Tishani Doshi on Poetry

Tishani Doshi on Poetry

INTERVIEW

Tishani Doshi on Poetry

Aathma Nirmala Dious

Tishani Doshi is a poet, novelist, and journalist, who is currently teaching in the Literature and Creative Writing Program. She was shortlisted for the Ted Hughes Award in 2018 for her collection of poems Girls Are Coming out of the Woods. Her recent novel Small Days and Nights was published by Bloomsbury in the UK and will appear from Norton in the US next January. A reviewer in for The Guardian described Small Days and Nights as “ a concise novel of staggering depth.” She spoke with us on the eve of her performance at the 2019 Heykayah Festival at NYUAD.

Aathma Dious: You wear many hats as a writer: journalist, fiction writer and poet. Do the disciplines seem separate for you or do they often bleed into each other?

Tishani Doshi: Writing is writing. I think of myself as a poet first, and so there’s an engagement with language regardless of the form I’m working in. But I suppose there’s a different relationship to time across the disciplines. If I’m working on a novel, I tend to be in this tunnel for months and I find I can’t do any other kind of writing, or anything else really. You’re also dealing with time in the novel, which is this huge unwieldy beast. Poetry is more elastic, a poem is its own universe, and there’s a completeness about it that’s very satisfying. Also, I find I don’t need to live in a tunnel to write poems. Essentially, writing is putting one word after the other, but the tricks are different.

AD: How do you know when you are ready to write a new poem? What kinds of things inspire you?

TD: Poems arrive. Recently I’ve been inspired by news stories. I’m fascinated by the fact that we’re living in this age of information but are still no closer to explaining consciousness, that truth and fake news sit side by side, that change is happening at such a torpedo rate. I often think poetry is the one form I have that allows me to respond to all these things. India has also been a fertile place for me in terms of inspiration, and living away from it as I have been this past year, while I’ve been teaching at NYUAD, has allowed me distance to examine what’s going on there—a lot of which is politically quite dark. Poems are a way of reconciling—so when you hear a minister of education saying Darwin was wrong and we have descended for sages and rishis, you know, obviously, that goes straight into a poem.

AD: How did you begin envisioning the dance for the poem “Girls Are Coming Out of the Woods”? What comes first, the dance or the poem?

TD: I’m an accidental dancer in that I never had a formal training in dance. I worked with the Indian choreographer, Chandralekha, for many years, and so during that time I was working with someone who had a strong visual expression and I was part of that vision. After she died, I found I was not ready to give up on dance, as I’d been performing for fifteen years, and over that time I had built a physical vocabulary for myself drawing from yoga, bharatnatyam and kallaripayattu. So with “Girls” it was really about finding in movement what I was doing with words, which is to say, finding a way to reclaim the female body.

AD: Looking back on your writing, is there a favorite piece of work or a memory about writing you would like to share?

TD: I was a junior in college when I took a creative writing class which changed the direction of my life. I have few moments in my life which I count as decisive moments, where I recognized even then that this choice was moving me in a different direction. Meeting Chandralekha was one of them, but deciding to become a poet in college was also one of them. I knew then that all the statistics and economics stuff I was doing was fine, but it was never going to be enough. I’m glad I followed my intuition.  

Tishani Doshi

AD: Do you have any poetic influences and what poets are you reading now?

TD: I’m omnivorous and polyamorous and all kinds of influenced when it comes to poetry. This semester I’ve been revisiting old favorites with my students—Wislawa Szymborska, Ada Limon, Bob Hicok, the Beats, and the Bhakti movement among others—and so this is what I’m reading (because obviously there’s no time to read anything else when you’re teaching).

AD: Tell us a little bit about your composition and revision processes.

TD: So—I like to compare it with Indian miniature painting, even though I’m not a painter. The first step is drawing the rough sketch with charcoal, then firming up with a brush and introducing more details, then followed by a thin coat of white primer, then black, then removing the blemishes and burnishing so that the colored pigments can be applied layer by layer. Then, the painting is placed face down and this fuses the pigments into the surface and gives the painting a luster, and HERE the magical step which is called the “khulai,” literally, the opening up, where the painting comes to life, but no, it’s not over, there’s shading, stippling and more burnishing to do, and finally the borders and margins are given and colored in. And between the first and final stage a thousand things can go wrong, and in a less pretty way, that’s the writing process as well.

