Matiullah
Turab is nearly illiterate. He is a metal smith by day and poet by night. He
relies on his mind to retain his poems.
“A
poet’s job is not to write about love,” he growls, his booming voice blending
with the ambient noise of the workshop. “A poet’s job is not to write about
flowers. A poet must write about the plight and pain of the people.”
That’s
Turab’s choice. He is a people of the poet.
“With
his unflinching words, Mr. Turab offers a voice for Afghans grown cynical about
the war and its perpetrators: the Americans, the Taliban, the Afghan
government, Pakistan.”
Even
in translation, his poetry exhibits brilliance:
War
has turned into a trade
Heads
have been sold
as
if they weigh like cotton,
and
at the scales sit such judges
who
taste the blood, then decide the price
Or:
O
flag-beareres of the world,
you
have pained us a lot in the name of
security
you
cry of peace and security,
and
you dispatch guns and ammunition
Or:
O
graveyard of skulls and oppression
Rip
this earth open and come out
They
taunt me with your blood,
and
you lie intoxicated with thoughts of virgins.
[From the International Herald Tribune - Pakistan print edition]
See the full story in the New York Times of August 19, or International Herald Tribune of August 20, 2013. Here is the link:
See the full story in the New York Times of August 19, or International Herald Tribune of August 20, 2013. Here is the link:
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