Aria Aber
Si Aria Aber nagdakula sa Germany kun sain an saiyang mga magurang Afghan refugee. An saiyang librong Hard Damage (University of Nebraska Press, 2019), nanggana nin Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry.[1] Sa presente siya sarong parasurat na nakabase sa Oakland asin nagseserbe bilang Li Shen Visiting Writer sa Mills College. An saiyang mga tula maluwas o nagruluwas na sa The New Yorker, Poetry Magazine, Kenyon Review, The Poetry Review asin iba pa. [2] Siya man an 2018-2019 Ron Wallace Fellow sa Unibersidad kan Wisconsin-Madison asin naggana sa 2020 Whiting Award. [3]
Hard Damage baguhon
An Hard Damage sarong katipunan nin mga tula na minahapot manungod sa sadiri asin sa mga pagkukulang kaini. Sa saiyang mga liriko asin haros dokumentaryong mga tula, pirming pigbabalikan ni Aber an relasyon Afghan-American. Masususog pa sa taon na 1950, kun sain pigkokonsidera an kinaabtan kan relasyon na ini partikularmente an pagpopondo kan mga Afghan mujahedeen na nagresulta man sa terorismong paghiro kan mga Taliban. [4] Pira sa mga nagtarau nin mga marhay na tuyaw digdi iyo an The Paris Review (staff picks), GQ, The Rumpus,Chicago Review of Books,Publishers Weekly,Atticus Review,NY Journal of Books,daniellejhanson.com, America Magazine, Catherine Barnett, kagsurat kan Human Hours,Sally Wen Mao, kagsurat kan Oculus, Yusef Komunyakaa, kagsurat kan The Emperor of Water Clocks, asin si Solmaz Sharif, kagsurat kan LOOK. [5]
Pira sa mga tula ni Aber baguhon
Nostos baguhon
Afghan officials say they have uncovered a mass grave in an underground prison on the outskirts of the capital, Kabul, which dates from the Soviet era. —BBC News, 2007
Lately I’ve been moved by how
the skeletons were found: skulls with cloth
around the eyes, wrist bones tied by rope—
a miracle that fabric (what color
was it, what material?) has touched,
even witnessed, the suffering of those
two thousand men, who stood naked
with their eyes bound and were raped before
they were shot. Among them we suspect
lie my great-grandfather’s
and my mother’s youngest brother’s
remains. What is it with the disappeared
that survival, this dumb extravagance, insults us
so? I felt nothing when I slayed the Hajis,
my student, an ex-Marine, wrote.
In fact, those barbarians fell easy, like buildings
in Mazar-e-Sharif. What could I have
said? I praised the urgency of subject,
her apt simile. To fight, you understand,
was aimless. I’ve been primed for this,
for disappearance, for all my life. I dreamt
of my student that night, her voice muscling
the soft framework of memory, whistling
Leiche, Leiche, Leiche. Dearest, I wonder why
in English the body is both dead
and alive, but I know the blight of grief
has a heart and thus will love, and learn, and thusly
learn to hate—I want to believe that he, too,
settled porous into the light. He was twenty-one
when they took him in for questioning.
My uncle, I mean. Do not return, my mother
shouts from her sleep. Do not
return. His eyes were green. [6]
First Snow baguhon
How easy for snow to turn to ice, for snow
to disappear the light from the ragged
frame of chestnut trees around the warehouse
by what’s left of wild chicory, scraped
sculptures, weeping dogbane. Hunger borders
this land, while snow turns all to immigrants,
snow salts the embankment, where turtles wash ashore,
literally hundreds of them, frozen hard
like grenades of tear gas thrown across
a barbwire fence. But who of their free
will would ever want to climb that fence
to live here, who would pray each night
for grace, hoping to pass through the darkened veil
of shit, to bear witness to smokestacks,
wild champion, knapweed? Who’d loiter around cricks
glistening with oil, which, once gone,
will, like death, at last, democratize
us all? On potato sacks in the snowcapped,
abandoned warehouse, there huddle and sit
the soiled refugees, bereft, cow-eyed,
picking dirt off their scalps, their shelled soles.
Among them, wordless, is my mother,
and nestled on her lap is I, in love with the light
of the first snow of my life, so awed
and doubtful still of what lengths the frost wills
to go, and what shape it will then take— [7]
Hades baguhon
Where did he go? I asked.
Where do the missing ever go?
Imagine silence, the tyrant, growing thick
over the casket lowered into the ground
with nothing resting on
its leather—just the red daybook
and the shirt of Rolling Stones scented still
with pine and cheap cologne, tobacco.
An entire population sunk
to the bottom of the sea. Plastic forks, black boxes.
Daily, filtered light gleams
on the gold teeth of the disappeared. There’s a pile
of nameless bones eroding the soil
under a thousand hungry mouths
of Himalayan blue poppy. And bullet casings
litter the dirt, glimmering like coins. A cloth
that, weighted with ice water, slapped his face
the way a mother would in rage
and grief. The day they buried into earth
the thing without the body,
all the apple blossoms, I heard, floated
back into the gaunt arms of trees.[8]
Toltolan baguhon
- ↑ https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/aria-aber
- ↑ https://www.ariaaber.com/
- ↑ https://poets.org/poet/aria-aber
- ↑ https://www.amazon.com/Damage-Prairie-Schooner-Prize-Poetry/dp/1496215702
- ↑ https://www.ariaaber.com/hard-damage-1
- ↑ https://yalereview.yale.edu/nostos
- ↑ https://yalereview.yale.edu/first-snow
- ↑ https://yalereview.yale.edu/hades