Poetry. South Asian Studies. The meeting of times, a secret basement press, the beauty of Urdu, a broken god, the Buddhas of Bamiyan, a woman's riotous tresses are some of the lush images that weave the rich and complex tapestry of poems in Stones Hold Water. The female speaker rejoices in her Indus Valley heritage even as she repines in poems of heartbreak and religious extremism. These poems traverse a landscape of love and loss, bringing the past to our present, expressing unfathomable grief and abiding self-discovery through lyrical storytelling. We find portals - through the melding of language and lore - to spaces redolent with the sights, sounds, smells of Pakistan. Spaces that inspire fear and courage, connection and contention.
Poetry. South Asian Studies. The meeting of times, a secret basement press, the beauty of Urdu, a broken god, the Buddhas of Bamiyan, a woman's riotous tresses are some of the lush images that weave the rich and complex tapestry of poems in Stones Hold Water. The female speaker rejoices in her Indus Valley heritage even as she repines in poems of heartbreak and religious extremism. These poems traverse a landscape of love and loss, bringing the past to our present, expressing unfathomable grief and abiding self-discovery through lyrical storytelling. We find portals - through the melding of language and lore - to spaces redolent with the sights, sounds, smells of Pakistan. Spaces that inspire fear and courage, connection and contention.
THE MANGO TREE
I
The villagers mark time
by the angle of the mango tree’s
shadow across the square.
Its roots pulse like arteries under the village.
II
The elders argue politics, land
feuds and progress under
the leafy canopy. Mango slivers,
plucked from ice buckets, disappear
under drooping mustaches,
peels sucked white and clean.
The men work the fields.
III
Nearby, over mud-clay walls,
the women gossip, squalling
burdens clutched to hips.
Toddlers trip towards the chickens.
Fresh-rinsed dupattas flutter
in the breeze – crimson, orange, blue!
All breathe deep the air, redolent
with the incense of mango chutneys,
fruit-flesh bubbling on brick stoves.
IV
Impatient with writing slates,
sling-shotting comrades, we stare
longingly at the succulent fruit
bending the branches.
The teacher and the bees drone.
V
Every summer the tree grows
that one juicy, unblemished mango—
perfectly pulp-fattened.
How to sneak up and pin a name-slip
on that king of fruits? The race
to get the golden trophy.
Sometimes, the crows get to it first.
VI
Still, sticky evenings,
we corner Old Nani-Ma
on sun-toasted charpoys
till she spins dreams of sorcerers and
djinns, whose souls can be wrung
out of parrots sitting in mango trees.
LORE
At dusk, the women come to the courtyard
between the huts and cast stories around the fire
feeding on the slow roast of their days. Time to forget
the heavy sun they carried for hours,
rattling in dry pitchers, until they flushed it out
at the nearest well two villages away. Now,
in the night, they pull thorns from their tread
and tuck secrets down each other's breasts
while the men sleep off moonshine and truck shifts.
The crones pass on their lives to the tribe
and teach gypsy girls how to curve flesh against
stropping desert winds without mislaying themselves.
Clan songs of dusty lands with vulture skies
lift off the drum and swirl into constellations.
MAGHREB
“Tie back your hair” my abbess-strict
grandmother orders. “Day in farewell
to Night is the heavy hour when djinns
possess maidens with unbound locks.”
Why should they not
fix their whispers in the black fall
of my tresses, their smokeless fire
directing my touches, the banked surges
of my body finally unloosed
from all the knots holding me in place?
Heedless, eyes lashed to the sky, comb arrested
midstroke between birdsong and cricket call,
I watch the last aureate streak fade to twilight –
the path of a demon-lover crossing the dusk,
searching for me.
JIDDOJOHAD
I read the Roznama Jang
to my grandfather’s cataracts,
seer-white in sunlight.
“JIDDojohad, not JADDojohad,” he corrects
as my eleven years struggle with the careful Urdu
of journalists, while beneath our feet
a secret basement press hums
words dying on tongues, welted off backs,
choked into cuffed hands.
A bulb sparks over democratized
print, ink-smudged fingers screw clean
from acetone-soaked muslin. Man-high piles
of foolscap lean against foundations. I learn
how to crease sentences into books
that get transported in the hushed dark
by tarp-covered wheelbarrows.
In Stones Hold Water, Zakia R. Khwaja explores gender roles, love, family dynamics, religion, sociopolitical turmoil, cultural food, and heritage. Khwaja emanates a rich passion for her upbringing and identity through a series of intensely lyrical poems. Within each poem lives beautifully crafted metaphors that ignite a deep sense of poetic imagery.
One of my favorite poems from Stones Hold Water is "The Broken God." While I am not familiar with the complexities of the political and social turmoil that took place in Pakistan during 2014, this poem in particular reveals how equally connected and disconnected people are from war. In other words, there lives a hopefulness when Khwaja places the "alabaster Zeus / on the top shelf...," but at the end of the poem we see how it ultimately falls to the ground and breaks. The connection with the outside world lies in her hope for change, justice and peace. However, the disconnect remains in her inability, as one person, to actually put an end to the chaos and destruction. Although prayer provides comfort, it often does very little to reverse the harm that others have already committed.
I love how Khwaja imbues her poetry with aspects of her family life. In "Mosquito Net," "Fading," "Jiddojohad," and "Nastaliq," I noticed her reference to specific family members as well as their idiosyncrasies—all of which seem to have imprinted a certain amount of solace on Khwaja's memories. These poems in particular are quite comforting to read since family has such a fundamental stronghold on our lives.
At the end of the book, there is a glossary of certain terms and Urdu phrases that are graciously translated. However, I wish that these lived in a footnote of the corresponding poem. I think my understanding of each poem may have acquired a bit more depth if I had known what each Urdu word meant right as I was reading the poem. Nonetheless, I don't think that this significantly took away from my ability to fully indulge in each poem, but it certainly would have added to my reading experience.
Overall, I would recommend Stones Hold Water. Perhaps it is due to my ignorance of South Asian, specifically Pakistani, political and social issues that I did not rate this book higher. Although, this poetry book is probably a wonderful invitation to learn more about South Asian history. For me, I thoroughly enjoy a book when I can relate to the writer, but I personally did not resonate with the content of most of the poems. However, I deeply appreciate the well-crafted metaphors and lyricism, which is why I would still recommend this book to other readers!
(Thank you Reedsy Discovery for providing me with a free ARC of Stones Hold Water. All opinions expressed are my own.)