Farewell Beloved
by Michelle Demers
They ask me to tell them what Shahid means: Listen, listen:
It means “The Beloved” in Persian, “witness” in Arabic.
— from “In Arabic”
The year you left Earth, the world
was tearing itself apart.
Shards of towers exploding, reverberating.
You quietly exited, one foot planted in each homeland.
Would you have been forced to choose?
Memories in one place, heart in another.
Leaving might have been the best gift
though not your choice,
not ours.
May you be rowed through Paradise
on a river of light, Shahid, exquisite ghost.
Beloved, you are still singing.
We hear you long into the night.
Dear Shahid
by Michelle Demers
In Vermont, where the year
has four, distinct seasons, you
brought your exotic
flavors to the mountain, and
taught us all
how to pronounce ghazal:
never “guzzle” you said,
with a hard G
forget the G,
reach into
the back of the throat,
open mouth,
force air through
as in the beginning of chutzpah,
which you had
and shared,
face full of joy
sing to me a ghazal
with chutzpah.
Tea Cosy from Kashmir i.m. Agha Shahid Ali
by Peggy O’Brien
January. It’s been a year.
You must be almost cosy
Under your cold comforter.
That’s, of course, just silly
Poetry. Your body shivers
Without the fire of your soul.
And that’s nothing more
Than the leftover scraps of nursery
Fare from catechism class.
I don’t know what or where
You are. I do know the out–
Landish person you were
Comes back on the dot of four
Each day, since I observe
The secular rite of tea.
Bring the water to a rolling
Boil, scald the pot, add
The leaves and hot water,
Leave them steep under
Their soft cover like an egg
In ash for a spell, then pour.
Observing the decorum of the table
We never forked over man – sized
Portions of love and terror.
We engaged in bite – sized small talk,
Cucumber sandwich chat,
Fat sausage rolls of gossip.
We weren’t precisely friends.
I was one of scores
Who adored your divine, little ways,
How you cast your bread upon
The waters, always throwing
Parties for no earthly reason
Other than so – and – so, what’s –
Her – name, was passing through.
You’d go out to shop for food
And invite whomever you met:
The lame, the maimed, the blind,
The cute. When so – and – so
Didn’t show, you couldn’t dis –
Invite the nameless multitude,
No more than death in a wink
Can blink away a life
Lived wide – eyed, each fantastic
Minute. The party must go on.
Wherever you were, it was loaves
And fishes. Lavish Kashmir
In frugal Massachusetts.
To you I was a woman
With an Irish past, who could talk
About those doughty nuns
From Mayo and Roscommon,
Charged with the sacred duty
Of starving the budding hedonist
In you on the thin gruel
Of an ascetic Heaven, visions
Of gulls shrieking in Celtic Hell.
Over Assam and Earl Grey
I’d be held in the imperial sway
Of your captivating spirit,
Dispensing even mild
Criticism with a twist of wit
Or creamy smile and sugar.
“Darling,” I can almost hear
You say, “Unlike your body
Your tea, or ‘tay,’ as the Irish
Charmingly put it, simply
Isn’t hot enough. Let
Shahid help you out.”
Sure enough, the next time
You came back (You always
Did return) from what
For simplicity you called home,
You brought for me alone
A sinfully plush tea cosy.
This winter has been bitter;
But my tea is hot, and it warms
My cup daily as I spirit
Myself back or forward,
As the case may be, looking
Hard at that present you gave me,
The complexity of crewel
Work, each twist the winding
Path on which you’re climbing
Up and up through deep,
Satiating color — peacock, pine,
The ruby lips of that consummate
Couplet on the tip of your tongue,
As you approach the blazing
Snowfield near the summit.
The Half-Inch Giant for Agha Shahid Ali
by D. K. McCutchen
Not a poet, me.
Never was,
But he listened kindly
Heard the tight throat
Dedicating words
To a beloved
Person,
Newly lost.
He said it
Wickedly,
“Very poetic,”
Shocking me dry – eyed.
And he giggled
Again,
And again,
Until I, laughing,
Missed the sound
The swish and clatter,
Even the echo
Of him.