AD: The UAE government has celebrated 2019 as the “year of tolerance.” Do you have any thoughts about the relationship between poetry and tolerance?

TD: That’s an interesting question. I like to think of literature as being an empathy-enabler, we read because it allows us a way in to the imagination. We can experience other lives, other realities, other worlds. But the strange thing about poetry is that while it is, I think, one of the most honorable forms (there are so few perks to poetry that only the really devoted need apply), there is also a bizarre trend of dictators loving to write poetry. If you take a quick historical inventory of dictators, many of them wrote poetry—Mussolini, Stalin, Mao, Hitler—so writing poetry doesn’t automatically make you empathetic. Perhaps if they’d had more successful careers as poets they might not have tortured people so.

AD: Is there anything you are hoping to learn from being part of Hekayah this year? Is there anything about the evening that particularly excites you?

TD: I’m just happy to be a part of the festivities. It looks like a great line-up. 

Tishani Doshi performs her dance version of “Girls Are Coming Out of the Woods” at a TEDx event in Chennai in March 2018. The poem is read by her with music composed by Luca Nardon.

Aathma Nirmala Dious is a Literature and Creative writing major at NYUAD and the poetry editor for Electra Street.

Poetry, Prose, and Postscript

Poetry, Prose, and Postscript

INTERVIEW

Poetry, Prose, and Postscript

Aathma Nirmala Dious

Zoe Jane Patterson and Vamika Sinha are seniors in the Literature and Creative Writing Program at NYU Abu Dhabi. Last year, they founded the online literary journal Postscript; this year, they are each writing creative capstones, Patterson in fiction and Sinha in poetry. They shared some insights into their creative practices in advance of their appearances at the 2019 NYUAD Hekayah Festival.

Aathma Dious: Tell us a little bit about your composition and revision processes.

Zoe Jane Patterson: For me, poetry begins with discomfort. You’re about to board a 14-hour flight; babies will cry, your skin will dry out until you look like a sphynx cat, and as soon as you sit on the toilet there will be turbulence. There is nothing beautiful about this situation. But if you write it down you get to control it: you get to sculpt it, make fun of it, and use it to think about other, bigger things.  No matter what the discomfort is for me, whether it’s physical or social or internal, if I turn it into a poem then I gain some power over it.

My poems almost always have a narrative thread that runs through them, probably because I tend to see the world through stories. That narrative, or at least an ending, gets formed in the first draft. My first drafts usually over-explain themselves. It takes me a while to let go of stanzas that are slowing things down because of my anxiety that I won’t be understood. Once the poem has been sculpted, I consider each word, shaking it down and swapping it for synonyms. I read the whole thing out loud. It’s also essential for me to show new poetry to a handful of trusted readers. I never feel like a poem is done, but eventually I can let myself leave it alone.

Vamika Sinha: I don’t generally plan my poems, unless I have a bunch of complex ideas I’m dealing with that need a little bit of structuring beforehand. I usually have one central idea or image that pops in my mind, and I’ll put that down and build the poem around it. Not all my poems are short or compact, but I guess most are. I like the challenge that concision poses, the idea of creating as much meaning and beauty within constraint. But to be honest, I don’t think too consciously about length. The poem is as long as I feel it needs to be, as long as I’ve conveyed what I set out to. A lot of it is intuitive.

How do you know when you are ready to write a new poem? What kinds of things inspire you?

ZJP: Poetry can come from lots of places for me. Sometimes I have a fleeting idea and scrawl it down. It can be an image, a contradiction, something absurd, a situation, or a joke etc. Then I go back to it and see if it’s supposed to turn into a poem or short story or be part of a larger piece of fiction. Poems also often come out of my rants and annoyances. I start ranting to someone I love about something that makes me angry or uncomfortable, and those thoughts are later recorded in my journal as the terrible first draft of a poem. Sometimes the same thing happens when I’m ranting to myself in my journal. I get inspired by discomfort, and I often feel the need to write when I encounter injustice. I always want to write when I encounter really great writing or artistry of any kind.

