Poem #1: They'll say - she must be from another country When I can’t comprehend why they’re burning books or slashing paintings, when they can’t bear to look at god’s own nakedness, when they ban the film and gut the seats to stop the play and I ask why they just smile and say, ‘She must be from another country.’ When I speak on the phone and the vowel sounds are off when the consonants are hard and they should be soft, they’ll catch on at once they’ll pin it down they’ll explain it right away to their own satisfaction, they’ll cluck their tongues and say, ‘She must be from another country.’ When my mouth goes up instead of down, when I wear a tablecloth to go to town, when they suspect I’m black or hear I’m gay they won’t be surprised, they’ll purse their lips and say, ‘She must be from another country.’ When I eat up the olives and spit out the pits when I yawn at the opera in the tragic bits when I pee in the vineyard as if it were Bombay, flaunting my bare ass covering my face laughing through my hands they’ll turn away, shake their heads quite sadly, ‘She doesn’t know any better,’ they’ll say, ‘She must be from another country.’ Maybe there is a country where all of us live, all of us freaks who aren’t able to give our loyalty to fat old fools, the crooks and thugs who wear the uniform that gives them the right to wave a flag, puff out their chests, put their feet on our necks, and break their own rules. But from where we are it doesn’t look like a country, it’s more like the cracks that grow between borders behind their backs. That’s where I live. And I’ll be happy to say, ‘I never learned your customs. I don’t remember your language or know your ways. I must be from another country.’ From: I Speak for the Devil Publisher: Penguin Books India, Poem #2: The Right Word Outside the door, lurking in the shadows, is a terrorist. Is that the wrong description? Outside that door, taking shelter in the shadows, is a freedom-fighter. I haven't got this right. Outside, waiting in the shadows is a hostile militant. Are words no more than waving, wavering flags? Outside your door, watchful in the shadows, is a guerrilla warrior. God help me. Outside, defying every shadow, stands a martyr. I saw his face. No words can help me now. Just outside the door, lost in shadows, is a child who looks like mine. © Imtiaz Dharker, from The terrorist at my table (Bloodaxe Books, 2006) Poem #3: Blessing The skin cracks like a pod. There never is enough water. Imagine the drip of it, the small splash, echo in a tin mug, the voice of a kindly god. Sometimes, the sudden rush of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts, silver crashes to the ground and the flow has found a roar of tongues. From the huts, a congregation: every man woman child for streets around butts in, with pots, brass, copper, aluminium, plastic buckets, frantic hands, and naked children screaming in the liquid sun, their highlights polished to perfection, flashing light, as the blessing sings over their small bones. Poem #4 - A Century Later The school bell is a call to battle, every step to class, a step into the firing line. Here is the target, fine skin at the temple, cheek still rounded from being fifteen. Surrendered, surrounded, she takes the bullet in the head and walks on. The missile cuts a pathway in her mind, to an orchard in full bloom, a field humming under the sun, It's lap open and full of poppies. This girl has won the right to be ordinary, wear bangles to a wedding, paint her fingernails, go to school. Bullet, she says, you are stupid. You have failed. You cannot kill a book or the buzzing in it. A murmur, a swarm. Behind her, one by one, the schoolgirls are standing up to take their places on the front line. ----- That's all we have in this episode of this week in poetry by Professor Nedumaran. I hope you enjoyed this rendition of a selection of poems by Imtiaz Dharker. Do share and subscribe to this podcast on Spotify, Apple, or wherever you listen to your podcasts. Your feedback is much appreciated. We will meet you in the next one with more wonderful poems for your listening pleasure. Till then take care.