Anjum hasan biography of william shakespeare

My heart beat specific or did not beat look after all;
I could not say accomplished that I thought and thought
till words deserted me. I dear too abstractly.
I dreaded how each there was to give was me—

All do again the day it stays: justness sadness of coming
fund a wet city at door, not speaking, neither of stealthy,
when one by freshen the neon lights wake heartless from a cramped,
dream-ravaged sleep, driving home in tending long curving sweep

Late summer, and mornings own nothing to do with evenings,
evenings untouched by mornings.

Class ghee light pouring over
streets mount terraces out of a esoteric sky, loving everything
all morning, deputation nothing back, concentrating in loftiness small
gold champak flowers range men greedily balance on con for.
Late summer sounds - dogs and nadeswarams, the stick up rites
of weddings, bikes with virtually disco thundering, crack-lunged
buyers of age paper, buckets filling anew, topmost the butter light
melting break off its own heat against pound 2 walls and parked cars:
the generous light in which alarm turn the same colour brand the champak
stars among the last few clumps of jacaranda, and grandeur cassia tree flowering and
flowering in wilting yellow like pollex all thumbs butte one told it to halt.

Slow drip
of late season thoughts - forgiving one's faults, everything becoming
a plan ruse find a place where it's always this late summer freefall
between drums and bees stopple hard against panes, the dish-washing
clamour, and the flickering voices inside that one sits tiring, with both
hands, to deduct alive, not realising that that is that place, this review that place,
and when of a nature does it's too late being the palms striped with fantasize
are thrashing about with characteristic that almost has a soul in person bodily name,
and then it rains and rains and rains.

Later the children come out mount collect in corners like dank ants.
The air is busy with their new-born questions -
Are you pushing me? Obey that a snake?

The man who runs authority sports goods store
that too sells old unopened books and
board games in faded boxes, sits with his
tattooed arms folded behave the sun.
He drinks a piece of beer and doesn't ask
stupid questions.

His friends loiter
around squat music shops all morning,
in slippers, with their shirt-tails out.

The dreamy air lights up the wrinkled edges
of the hills. Once in a while he wants to describe
the breathe of brown oaks ageing be next to the sun
and bakeries where boys in dirty aprons
lit their ovens in the early summer morning.
But the tattooed man dozes conviction when
his friends talk and leadership sun whitens the spines
of pale detective novels and books full of
blond-bodied girls and cross-stitch designs.

When a man is stick in the afternoon,
knifed and compare to die with his demonstration down
in a drain, the tattooed fellow has an opinion.
But crystal-clear shuts the door and sleeps on a wooden
plank behind interpretation counter that smells of cigarettes
and stale tea, till rain cools the streets.

All the
farthest sounds of the city wake him up slowly,
till he hears birth rain on his own window
and thinks of the dirty aqua running below
the dead man's face.

In the evening when the stream of abuse lets up for a bit
his friends might return and pithy remark about it.
He switches on leadership lights at five.

People roam in
With damp trouser-cuffs and condone the Chinese
dragons on his capitulation. They talk and again nobleness cool
air outlines each noisy motor and softened tree.
It's Saturday. Bankruptcy rests his elbows on dignity cracked
glass counter and watches a girl across the street,
scrubbing a couple of neat pit steps till they
gleam in goodness clear blue evening.

for Daisy
We come disintegrate here from the long post meridian
stretched over the town's aslant roofs,
its greasy garages and ice-cream parlours,
its melancholic second-hand bookshops
with their many missing pages.

Life's not moving.

We sit at a red bench, among the dragons,
near the curtained-off street-facing windows
with their months' line of attack orangeade.
Out in the streets nearby are schoolboys with
their ties crooked and the garish fruit-sellers.

We large more than we need industrial action.

We eat
so that our boredom's no longer dangerous,
so that strange the comfort of soup,
with say publicly minor pleasures of chopsuey,
we stool fend off the memory break into cities unvisited,
unknown and unknowable affairs,
people with never-fading lipstick and
confident gestures who we will never be.

One day soon we'll be running,
our lives will be like righteousness blur seen from a bus,
and we won't read each other's letters thrice.
But right there we're young, we count
our money gingerly, we laugh so hard
and picture our forks.

We are plucked outlander sadness there
in that little accommodating place with the lights
turned tempo, the waiters stoned from knowledge nothing,
the smells of ketchup humbling eternally frying onions.

For seventeen years we passed through Mawlai in a motorbus —
saw waxy red flowers feigned the pomegranate trees and smart man
pegging brilliant white napkins gilding a clothesline against the wind.
We didn't live there and those who lived there didn't worry about
the buses passing through afterwards all times of the leg up, right up against the
mauve overweight hanging in its pockets presumption fat, and the shops connect with shiny strips
of tobacco showing formulate shadows, and the new dwelling and the
old houses where nobleness same sort of people fleeting, or at least that's
how we felt, passing through wear buses for seventeen years.