VS: I don’t know if I’m ever “ready” to write a poem. I think I love it enough that it feels natural to always kind of be thinking about writing, in the back of my mind. I’m always coming up with images or scraps of stanzas and putting them down in my phone, wherever I am. And then later, it’ll usually become something fuller, a larger developed poem when I push myself to sit down and write. I get a lot of inspiration from music. I’m actually a trained musician and music was there for me before writing or literature cropped up in my life, that was my main discipline and artistic outlet. I love mixing music with literary form, like jazz poetry for example, and referencing musicians that I think are monumental. My capstone, for example, is named after a song by Solange Knowles. Otherwise, I’m very inspired by movies, theories and books I read, personal emotional experiences, women’s histories, and cities. Also food. And love, of course.

DG: Speaking of food … Vamika, in your Postscript essay “Hungry City,” you write about eating ramen and the ways in which your experience of New York was “shaped by Asian hand.” How did food become central to your writing and your understanding? 

VS: I first started thinking about food and writing during my first year writing seminar in freshman year. I took “Street Food” with Deepak Unnikrishnan. I remember not even wanting to take this class, thinking “What’s the point of taking a class called ‘Street Food’ and in a city like Abu Dhabi?” But a lot of people talked well about the professor, so I registered. It was one of the most pivotal decisions I’ve taken at NYUAD. Professor Unnikrishnan became a very important mentor to me over the years, and I learnt so much, not only about writing, but about observing the world and the city in that class. Food is a conduit for larger conversations about our world. Over time, I’ve expanded on my experiences with food in various cities as ways of meditating on urban life, socio-political experiences, cosmopolitanism, and more.

AD: Have you had any fun or memorable food encounters in Abu Dhabi that you’d like to share?

VS: Nothing too exciting. I’ve had a few fun encounters while running the “AD Secrets” column for The Gazelle. A friend and I discovered a ludicrously tiny Game of Thrones-themed sandwich shop in a very random part of the city, and it turned out to be one of the greatest sandwich experiences both of us had ever had in our lives (the place is called “Game of Toast”). In general, I love recording the misspelled menu items in Abu Dhabi cafeterias, stuff like “sea snak” instead of “sea snake” or “saghetti salomon” instead of “salmon spaghetti.” It’s almost as if the typos are a requirement if you want to thrive as a diner here. I also love random quirky things like finding a drink called “Happiness” or existentially confused items like “Small Fish Big.”

Zoe Jane Patterson

AD: Zoe, you grew up in Al Ain. How different is it from Abu Dhabi? Do you find that you treat the two locations differently if you write about them?

ZJP: Al Ain radically shifted my ways of seeing myself and the world. I experienced formative teenage years and milestones there, but more importantly, it shook me out of my North-American suburban mentality. The city is this small dot of an oasis that exists in a vast desert, but somehow, it’s also large in all the worlds it contains and connects to. Al Ain is a city that feels like a small town, so it nurtured me in softer ways than a bigger city might have, and it’s the first home that I fiercely loved. My capstone project, which will hopefully someday become my first novel, is set in Al Ain because of how much I learned there and how much I believe in its magic.

Abu Dhabi is home though; I love walking through the streets here, taking notes of quirky shop names or conversations with strangers. Abu Dhabi has an anonymity and mobility that Al Ain never did: In Al Ain I would never walk through the city center, there was nowhere like the corniche for social mixing. It’s harder to write poetry about Al Ain, because life happens behind closed doors there. Prose has the breadth to yank them open but my poetry struggles. I wouldn’t want to live in Al Ain again; it was a wonderful cocoon and introduction to the world but my younger self belonged there much more than I do. I feel better able to criticize Abu Dhabi, and to sit with its discomforts, which has made for more and better poetry.

AD: For the Hekayah application, you had submitted a poem about Abu Dhabi that, I dare say as someone who grew up there, was quite spot on.  Could you talk more about it?

