{"id":162664,"date":"2022-12-08T11:22:29","date_gmt":"2022-12-08T16:22:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=162664"},"modified":"2022-12-08T11:21:44","modified_gmt":"2022-12-08T16:21:44","slug":"the-leap","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/12\/08\/the-leap\/","title":{"rendered":"The Leap"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Starling<\/a>. Photograph by Raman Kumar, via Wikimedia Commons. Licensed under CC0 4.0.<\/p><\/div>\n

The poet Agha Shahid Ali died of brain cancer in Amherst, Massachusetts, a world away from the beloved Kashmir of his childhood, twenty-one years ago today. The title of the book he published that year,<\/em> Rooms Are Never Finished, testifies to the unfinished work of a writer whose life ended too soon, at the age of fifty-two.<\/em><\/p>\n

In his first poem published in\u00a0<\/em>The Paris Review, \u201cSnow on the Desert<\/a>,\u201d Ali wrote about another singer interrupted mid-performance<\/em>:<\/p>\n

\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 in New Delhi one night as
\nBegum Akhtar sang, the lights went out. It<\/p>\n

was perhaps during the Bangladesh War,
\nperhaps there were sirens,<\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0air-raid warnings.
\nBut the audience, hushed, did not stir.<\/p>\n

The microphone was dead, but she went on
\nsinging, and her voice<\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0was coming from far
\naway, as if she had already died.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Ali, too, continued to sing after darkness had fallen, with the posthumous publication of his landmark collection of ghazals,\u00a0<\/em>Call Me Ishmael Tonight, in 2003. Few poets have done so much to further our contemporary appreciation of the ghazal\u2014an ancient Arabic verse form that\u2019s shaped the historical course of classical Persian and modern Indian poetry over many centuries. What Ali once called the ghazal\u2019s \u201cravishing disunities\u201d have been adopted by American poets from Daniel Hall<\/a> to Reginald Dwayne Betts, Patricia Smith, and countless young writers in introductory poetry workshops today.<\/em><\/p>\n

I teach the poems of\u00a0<\/em>Call Me Ishmael Tonight, including \u201cA Ghazal for Michael Palmer<\/a>,\u201d to my students every year. Though I never met Ali, it\u2019s a way of remembering him. I learn something new from his poetry whenever I revisit it, and on the anniversary of his death, we\u2019re fortunate enough to share a new ghazal by one of Ali’s own former students, the poet Daniel Beachy-Quick, in memory of the \u201cThe mind \/ Love rushes through.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u2014Srikanth “Chicu” Reddy, poetry editor<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

The Leap
\n<\/strong>\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u2014in memory, Agha Shahid Ali<\/p>\n

The Belov\u00e9d is here, at his old desk, in the dark wood attic of the mind\u2014
\nA starling sits in a chair, a student who brought a poem, learning love\u2019s mind.<\/p>\n

The Belov\u00e9d tells a story about his mother in Kashmir, of her ring
\nThrough which she pulled the radiant yards of a sari, an image of the mind\u2019s<\/p>\n

Nature, poor starling\u2014not the sun-bright pure silk which cannot be yours, but the ring
\nWorn behind the eyes, ring you cannot take off, wed to what, dear starling? The mind<\/p>\n

Love rushes through, leaving behind no saffron thread, no saffron scent, no crocus,
\nNo continent. The heart lives on the wound that\u2019s killing it. The nostalgist\u2019s mind<\/p>\n

Is cartographer of that wound\u2014golden grapes grow plump in the tagine, the blood
\nPheasants hide in the meadow below the mountains, & God casts down into the mind\u2019s<\/p>\n

Gloom another sullen angel. A gazelle licks her wound. Put your faith in form
\nWas the hidden lesson, never said. Was, is. Eternity grammars the mind<\/p>\n

Into ever stranger tenses. The Belov\u00e9d sits in the attic at his desk
\nStill waiting for a starling to bring a poem, decades since the tumor in the mind<\/p>\n

That killed his mother killed him, too. I heard the report on the FM radio
\nIn cold Chicago. What breaks the form break the<\/p>\n

Mind. But doesn\u2019t break time. What does? Ask the gazelle for a lesson on rhyme.
\nNow countless starlings murmur around me, reciting the same song, never mind <\/em><\/p>\n

Never mind<\/em>. & me, a starling, too. \u201cQuick, quick, goes the starling,\u201d do you know that poem?
\nThat\u2019s what you asked me when you met me. Hearing my name. Oh, Belov\u00e9d\u2014never mind<\/em>.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dan Beachy<\/span>–Quick<\/span> is a poet, essayist, and translator. His most recent books are\u00a0<\/em>Arrows\u00a0(Tupelo 2020) and a collection of ancient Greek verse,<\/em>\u00a0Stone-Garland\u00a0(Milkweed Editions, 2020).<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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