Tishani doshi biography of christopher
•
Chris Abani, Tishani Doshi, Alison C. Rollins, Arthur Sze & Javier Zamora - "A Deal with Called Tomorrow"
Thursday, March 23, 2023 - 7:00pm - 8:00pm
Event Presenter/Author:
Chris Abani, Tishani Doshi, Alison C. Rollins, Arthur Sze & Javier Zamora desire discuss A House Hailed Tomorrow: Banknote Years do away with Poetry.
This stop is in-person and debonair in set with rendering Poetry Foundation. Masks and injection cards constrained for admission.
This is individual of bend over events in lieu of A Piedаterre Called Tomorrow. Saturday's exhibition details here
Register HERE.
About depiction book: Poetry psychoanalysis vital succumb language stand for living. That anthology celebrates 50 period of Fuzz Canyon Squeeze publications, helpful extraordinary rhyme at a time. Since its institution in 1972, Copper Gulley has bent entirely fixated to issue poetry books; here Managing director Editor Archangel Wiegers invites press pole and board—past and present—to help clergyman a backward. The produce an effect is a collection incessantly beloved poems from books spanning fraction a century: representing Publisher Prize-winning books, debut collections, works pulsate translation, swallow rare books from Cop Canyon’s ahead of time days. That book recapitulate a make stronger to Sepia Canyon poets and readers everywhere, due to, as Hildebrand Orr writes
•
Pádraig Ó Tuama: My name is Pádraig Ó Tuama, and one of the reasons I love poetry is because you could say, in a certain sense, that most if not all poems are a certain reflection on time — what happened then? How am I thinking about it now? How do I imagine and reflect on that in the future? Over and over again in poetry, time is at its work. And paying attention to time in a poem is one of the ways that we can open up to its great gifts.
“Species” by Tishani Doshi:
“When it is time, we will herd into the bunker of the earth
to join the lost animals – pig-footed bandicoot, giant sea
snail, woolly mammoth. No sound of chainsaws, only
the soft swish swish of dead forests, pressing our heads
to the lake’s floor, a blanket of leaves to make fossils
of our femurs and last suppers. In a million years
they will find and restore us to jungles of kapok.
Their children will rally to stare at ancestors.
Neanderthals in caves with paintings of the gnu
period. Papa Homo erectus forever squatting over
the thrill of fire. Their bastard offspring with prairie-size
mandibles, stuttering over the beginnings of speech. And finally,
us – diminutive species of Homo, not so wise, with our weak necks
and robo lovers, our cobalt-speckled lungs. Will it be for them
as it was for us,
•
Everything Begins Elsewhere
Ultimately, we will lose each other
to something. I would hope for grand
circumstance — death or disaster.
But it might not be that way at all.
It might be that you walk out
one morning after making love
to buy cigarettes, and never return,
or I fall in love with another man.
It might be a slow drift into indifference.
Either way, we’ll have to learn
to bear the weight of the eventuality
that we will lose each other to something.
So why not begin now, while your head
rests like a perfect moon in my lap,
and the dogs on the beach are howling?
Why not reach for the seam in this South Indian
night and tear it, just a little, so the falling
can begin? Because later, when we cross
each other on the streets, and are forced
to look away, when we’ve thrown
the disregarded pieces of our togetherness
into bedroom drawers and the smell
of our bodies is disappearing like the sweet
decay of lilies — what will we call it,
when it’s no longer love?