ZJP: Thank you! “Invisible Abu Dhabi” was the first poem I ever wrote about this city, and it came out of a long walk with a friend after dinner, from one end of the corniche to the other. As we walked, the sun started to set, and I thought about all the ways that the city changes when darkness falls. It’s almost as though Abu Dhabi transforms into an entirely different place. I was thinking about Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, and was reading a collection of short stories by Murakami called The Elephant Vanishes at the time. As we walked I imagined alternate realities, and at the same time I was uncomfortable with my own position in the city at night. Suddenly home had become slightly sinister, and I wanted to re-enact that shift in a poem.

AD: Vamika, do you find that it is different to write poetry in or about Abu Dhabi than in or about other places places you know like Botswana or New York?

VS: Well yeah, it’s different to write about any city because every city is different from the other. My capstone, which bridges cosmopolitanism with women of color, deals with a lot of how women move differently in every city. Abu Dhabi is different because it’s situated in an Islamic country, with this very transient and patchwork demographic. It’s starkly different from New York, obviously, or Botswana or anywhere else really. The way you interact with others, I’ve theorized, as in any city, depends on what history has produced in that city. UAE history has produced a certain type of population with mixed ethnicities, certain class dynamics, religious realities and laws and rules that affect the way I move in Abu Dhabi. The city’s history overlaps with my individual history too, so as an Indian woman who has grown up in Africa, speaks a certain set of languages, is a certain age etc, or in other words, what my body is as a collection of histories, interacts with the city as a body of histories, and it’s what happens in those interactions that I try to make poetry from, whatever city I’m in. Each city differs because the histories and the way those histories overlap with mine are always different and evolving too.

AD: Do you have any poetic influences? What poets are you reading now?

ZJP: I have two books of poetry that I bring with me wherever I go, one is by Emily Dickinson, the other is by E.E. Cummings. I don’t think my writing is anything like either of theirs, but if I ever need to get inspired I leaf through one of those books. I also turn to poets such as Claudia Rankine, Sylvia Plath, Elizabeth Bishop and Ted Hughes. Poetry isn’t always inspired by poetry though—a poem I’m working on right now was inspired by Ways of Seeing, which is a collection of short essays by John Berger about looking at artworks. I’m often inspired by artworks and films. Pan’s Labyrinth by Guillermo del Toro remains one of my biggest influences.

VS: I’d say I’m pretty influenced by Safia Elhillo, Fatimah Asghar, Ada Limon, Gloria Anzaldua, Claudia Rankine, Theresa Hak Kyung Cha. But also other kinds of writers, including fiction and theory. My favorite writer for example is Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Americanah is one of the most important books to me as both a writer and woman. Open City by Teju Cole is another major book. I also think a lot about James Baldwin, Edward Said, Langston Hughes, bell hooks and again, musicians and lyrics/rap. I’m heavily inspired by artists like Mac Miller, Solange, FKA twigs, Frank Ocean, Mitski etc. I feel like I’m always having conversations with what these people have wrote in my head and those conversations and thought processes eventually come out in the poems, as ways of thinking and re-thinking, and making and remaking, the world.

AD: Zoe, you write short stories as well. What draws you to that form?

ZJP: I started writing short stories for creative writing workshops. Before that I was always interested in writing a novel, and never really read short stories or saw them as a true form. Once I started trying to write them though I realized how difficult they are to master. You have to create an entire believable world with interesting characters in a short amount of time and you need to drag the reader along with a plot that’s interesting. All of the elements of a novel are in there, but none of the breadth. Writing and reading short stories always makes me feel a little breathless. I write them now as a way of testing ideas for new worlds, and of practicing plot and getting into new characters’ heads. Sometimes I get an idea for a scene and I just write it out to see what happens, and then I realize the scene is unfolding into a plot. The excitement of that almost spontaneous unfolding makes me want to keep writing new stories. 

Vamika Sinha

AD: Let’s talk about Postcript How did that come about?

VS: We started Postscript mostly by chance in our dorms while we were studying abroad at NYU Paris. It came out of us not taking any literature classes while we were there and sorely missing it.

