Asad Zaidi Poems

It was pleasant the sun was mild
the breeze gentle a man on foot

could have carried on for miles
without trouble
...

A poem already bad gets even worse.

No mortal effort can improve it.
Effort spoils it even more.
It turns ever murkier –
...

Something was to happen in the seventies but it did not happen.
Strange winds began to blow in the eighties.
And in the nineties what was not to happen, happened.

And so did an entire century take leave
...

On this dead land
life will return

All our language
...

In the upper shelves of the almirah
there was, as ever, patience.
And silence too.
Below, so much lay scattered.
...

What language can be better than of translation?
It alone is the white screen on which,
like grime,
the doings of us all become starkly visible.
...

The battles of 1857
that once upon a time were far-off battles
are here and now.
...

What could be a better language than the language of translation
A white curtain on which
All our handiwork stands apart like dirt
All crimes are perpetrated in mother tongues
...

the battles of 1857 –
once so distant,
are now the battles ever so close

in this age of remorse and crime
...

we have been reduced to coal said the sisters sinking into sand
cover us up now if you want we shall stop here you may go

the sisters kept visiting us during day changing appearances
we had fever in evenings
...