January 13, 2006

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                                       A Gathering of Urdu Poets
  

  I went to a poetry reading last week.  Everyone was excited because there was a Chinese poet there, "Our first international poet."

  I wondered how many of these people knew of the mushaira, a gathering of Urdu poets, held in halls and homes, formal and informal.  International poets -  here was this tradition I was sure was alive and well in Chicago. These open mikes reminded me of mushaira, more so than anything in my experience of the English-speaking world.

  So I emailed a Universitiy of Chicago Urdu prof, the first important and good one in the US, now retired.  I'd not seen him in 32 years, not spoken to him in 8..

   

  In 15 minutes, I had a response, saying he and another old friend who I've not spoken to for years, and he had just had lunch in Hyde Park, she is in from Austin to give some lectures, and spoke of me.  He returned home to find my email....

   

  I asked him about mushaira in Chicago....

   

  He sent me the phone number of Ifti Nasim, the first openly gay Urdu poet, who lives just down the street, saying that every single poet who comes to the US from India or Pakistan is in touch with Ifti, that he is a "jolly good fellow..." and that if he didn't participate in mushaira he knew who did. 

   

  So I called Ifti, cold call, and we talked for an hour - an immediate connection, crossing worlds.

   

  And I remembered when I was like that all the time, full of belly laughs and spouting Urdu, and groking things and feeling that all was right, for that moment, with the world (maybe it's a fantasy to think that happened a lot before, probably is one....)

   

  We, the gay Pakistani poet and Lil, are going to have coffee in the morning. 

   

  On impulse, I read him one of  mine, a short one, since I have not a book to present in return, not even a chapbook. 

   

  At a mushaira, when a poet hits a particularly elegant or stunning phrase or couplet, the audience responds with "Wah!  Wah!." 

   

  I read, 

   

  in dry time, 
  you wrote me
  that letter
  in white ink
  on white paper.

  
   

  I am knocked silent as I hear, " Wah!  Wah!," immediately, spontaneously, and get goosebumps, not expecting this response, only a polite remark after I finish., remembering all the concerts and readings of years past that are so far away from me now....  

   

  And so, what I call My Other World melds for a moment or two with the present one, and it feels sweet, and sweeter still to have survived long enough to feel this  
  

   

   

  pearlbamboo

   

   

  copyright  e.p. hodges

   

   

   

  You'll fnd Ifti's book here.

   

   

  • 4:19 am
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