ZJP: A group of us were sitting in a café, sipping overpriced coffee and lamenting the lack of literature classes being offered by NYU Paris. We were coming to the slow realization that we would have to teach ourselves that semester. Then, someone had the idea to write a poem on our napkins and recite it for the others. These poems were terrible. We decided to keep going by writing a terrible poem every day and posting it in a group chat. It was our own shy way of expressing ourselves and our fears to each other without saying anything out loud. We let the work be bad and ugly, but after a while, we started to write real poetry with urgency. We wanted to share it with more than just each other; we wanted a reason to write and a place where our thoughts mattered. We decided to create that space for ourselves.

VS: We started to write a lot of poems together for fun about our experiences and dilemmas and questions and all the newness we were grappling with while living in France. We decided we want to share this work and our ideas and conversations on a platform, and so our little slapdash creation was spontaneously born. We wrote about the process last year in The Gazelle.

AD: Now that it’s launched, what do you see as the mission of Postcript?

ZJP: Postscript started off as a place for artists and writers whose work might be treated like a footnote, or an addition or amendment to the larger more important stories. We wanted to put those voices in a space together, and to create a network rather than a hierarchy between them. Postscript champions critical work: work that probes, pulls apart and investigates. The result has been submissions from all over the world, from a queer non-binary farmer making collages in Germany, to post-colonial poetry from Trinidad. The network has expanded and grown much more than we expected, and we hope to continue growing it to give space to these important conversations.

VS: We talk about our mission in the Gazelle article, and we’ve also written a mission statement. We’d ideally love to create a print issue by the time we graduate, have some more chapbooks, expand our contributor pool, up our readers etc etc. Basically, keep it going on an upward trajectory where it becomes more and more established.

AD: Tell us about what you’ve done with chapbooks so far.

ZJP: We’ve always wanted to be able to share physical copies of our work. Digital space is convenient, but it also comes with its own sets of challenges. A chapbook is our first attempt at using more traditional methods to disseminate work, and we’re so grateful for our contributors who agreed to be part of this first experiment. The chapbook is called Landing. It starts with the prose-poem “Origins” by Jamie Uy, then “Whole Foods” by Vamika Sinha, “I Want to Wear a Qípáo too” by Samantha Neugebauer, “China Doll” by Tzy Jiun Tan, “Frida” by Zoe Patterson, “Unfeeling Fortunato” by Amal Al Shamsi and “Incessant” by Elyazyeh Al Falacy. It ends with the final line of Elyazyeh’s poem “i’m not sure how i got here but i landed like an anchor.” (All of these poems are available on Postscript’s website.) There are also artistic contributions by Sandra Paris, Caitlyn Peck, and Tessa O’Halloran. We think of the chapbook as a microcosm for what we’re trying to do with Postscript as a whole.

AD: The UAE government has celebrated 2019 as the “year of tolerance.” Do you have any thoughts about the relationship between poetry and tolerance?

ZJP: I think tolerance is important, but I don’t think it’s the word I’d use to describe what poetry does. Tolerance is about the ability to withstand difference, which is a necessary first step towards true harmony in a young and diverse country like the UAE. But poetry doesn’t just withstand difference: it can probe it, dive into it, push its boundaries and acknowledge its discomforts. Poetry can wrestle with difference rather than simply accepting or enduring it.

VS: As I said earlier, poetry, like any good art, is a way of rethinking and remaking the world around us. That includes social issues, politics, interpersonal relationships. So how do poetry and tolerance intersect? Apart from obvious stuff, like fostering empathy, allowing the reader to inhabit another’s mind and all that, poetry offers us new perspectives, just different angles of looking at the same thing, from meditating on an apple slice to getting catcalled in a foreign city. Of course, prose can do that too. Statistics and research can present the same information. But what’s special about poetry is that it remakes meaning and beauty out of whatever topic it deals with, through the sheer craft of working with language in an innovative and dynamic way. Other writing presents the problem or question, may even provide solutions, but poetry allows us to walk into it, to experience

AD: Is there anything you are hoping to learn from being part of Hekayah this year? Is there anything about the evening that particularly excites you?

VS: I haven’t performed poetry on stage since doing Rooftop Rhythms in freshman year! So I suppose I’m ready to reconfront the idea of going up on stage and sharing my work again now that I’m older and have written more, and with a larger audience.

