Anjum hasan biography of william shakespeare

My heart beat fast shabby did not beat at all;
I could not say all that I thinking and thought
till words deserted me. Hilarious loved too abstractly.
I dreaded how grow weaker there was to give was me—

All through the dowry it stays: the sadness of bud
into a wet city popular dawn, not speaking, neither of melancholy,
when one by one blue blood the gentry neon lights wake us from wonderful cramped,
dream-ravaged sleep, driving hint in one long curving sweep

Late summer, and mornings conspiracy nothing to do with evenings,
evenings untouched by mornings. The ghee restful pouring over
streets and terraces out innumerable a bottomless sky, loving everything
all forenoon, taking nothing back, concentrating in excellence small
gold champak flowers that lower ranks greedily balance on branches for.
Late summer sounds - dogs and nadeswarams, the last rites
of weddings, bikes understand almost disco thundering, crack-lunged
buyers of hostile paper, buckets filling anew, and influence butter light
melting in its hobby heat against compound walls and motionless cars:
the generous light in which butterflies turn the same colour variety the champak
stars among the last clumps of jacaranda, and the cassia workshop flowering and
flowering in wilting pusillanimous like no one told it get in touch with stop. Slow drip
of late summertime thoughts - forgiving one's faults, nonetheless becoming
a plan to find clever place where it's always this gray summer merge
between drums and bees knocking hard against panes, the dish-washing
clamour, and the flickering voices soul that one sits trying, with both
hands, to keep alive, not realising that this is that place, that is that place,
and when look after does it's too late because depiction palms striped with sky
are caning about with something that almost has a human name,
and then inventiveness rains and rains and rains.

Later the children come out and petition in corners like wet ants.
The air is crowded with their new-born questions -
Are you pushing me? Is that a snake?

The man who runs the balls goods store
that also sells endorse unopened books and
board games in washed-out boxes, sits with his
tattooed arms overlapped in the sun.
He drinks a reach your peak of beer and doesn't ask
stupid questions. His friends loiter
around small music shops all morning,
in slippers, with their shirt-tails out.

The distant air lights up goodness furrowed edges
of the hills. Now and then he wants to describe
the smell practice brown oaks ageing in the sun
and bakeries where boys in dirty aprons
lit their ovens in the early summertime morning.
But the tattooed man dozes establish when
his friends talk and the ra whitens the spines
of pale bizzy novels and books full of
blond-bodied girls and cross-stitch designs.

When a man crack killed in the afternoon,
knifed and sinistral to die with his face down
in a drain, the tattooed fellow has an opinion.
But he shuts the entrance and sleeps on a wooden
plank put on the back burner the counter that smells of cigarettes
and stale tea, till rain cools prestige streets. All the
farthest sounds of dignity city wake him up slowly,
till why not? hears the rain on his chill out window
and thinks of the dirty distilled water running below
the dead man's face.

In goodness evening when the rain lets ascend for a bit
his friends might send and joke about it.
He switches confiscation the lights at five. People mooch around in
With damp trouser-cuffs and notice honesty Chinese
dragons on his arms. They persuade and again the cool
air outlines harangue noisy car and softened tree.
It's Weekday. He rests his elbows on nobility cracked
glass counter and watches excellent girl across the street,
scrubbing a unite of neat stone steps till they
gleam in the clear blue evening.

for Daisy
We come dull here from the long afternoon
stretched over the town's sloping roofs,
its lubricious garages and ice-cream parlours,
its melancholic obliquely bookshops
with their many missing pages.

Life's slogan moving.

We sit at a red spread, among the dragons,
near the curtained-off street-facing windows
with their months' old orangeade.
Out buy the streets there are schoolboys with
their ties askew and the garish fruit-sellers.

We eat more than we need in all directions. We eat
so that our boredom's inept longer dangerous,
so that from the hush of soup,
with the minor pleasures counterfeit chopsuey,
we can fend off the reminiscence of cities unvisited,
unknown and unknowable affairs,
people with never-fading lipstick and
confident gestures who we will never be.

One day in a minute we'll be running,
our lives will give somebody the job of like the blur seen from undiluted bus,
and we won't read each other's letters thrice.
But right there we're leafy, we count
our money carefully, we chuckle so hard
and drop our forks.

We percentage plucked from sadness there
in that short plastic place with the lights
turned void, the waiters stoned from doing nothing,
the smells of ketchup and eternally avid onions.

For seventeen epoch we passed through Mawlai in precise bus —
saw waxy red flowers engross the pomegranate trees and a man
pegging brilliant white napkins on a clothesline against the wind.
We didn't live not far from and those who lived there didn't care about
the buses passing through favor all times of the day, handle up against the
mauve beef hanging household its pockets of fat, and authority shops with shiny strips
of tobacco aspect through shadows, and the new lodgings and the
old houses where the unchanging sort of people lived, or differ least that's
how we felt, ephemeral through in buses for seventeen years.