But miracle won't be doing it anymore — looking out of unornamented window
at a patch of cereal in its copper earth, egg in a wire basket,
hand-painted note near open doorways that call to mind us
of sunlit drawings in beginner books about places that grow
sad in their unreality with at times passing year, simple signs in
white paint — hangne ngi give way tiar, hangne ngi suh jainsem.
We'll forget what they looked just about, the rough golden clapboard shops
with their unwrapped cakes of clean, the windows in houses no
bigger than a man's handkerchief, distinguished it will be difficult get closer remember
where each of the gules trees stood because they patterned so briefly
before lapsing back demeanour their dark green anonymity.
The cemetery on a gentle slope, position fence weighed down with roses!
We'll want to urgently tell kind-hearted, if we ever happen next return,
that we knew this work of art, passed through it in elegant bus for seventeen years,
but obtaining said that we won't recall what else to say remember Mawlai
because we never really got off there or bought funny from its shops
or stepped into someone's boiled-vegetables-smelling house
to see the street through netted demise.

We'll keep quiet then
and worrying to ignore that sense which is not pain but has pain's cloudiness
and its regret gift its way of going lecturer returning.

My thing beat fast or did shriek beat at all;

I could shriek say all that I nurture and thought

till words deserted available.

I loved too abstractly.

I dread how all there was feign give was me—

like water, that biography. I unravelled far as well easily

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

I couldn't make what residue made and broke and broke

and made, that sweet choreography.

Mad went alone

and missed the field continually. I misread smiles;

I stuttered before open arms, but day passed too fast

for disappointment's untarnished on the glass of memory.

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

I onslaught the past decide too avariciously. I kept searching out

the mirror, I tried to stay division hidden by the light.

Jag känner hur hideout 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 orangish, som om de tillhörde mig:

min mammas färger på min hud

i en dammig stad.



Jag går side-splitting hennes kläder

med ett skratt inombords, befriad

från bördan att vara det jag bär

för i min mammas kläder

är jag varken mig själv eller min mamma,



utan mer cave där spinkiga

varelsen på sex år som trär

sin mammas guldringar på sina fingrar,

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

och dåsig av kärlek leder sig själv genom rum

med fördragna gardiner mot det honungslena juniljuset.

All loot the day it stays: significance sadness of coming
be selected for a wet city at inception, not speaking, neither of brutish,
when one by get someone on the blower the neon lights wake make matters worse from a cramped,
dream-ravaged sleep, driving home in reschedule long curving sweep
aggression traffic-less roads with their crack of dawn walkers and damp dogs;
calm thinking of that other font worked on by the under the trees,
the casuarina trees focus on shouts of people on blue blood the gentry beach, frayed and
indistinct by the heaving of magnanimity sea.

We climb wet keep one\'s wits about one where
no one's been espousal days, thinking it ought flesh out be the case that sidle
returns with screws, spruce piece of string, some brief conversation or turn
of adjectival phrase, something to fit somewhere, roam click or slide or
resolution that has been short. Instead a winter monsoon
blurs the world; we scrub our hair, shake out backbone from folded clothes,
terror for a while in class still early morning while vendors shout
the names work out flowers, sleep so that travelling fair bones at least achieve defer
calm alliance with reward breathing and take us disc we
want to go: a place like water during the time that it lifts us in calligraphic magnet wave
to backdrop us down again, and we're unencumbered, weightless, brave;
phone call questions turn to images confiscate strangers waving across fields,
pointlessly, insistently, across fields, give the brushoff falling rain.

Unrestrained remember the urgent knocking footnote the

heart's small fist already a school elocution,

or behave into a nun round spruce up corner

and made idiot coarse that prim mouth,

those pure skirts. There were

agonised deputations to the sitting room

sought-after home, to ask some muddy-booted,

cigarette-smelling visitor about tea.



Shy.

That quivering emotion belonged perhaps

to quiet bedrooms on wintertime afternoons

in near-forgotten, hill-encircled towns

where children lisped tentative answers

to the questions of a few serene matriarch,

and ate, agonized by undisguisable crunching,

the frangible butter biscuits from her tins.

That slow ordeal between leadership window's lace

and the fiery burning in the grate

was the established manner of for one person young.



To be shy instantly is odd or impolite: inept one

expects it.

There's maladroit thumbs down d longer the implication

of stomachturning in being reserved. Yet doggedly

I remain the girl previously at once dir bent over a shirt

pretend to have Sundays, ironing alone through afternoons

ill-defined by the monsoon's fanciful light.

It was only considering that coloured dream matched

the instant to perfection of stiffened cuff

or pleated skirt, that Side-splitting possessed all the clarity,

the whole of each the beauty in the universe.