ZJP: There is always so much to learn from having conversations with other artists. I am particularly invested in the arts scene in the UAE, which is still young and growing. The conversations we have now and the projects we produce can shape the future of the arts in this country. We are creating traditions, and that’s powerful. I’m most excited to share the stage with a group of artists I admire. I’m especially excited to see Professor Tishani Doshi perform, she’s one of my mentors and someone who I hope I can write like someday.

Aathma Nirmala Dious is a Literature and Creative writing major at NYUAD and the poetry editor for Electra Street.
FURTHER READING

Four Poems

Four Poems

POETRY

Four Poems

Maitha AlSuwaidi

The Sun

When you describe me;
Do not compare me to a flower.
Do not compare me to the moon. 
Do not compare me to a melody. 
Think of me as the big, bright sun. 
For flowers wither,
The moon relies on the brightness of the sun to shine,
Melodies grow repetitive and boring. 
But the sun,
It is the reason you wake up in the morning. 
It the reason the flowers in the balcony of your tiny apartment back in your New York blossom. 
It is the reason the moon shines on your restless composure when you’re up all night missing me, every single night 
It is the reason you wrote all those songs about me, each morning a new melody. 
And if I, the sun, ever explode from the agony you’ve been feeding me 
I will take all source of life along with me,
Including yours. 
So, think of me as the big, bright sun.

 

شكراً ماما

:إلى أمي الحبيبة

أريد أن أهديكِ كل البلاغة في هذه الدنيا لأشفيَ كل الآلام التي استعرتِها من الدنيا

أريد أن أقدّم لك تشبيهاتَ نزارِ وكلمات كاظم

أريد أن أهديك كلماتي الباهتة هذه.

أقبلي مني المحبة

اقبلي مني المحبةَ في ليالي السهر والسمر

لإنني لا أستطيع أن أقدم لك الكثيرَ عدا الأحضان والكلمات

.فاقبليهم مني 

The Ultimate Guide to Toxicity 

Man,
Man up.
Man up; vulnerability is not an option, and neither is crying
In the case of the existence of tears, it should be the tears of the girl you lured to love you unconditionally, never yours
Man-age to get the upper hand, at all costs
Man-age to push her to her limits just for you to catch her before she falls
Man-date your inferiors, in other words, the females in your family that love you unconditionally
Man-euver your way to as many hearts as you can before you decide to settle down. The more, the man-lier
Man-ifest your faux affection when she abides to your demands and deprive her of it when she misbehaves
Man-ducate her resistance like you will man-ducate that salmon you will force her to cook for you. It may taste fishy and stinky, but you will enjoy eating every single bit of it. You will, nevertheless, remind her everyday of how stinky it tasted

Man-ipulate
Man-ipulate her like a subject in one of your scrutinizing studies
A dependent variable
A lab rat
A case study
An object to be acquired
And when the treatment fails to produce the result you hypothesized
When the lab rat gets sick and dies
When the case study fails
When the human you objectify becomes an object
When the wo-man you deep-down loved becomes nothing but your shadow
When she becomes nothing but the remnants of the whole person she was before you
Tuck in your toxic masculinity in the inner pocket of your expensive suit
And walk into a dark room to silently kill your shadow
And then, man-ipulate the next wo-man
Man up.

 

A Heaving Chest

To get used to fear is to feel heavy
To feel heavy is to drag your heart with a thin rope behind you as you trail by time’s tail
To feel heavy is to sob your eyeballs out when you realize your mother no longer is your best friend

To feel heavy
Is to feel insane
Even when you’re steady
Even when you’re driving in the right lane
It is to be willing to jump into the next person’s shoes as long as they are not yours
It is to blame

Blame

Your father
Your childhood best friend
That one harsh high school teacher
The car accident you got into last year
The one person you thought would never leave

To feel heavy is to never blame yourself
When maybe you should.

 

Maitha AlSuwaidi is a student at NYU Abu Dhabi. She is a writer, a poet, and a performance artist. Maitha hopes to combine her interests in politics and sociology with her practice of creative writing. She will be appearing at the 2019 Hekayah Festival at NYU Abu Dhabi this week.

