been burned? Send me the ashes, so I can say: I’ve been sent the phoenix in a coffin of light.

—from ‘Of Light’ by Agha Shahid Ali

Born in 1949 into the Afghan Qizilbashi Agha family in Srinagar, Agha Shahid Ali spent his childhood in Kashmir. He attended the Burn Hall School and continued his studies at the University of Kashmir and Hindu College, University of Delhi. He immigrated to the United States during the 1970s, where he earned a Ph.D. in English from Pennsylvania State University.

His childhood in Kashmir inspired much of his poetry. While living in America, he developed a sense of exile, displacement, and longing for his homeland. His poetry, thus, is laced with diaspora, nostalgia, grief, and loss.

Let me cry out in that void, say it as I can.

I write on that void: Kashmir,

Kaschmir, Cashmere, Qashmir, Cashmere, Qashmir, Cashmir, Cashmire, Kashmere, Cachemire, Cushmeer, Cachmiere, Cašmir.

Or Cauchemar in a sea of stories?

Or: Kacmir, Kaschemir, Kasmere, Kachmire, Kasmir.

Kerseymere?

This is an excerpt from ‘The Country Without a Post Office.’ These lines reverberate with pain and longing. The speaker seems to be lost in memory, consumed by yearning, and overcome with grief— as if deprived of something essential to his very being. His love for Kashmir and sadness at being away from it are clear.

In another poem, ‘Postcard from Kashmir’, he describes his joy at receiving a postcard from Kashmir; referring to it as his ‘home.’ He acknowledges the fact that with time his memory of Kashmir would fade and it wouldn’t be brilliant or clean as it once was. The following extract from the poem clearly illustrates the poet’s affection for his motherland:

Kashmir shrinks into my mailbox, my home a neat four by six inches.

I always loved neatness. Now I hold the half-inch Himalayas in my hand.

This is home. And this the closest I’ll ever be to home. When I return, the colors won’t be so brilliant, the Jhelum’s waters so clean, so ultramarine. My love so overexposed.

Agha Shahid Ali wrote poetry in free-verse and traditional forms. What is fascinating is that he introduced the Ghazal form of poetry in English. Ghazals are traditionally found in Persian, Arabic, and Urdu literature. The main elements of a ghazal are qaafia (rhyme), and radif (refrain). The last sher (couplet) of a ghazal must contain the takhalus (pen name) of the poet. His poem ‘Tonight’ has been written in the ghazal style:

Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell tonight? Whom else from rapture’s road will you expel tonight?

I beg for haven: Prisons, let open your gates — A refugee from Belief seeks a cell tonight.

In the heart’s veined temple, all statues have been smashed. No priest in saffron’s left to toll its knell tonight.

And I, Shahid, only am escaped to tell thee — God sobs in my arms. Call me Ishmael tonight.

The musical quality of this piece depicts his mastery of the ghazal form. The rhyming words ‘spell’, ‘expel’, ‘cell’, ‘knell’, and ‘tell’ form the qaafia , and the word ‘tonight’ is the radif . Notice that in the first couplet—called matla’a — both the verses have qaafia and radif while in the following couplets, only the second verse does. The last couplet—called maqta’a — has his takhalus , ‘Shahid.’

This is merely the surface of the intricacies and depth of Agha Shahid Ali’s poetry. The Country Without a Post Office, Rooms are Never Finished, Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals, and A Nostalgist’s Map of America are a few of his poetry collections. To really analyze all of his poetry would take extensive research, profound knowledge, and time— which I’m rather short on. So, I conclude by saying:

Longing drives many people mad; some, it turns into poets.

A fork in my path

Two choices set before me

One for the world

And one for patrimony

Of a culture, a legacy

My natal tongue

To carry with me

For ages to come

Knowing we are transient

Dialect will prevail

With a part of our soul

The transparency of our existence

Unbeknownst to us

To keep evidence

Of our past extant

Set aside the worldly lot

For if cultures perish

The world may end

~Ahmad Abrar Giri, Class IX