HOUSES for Jon Anderson The man who buries his house in the sand and digs it up again, each evening, learns to put it together quickly and just as quickly to take it apart. My parents sleep like children in the dark. I am too far to hear them breathe but I remember their house is safe and I can sleep, the night's hair black and thick in my hands. My parents sleep in the dark. When the moon rises, the night's hair turns white in my arms. I am thirteen thousand miles from home. I comb...
The Country Without a Post Office . . . lettera dent I27 aea/‘eat /2L'm t/mt lived zz/aa.’ away. —GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS Again I've returned to this country where a minaret has been entombed. Someone soaks the wicks of clay lamps in mustard oil, each night climbs its steps to read messages scratched on planets. His fingerprints cancel blank stamps in that archive for letters with doomed addresses, each house buried or empty. Empty? Because so many fled, ran away, and became refugees t...
UJHEBE IDIEIIIE IIIIS IIEIIIEII UERSE The state of Kashmir is a garden lost to the savagery of war. BY ED WARD A. GARGAN EFORE the chatter of automatic weapons became nightfalrs clarion in the summer capital of Kashmir, before bullet-ridden corpses started washing up on the shores of placid lakes. before unspeakable atrocities got to be routine, this land of green valleys and soaring Himalayan peaks was a tourist haven Of Kashmir, the early 17th-century Mogul ruler Jahangir wrote: Agar firdau...