FURTHER READING

Danabelle Gutierrez on Writing Poetry in the UAE

Danabelle Gutierrez on Writing Poetry in the UAE

INTERVIEW

Danabelle Gutierrez on Writing Poetry in the UAE

Aathma Nirmala Dious

In November 2018, Danielle Gutierrez and Electra Street poetry editor Aathma Dious were among a group of poets who performed in various galleries at the Louvre Abu Dhabi as part of a celebration of the first anniversary of the opening of the museum. Gutierrez’s poems “My Love as Art” and “The Muse, Frustrated” and Dious’s poem “Pathemari” appeared on Electra Street in February 2019.

In the interview below, Gutierrez talks with Dious about writing poetry in the UAE.

Aathma Dious: Let’s start by talking about your references to famous artists such as Frida Kahlo and Johannes Vermeer in the poem “My Love as Art.”

Danabelle Gutierrez: In the first version of that poem, I make no mention of the names of the artists. However, it seemed like the references got lost from the page to the microphone, so I had to tweak it for performance.

AD: Your reference to art must have played a role when you performed original poetry at the first anniversary celebration of the Louvre Abu Dhabi last fall. Was it different writing for available art pieces at the Louvre Abu Dhabi instead of choosing your own pieces to reference?

DG: It helped that the way that the galleries were divided between the poets was democratic, so I was able to choose the gallery and artwork that I wanted to write about. It was limiting, yes, but I suppose the challenge fueled the inspiration.

AD: Looking back to your work so far, what was your favorite poem to write or your favorite writing memory—and why?

DG: I am supposed to say that my favorite poem is the next one that I’ll write, because in some way it’s true, and it sounds poetic and mysterious. Hahaha. But truly, I think my favorite poems that I’ve written are the ones that magically seemed to write themselves, with little to no effort on my part, it just somehow flowed, and I let it, and it became.

Poet
Danabelle Gutierrez

AD: You mentioned in the bio that accompanied the poems that appeared last February on Electra Street that you have traveled to multiple places since you were young. How has this constant movement informed your writing and poetry? Has it shifted since your “longer pit-stop” in Dubai where you are an expat?

DG: I think the constant moving manifests in the writing in that in a lot of it the speaker of the poem is somehow always seems displaced and is always looking for a place to call “home,” it didn’t really shift when I moved to and stayed in Dubai, because while Dubai does feel somewhat like “home,” I know that it isn’t really.

AD: Right now there is a rise in the arts scene of the UAE, with writing collectives, magazines, open mics flourishing alongside government efforts to open up museums and other such spaces. How has it been navigating your place in this scene, and how different is it from when you first arrived?

DG: I’ve been really grateful because ever since I found the literary scene in the UAE. They’ve been nothing but open and welcoming. And I do love all the different groups, and I am glad that each group is so diverse and has a totally different personality. So in some I love to perform; in others, I just like to attend and enjoy the show.

AD: You are working on your third book, I believe? Is there anything that you would like to share about it and the process?

DG: Tears Across The Earth, my third book, has been in the works for a couple of years now. It has four short stories, and each short story has some poems accompanying it. The process is taking a lot longer, but I am enjoying it, There’s always something new to learn at every turn and something new to discover in every chapter. I am hoping to finally complete it by early next year, but we’ll see.

AD: You’ve won awards for acting at the 48 Hour Film Festival and the Emirates Short Film Festival, as well as from the Film Development Council of the Philippines. How does acting impact your poetry—and vice versa—considering the different demands in each art form?

DG: I feel like film is a lot more forgiving than the stage, if you mess up, you get to do a retake, plus in film, it’s a limited audience, sometimes it’s just you and the director. Performing poetry is still quite hard for me, even after all of these years, it still not my favorite thing to do, I still get very nervous and uncomfortable, not only because I am performing as myself, not as a character, but also because it’s my work and not someone else’s. Thankfully, the audiences that I’ve had the privilege of performing for have been very gracious and for that I am very grateful. 

 

Danabelle Gutierrez is a writer born in the Philippines and raised in Cairo, Vienna, and Muscat. She has been moving from country to country, taking photographs along the way, since she was eight-years old. Her three-decade-long life journey seems to have taken a longer pit stop in Dubai, where she now lives, loves, and writes.