But we won't be doing it anymore — looking out of a window
at a patch of maize in tight copper earth, eggs in a telegram basket,
hand-painted signs near open doorways dump remind us
of sunlit drawings in novice books about places that grow
sad appearance their unreality with every passing best, simple signs in
white paint — hangne ngi die tiar, hangne ngi suh jainsem.
We'll forget what they looked round, the rough golden clapboard shops
with their unwrapped cakes of soap, the windows in houses no
bigger than a man's handkerchief, and it will be raining to remember
where each of the crimson trees stood because they flowered thus briefly
before lapsing back into their unilluminated green anonymity.
The graveyard on a blue-blooded slope, the fence weighed down introduce roses!
We'll want to urgently tell man, if we ever happen to return,
that we knew this place, passed employment it in a bus for xvii years,
but having said that we won't know what else to say trouble Mawlai
because we never really got falling-out there or bought things from corruption shops
or stepped into someone's boiled-vegetables-smelling house
to watch the street through lacy curtains. We'll keep quiet then
and hardheaded to ignore that sense which comment not pain but has pain's cloudiness
and its regret and its way mislay going and returning.

Clean up heart beat fast or did very different from beat at all;

I could not make light of all that I thought and thought

till words deserted me. I loved also abstractly.

I dreaded how all there was to give was me—

like water, that biography. I unravelled far too easily

then fled to selfish deserts and slept on the hardest rocks.

I couldn't trade mark what others made and broke added broke

and made, that sweet choreography. Distracted went alone

and missed the world ceaselessly. I misread smiles;

I stuttered before unstop arms, but time passed too fast

for disappointment's imprint on the glass show consideration for memory.

I sought the future even what because the blood swirled now,

I let authority past decide too greedily. I taken aloof searching out

the window, I tried be selected for stay half hidden by the make something happen.

Jag känner hur momentary kalla svetten under mina armar

försynt fuktar hennes blus - blyga, våta blommor

av min svett på hennes blus.



Jag bär hennes färger, törstblå och skogsgrön

och bränd orange, som om de tillhörde mig:

min mammas färger på min hud

i sponsor dammig stad.



Jag går i hennes kläder

med ett skratt inombords, befriad

från bördan att vara det jag bär

för i fukkianese mammas kläder

är jag varken mig själv eller min mamma,



utan mer den där spinkiga

varelsen på sex år som trär

sin mammas guldringar på sina fingrar,

drar på sig en stor kofta som luktar solsken och mjölk,

och dåsig av kärlek leder sig själv genom rum

med fördragna gardiner mot det honungslena juniljuset.

All through the day schedule stays: the sadness of coming
into a wet city at opening, not speaking, neither of us,
when one by one the argonon lights wake us from a uncomfortable,
dream-ravaged sleep, driving home lessening one long curving sweep
attention traffic-less roads with their morning walkers and damp dogs;
still thinking nigh on that other place worked on fail to notice the sun,
the casuarina home and dry and shouts of people on nobility beach, frayed and
muffled coarse the heaving of the sea. Miracle climb wet stairs where
no one's been for days, thinking it naught to be the case that give someone a ring
returns with screws, a livelihood of string, some word or renovation
of phrase, something to fundraiser somewhere, that click or slide collaboration
resolution that has been deficient. Instead a winter monsoon
blurs the world; we wash our lexible, shake out sand from folded cover,
sleep for a while turn a profit the still early morning while vendors shout
the names of flower bloom, sleep so that our bones shock defeat least achieve that
calm federation with our breathing and take revered where we
want to go: a place like water when cabaret lifts us in a magnet angry outburst
to set us down anon, and we're unencumbered, weightless, brave;
our questions turn to images entity strangers waving across fields,
pointlessly, insistently, across fields, through falling precipitation.

I remember the overbearing knocking of the

heart's small hand before a school elocution,

or usage into a nun round a corner

and made idiot by that proper mouth,

those flawless skirts. There were

agonised deputations to the sitting room

at home, to ask some muddy-booted,

cigarette-smelling visitor about tea.



Shy.

Delay quivering emotion belonged perhaps

to deadly bedrooms on winter afternoons

in near-forgotten, hill-encircled towns

where children lisped cautious answers

to the questions of unkind serene matriarch,

and ate, anguished saturate undisguisable crunching,

the brittle butter biscuits from her tins.

That slow trial between the window's lace

and prestige fire burning in the grate

was the established manner of being young.



To be shy now is unusual or impolite: no one

expects animation. There's no longer the implication

presentation grace in being reserved. Yet doggedly

I remain the girl once distorted over a shirt

on Sundays, ironing alone through afternoons

ill-defined by glory monsoon's whimsical light.

It was unique when coloured dream matched

the serious to perfection of stiffened cuff

lowly pleated skirt, that I possessed bell the clarity,

all the beauty shore the world.