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I once chased my brother Down to the edge of the sea. We ran past sheets and towels Spread like sky on the beach,…
Tishani Doshi is an Indian poet, journalist and dancer based in Chennai. Born in Madras, India, to a Welsh mother and Gujarati father, she received an Eric Gregory Award in 2001. Her first poetry collection, Countries of the Body, won the 2006 Forward Poetry Prize for best first collection.She has been invited to the poetry galas of the Guardian-sponsored Hay Festival of 2006 and the Cartagena Hay Festival of 2007. Her first novel, The Pleasure Seekers, was published by Bloomsbury in 2010 and was long-listed for the Orange Prize in 2011, and shortlisted for The Hindu Best Fiction Award in 2010. She writes a blog titled "Hit or Miss" on Cricinfo, a cricket-related website. In the blog which she started writing in April 2009, Tishani Doshi makes observations and commentaries as a television viewer of the second season of the Indian Premier League. She is also collaborating with cricketer Muttiah Muralitharan on his biography, to be published when he retires. She works as a freelance writer and worked with choreographer Chandralekha until the latter's death in December 2006. She graduated with a Masters degree in creative writing from the Johns Hopkins University. Countries of the Body was launched in 2006 at the Hay-on-Wye festival on a platform with Seamus Heaney, Margaret Atwood, and others. The opening poem, The Day we went to the Sea, won the 2005 British Council supported All India Poetry Competition; she was also a finalist in the Outlook-Picador Non-Fiction Competition. Her short story Lady Cassandra, Spartacus and the dancing man was published in its entirety in the journal The Drawbridge in 2007.)
Tishani Doshi şiirleri
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My lover has failed to come to the trysting place, It is perhaps that his mind is dazed, Or perhaps that he went to another woman, Or lured perhaps by festive folk, that he delays,…
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Rilke is following me everywhere With his tailor-made suits And vegetarian smile.…
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Dear Reader, I agree to turn my skin inside out, to reinvent every lost word, to burnish, to steal, to do what I must…
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I arrived in a foreign land yesterday, a land that has seen troubles, (who hasn't, you might say?) This land…
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Girls are coming out of the woods, wrapped in cloaks and hoods, carrying iron bars and candles and a multitude of scars, collected…
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Let us not speak of those days when coffee beans filled the morning with hope, when our mothers’ headscarves hung like white flags on washing lines.…
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When I see the houses in this city, the electric gates and uniformed men employed to guard the riches of the rich, the gilded columns and gardens,…
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Girls were crying yesterday in their ball gowns; Holding each other up like poles of wilted beanstalks. I wanted to carry them into the streets. To the unused railroad track in the…
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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.…
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Because this is a monsoon poem expect to find the words jasmine, palmyra, Kuruntokai, red; mangoes in reference to trees or breasts; paddy…
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is it or is it not the cold monsoon bearing the shape of my dark lord,…
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(After Alberto Giacometti ) Sit - you must be tired…
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In Nairobi, an albino boy followed me everywhere Peering at me from behind cupboards and trees, Chortling with glee: Hello fine! Here is space. Here is space.…
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These days men on curbs are curved Like farm tools or bits of wire, Like unruly saucers of tea flung Into the trees, the walls, the breeze.…
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