|the reasons I keep going back to this pen, paper, typewriter.|
my beautiful literature tag is made by the superb, lithium-cocoon
buy my poetry book, HOME AND OTHER DEBRIS here.
Orooj-e Zafar's first collection is a dance through the lyric of memory. Twisting shapes of childhood with femininity, religion, and family. These poems delve into the becoming of the self. Though Ms. Zafar is only in the beginning of her career, the precise, colorful imagery makes it clear this is a writer who knows how to sculpt language. These words are powerful, heartfelt, and rooted in truth.
- Clementine von Radics, author of Mouthful of Forevers and To Teenage Girls with Wild Ambitions and Trembling Hearts.
Orooj is definitely more active on her facebook than she is here, if you want to get a hold of her. She likes poetry with tea and writes too many self-addressed poem-letters in hopes of salvaging her relationship with herself. She thinks she's getting there but until then, she allows herself quiet mornings with Troye Sivan and Perfume Genius.
In this dream, I change.
I tuck astray hair behind my ear without irritation,
slant over the child with a smile the world hasn't seen,
look the year in the eye before it stares back. I smile
so my sabr is documented - my attendance, a matter
I feel my Pulse with a wrist half a world away, hush Aleppo
with my finger pressed to the parted lips of tear gas.
I taste ash and tell myself it is not children bones.
I resist the urge to pray. Send thoughts with guilt.
Come up for air only to wish to have lost the ability to.
In this dream, I remember the poem.
The one this soil once trembled underneath.
My pregnant mother's feet hurt with my added weight;
she always knew this world was not one for a heart
like mine; she didn't hear my heartbeat until I was breach
at birth. Somewhere in Kashmir, the valleys shake under
a new mother's footsteps. The Himalayas tremble
with a baby's fear. Somewhere between my smile and the pellets
holding their breath in the hills, a mother prays.
the dream can be a dream in her baby's head.
the nightmare can be called what it is.
Perhaps, the smile stings --
the crying finally