Friday, September 25, 2015

Lines for Farkhunda

Whence water lapped within the hanging basket's parabolic earth,
I went to Nizar Qabbani's grave by quiet agency's worth.
“It come to my atair!” he trilled, to check I had not drifted off.
I drifted off to get there, but knew trough would cancel out a trough,
Rousing me that I should quaff undreaming. I was with him, and not
Of a single absent-mindedness too far, as ballast, forgot
The bench I was sitting at in Crondall, some, that I stayed lucid.
“Aphantasic in grief, I could not see, the way my mother did,
The face of my sister how it was in life. I could only see
Her distraught before her self-destruction. Come to my atair!” He
Continued: “Muslim women, from Eritrea to the Yemen
Up to England, are attacked, blamed, condescended to by Femen,
Forced and enslaved. I could only protest by sly sentiments, hid,

And criticise Arab men, though they could not be certain I did,
But you must write candidly of Farkhunda. Yes, I know that you
Feel painted, that Sitter and Subject are a quiet man, but through
Quietness, through your Apparitionism, you have agency.
No man may touch the coffin; and Farkundha's mother cannot see
Her daughter's face as it was before lapidation's wounds.” Water
Laps colic in the parabolic earth. I am back, transporter,
At the Plume of Feathers, Crondall.