Rafiq Kathwari, the first non-Irish recipient of the Patrick Kavanagh Poetry Award, obtained his MFA from Columbia University and an M.A. in political science from the New School. His recent poetry collection is My Mother's Scribe (YodaPress); his translations from the Urdu of selected poems of Muhammed Iqbal (1877-1938), many individually published here at 3QD, are forthcoming soon. He divides his time between New York, Dublin, and Kashmir where he was born a Scorpio at midnight. Email: rafiqkathwari [at] gmail.com
Website: https://www.rafiqkathwari.com
Found Poem “No footballer no football manager no football club no football reporter no football pundit no Ian Wright no Gary Lineker no football authority of any kind not FIFA not UEFA not the FA not one of them has even mentioned the murder on screen of the captain of the Palestine football team recording…
“These are dry, didn’t you soak the stems in a vase before you came here?” Mother said as I showered blood red rose petals on her grave. by Rafiq Kathwari
To Javed My Son — on receiving his first hand-written letter in London by Muhammad Iqbal (1877-1938) Create your own place in the world of love New time new morning new evening Listen to the divine within you Like a hawk searching for live prey Learn the language of a rose — Inshallah — For its…
On the Banks of the Rāvi by Muhammad Iqbal (1877-1938) I am standing on the banks but I have no idea where I am. The sun — old man of sky — a goblet in his trembling hands spills wine, dipping the hem of evening in red. The day drinks itself into oblivion, raining rose…
by Rafiq Kathwari As Fareed drove in soft rain through red lights to Maimonides, my sister-in-law Farrah, and I sat in the back seat of the sky-blue Volkswagen van. “Kicking,” she said, placing my hand on her round belly. Shy, I gazed at her polished toes in flip-flops. A stork dropped a boy in Brooklyn…
To the Palestinian Arabs after Iqbal (1877-1938) Sir Mohammad or Allama Iqbal, a giant of South Asian poetry in the 20 th Century writing in Urdu, attended in 1931 the General Islamic Conference in Jerusalem. Iqbal’s message to the Arab world was: “. . .not have any trust in the West and the League of…
Learning and Love by Mohammad Iqbal (1887-1935) “Love is madness,” Learning said. “Learning is suspicion and doubt,” Love said. O Learning, do not a bookworm be, you are veiled Love is radiant, steadfast, a pageant of life and death Learning displays the divine essence logically; love illogically “Question everything,” says Learning. “I am the answer,”…
When Karl Marx Speaks, People Listen after Iqbal (1877-1938) Mad Money, Shark Tank, Squawk Box, The Financial Diet — what else is there, O professors of economics in Ivy League schools and in churches, but moving the pawns of profit? Now the world will not tolerate Power Point of curved lines — an old idea…
In Praise of Mirza Ghalib —a transcreation after Mohammad Iqbal (1877-1938) Imagine a bird with agile wings introduce the gathering Now imagine the flawless bird seduce the gathering You glimpse the fire of life veiled in everything A hidden crown jewel imbues the gathering Bringing forth Spring, coloring our world green In silent foothills, a…
Prophets on the Nairobi Expressway by Rafiq Kathwari “Please take the next flight to Nairobi,” my niece said, her voice cracking over WhatsApp. “Mom is in ICU. Lemme know what time your flight lands. I’ll send the car.” Early February morning on the Upper West Side, I wore a parka, pashmina scarf, cap, gloves, rode the…
Transcribed by Rafiq Kathwari Mohammed Ali Jinnah’s Last Visit to Kashmir 10 May – 25 July 1944 Tue 9 May 1944 Mr. Jinnah was to arrive today, but he had sent a telephone message last evening that as he was tired, he could not make the journey in one day. In the evening, there was…
In Memoriam Kasheer Saleem morukh Salaam morukh Habeeb morukh Heshaam morukh Ye shahar morukh Ye ghaam morukh Kasheer hund Subh o shaam morukh Kashmir They killed Saleem They killed Salaam They killed Habeeb They killed Heshaam They killed this city That town they killed — All of Kashmir’s blood They spilled by Abdul Rehman Rahi…
My heart broke this morning reading a story about surveillance reels from schools across America where shooters use military grade AR15 to tear apart skin and bones, the powers that be before making the videos public first edited out the screams of children. by Rafiq Kathwari
by Rafiq Kathwari When I was ten, Grandpa drove me on a crisp autumn evening to see geese, gulls, and ducks descend with expanded wings on Wular. “Asia’s largest freshwater lake,” he said. “They fly in disciplined formation like copper-tipped arrows across the desolation of sky, along Himalayan foothills, arcing between Mughal domes from Kashgar…
Where The Mind Is Full of Fear, Head Is Bowed, a Lie Is Truth by Rafiq Kathwari Dapaan, Rama saw Sita bathing nude in Sitaharan, a spring near the Line of Control in Kashmir. It was lust at first sight. Dapaan, the demon king Ravana abducted Sita to Sri Lanka to avenge a previous wrong.…
Five Verses from a Qawwali Sung by the Late Great Ustad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan by Rafiq Kathwari When I ask, how does it rain? You rap a bead of sweat on your forehead. When I ask, how does lighting strike? You glance at me and lower your eyes. When I ask, how does day…
Two Versions after Iqbal Withered Rose With what words shall I call you desire of the nightingale’s heart? In a Country of Roses you were named Laughing Rose, the morning breeze was your cradle, a garden a tray of perfumes. My tears rain like dew and in my barren heart your ruin is an emblem…
At My Mother’s Grave in the Putnam Valley — 7000 Miles from Where She Was Born by Rafiq Kathwari Mother, I thought I heard an echo of your rousing words — “My Life Is Ahead of Me”— Wrinkles mapped your face after you flew from the Kashmir Valley where— long as I remember— you raged…
Lenin in the Presence of God A trans creation after Iqbal, by Rafiq Kathwari God Aha! Comrade Ulyanov— Welcome! Or I should say, Dobro Pozhalovat! Lenin You’re alive? But “God is dead,” they said. God I inhabit men’s heart: passion’s home, and for a moment my angels swayed to your tune. Lenin So, this is…
Karachi by Rafiq Kathwari A stray dog pulls apart a donkey’s corpse. A camel pacing into the rushlight stomps on mini sand-ruins of treads and tracks: What did this: a quad bike, a Humvee? A shadow lengthens on the beach. Stars glow in Hi Rises inland from the sea’s edge. People…