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KISHWAR NAHEED
Poet, Writer, Editor and Researcher.

Born: February 3, 1940.

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IMPORTANT WORKS:

  • More than 10 collections of poetry
  • Two anthologies of English translations of poetry published in India
  • Sixteen Collections of children's books
  • Women's Research Orientations in Social Sector
  • Women Writers Contribution in Fiction in the Last Fifty Years.
  • Autobiography

HONOURS:

  • Adamjee Award for Literature
  • UNESCO Prize for Children's Literature
  • Best Translation award of Columbia University
  • Women of Year nominated by America
  • Mandela Award by South Africa

 

     

 

       

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

       

     

     

     

     

     
     
     

      

            

    I Feel In My Bones

    My mother moved,
    like the earth,
    slowly , very slowly,
    imperceptibly.
    My mother cut,
    like water,
    through rocks of grief,
    drop after drop after drop.
    My mother endured,
    like the moon,
    every phase of pain,
    unfrowning , dauntless.
    My mother melted away,
    like a cloud ,
    leaving everything unsaid.

    She watched day-colours pour from the sky.
    She watched night dreams go soaring high.
    Her palms could hold a kilo of golden wheat.
    Her arms could ring such manly bodies.
    Mother , see how wretched we are,
    your mere shadows. Our breaths come
    heavy with disease. Crops are blighted
    where our shadows fall -- only wounds grow.
    Mother, you raised us in your arms,
    but how are we to gain your virtues?
    How can we change our sins into beauty?

    Anti-clockwise

    Even if my eyes become the soles of your feet
    even so, the fear will not leave you
    that though I cannot see
    I can feel bodies and sentences
    like a fragrance.

    Even if , for my own safety
    I rub my nose in the dirt till it becomes invisible
    even so, this fear will not leave you
    that though I cannot smell
    I can still say something.

    Even if my lips, singing praises of your godlines
    become dry and soulless
    even so, this fear will not leave you
    that though I cannot speak
    I can still walk.

    Even after you have tied the chains of domesticity
    shame and modesty around my feet
    even after you have paralysed me
    this fear will not leave you
    that even though I cannot walk
    I can still think.

    Your fear
    of being free, being alive
    and able to think
    might lead you , who knows into what travails.

    - translated from Urdu by Rukhsana Ahmed

     
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