She has been listed among Illustrado‘s “100 Most Influential Filipinos in the Gulf” in 2016, 2017, and 2018; was the recipient of The Filipino Times‘s “Artist of the Year Award” in 2017; and was included in FWN‘s “100 Most Influential Filipinas in the World” in 2018.

Danabelle is the author of I Long To Be the River and & Until The Dreams Come. She is currently working on her third book.

Aathma Nirmala Dious is a Literature and Creative writing major at New York University, Abu Dhabi. Her first poetry “book” involved folded up A4 papers stapled together with her short poems, accompanied by a bio written by her father and a passport picture at the age of 8.
A soul with a deep love for stories, she performs spoken-word poetry and writes fantasy fiction and personal essays.
  
Her cultural/national identity is a bit mixed-up as a result of  being an Indian (Malayalee) expat born and brought up in Abu Dhabi, an intersection that inspires not just the content but also the mix of English and Malayalam in her work. She’s performed at the Louvre Abu Dhabi and at the NYUAD Arts Center’s Hekayah 2018.

Aathma was voted Best New Artist for Rooftop Rhythms 2017-18 season and has written for The Gazelle, NYUAD’s student newspaper. She also enjoys photography, her violin, movies, food, and advocating for POC representation in the arts. 
FURTHER READING

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LITERATURE AND CREATIVE WRITING

FAVORITE THEORISTS

ART AND ART HISTORY

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Poems

LITERATURE AND CREATIVE WRITING

Poems

Andrew Riad

April 2019

I wrote the following poem on a trip in Paris. My love for Paris has always been almost palpable and yet every time I witness the glorification and worship for the Louvre, my heart breaks a little for Egypt. The Louvre houses one of, if not, the largest collection of Egyptian artifacts outside of Egypt in the world. While a lot of the artifacts are found objects, being obtained “legally”, quite a few are stolen. Regardless of how the artifacts were acquired, I don’t want to see or hear people say “I want to see Egypt” when visiting the Louvre. You will not find Egypt in there, it does not belong in there, and will never belong anywhere else other than Egypt.

.تحيا مصر

Profiter du Louvre

Bask in the glory of the Louvre!
Indulge in the history and the stories
In a building holding
Stolen stories
And reconstructed histories.
Aller! Profiter du Louvre!
Profiter des souvenirs volés
Profiter des artefacts volés
De mon pays.
تحيا مصر
When you go into the Louvre
Remember Egypt.
When you witness the glory
Of the sarcophagus
The power of the sphinx head,
The paramount statues,
Remember that the mummies do not lie there,
The pharaohs do not live there,
History does not belong in there
But in the blood of the Egyptians,
In the depth of the Nile,
In the speck of sand of each pharaonic pyramid.
تحيا مصر
Quand t’amuser et profiter du Louvre,
N’oublie pas L’Egypte.
Quand vous voyez la statue suprême
N’oublie pas L’Egypte.
Quand vous marchez dans le Louvre,
descendant des souvenirs d’une ancienne civilisation
c’était une fois en Egypte.
Cela a déjà appartenu à l’Egypte.
I am not asking to return our memories.
I am asking you to remember.
So go,
Enjoy the beauty of the Louvre.
But remember,
You are not stepping into what was once Egypt,
Though it may seem like it.
Remember that you are walking down
A hallway filled with artifacts and memories
Of a civilization that did not belong on this land.
،مصر
لك حبي وفؤادي
Mais,
Aller! Profiter du Louvre! C’est incroyable!
! مصر أم الدنيا

Click here to see a performance of the poem in front of the Louvre in Paris.

The following two sonnets come from my working collection of “skeletons of sonnets,” which include a plethora of poems built in the molds of the sonnet form. The following poems discusses a topic that I hold close to my heart: the implications and limitations of a toxic manly ideal and its detrimental effect on young boys. They currently do not have titles.

If boys will be boys
Then let us wash away our tears,
Pick up dolls for toys,
Release our built-up repressed years.

If boys will be boys, then
Let us write away toxicity,
Paper to heart, to pen,
Creating authenticity.

If boys will be boys, then do not
Mold your illusion onto us,
Or ingrain the manly thought.
If boys will be boys, let’s discuss 

Redefining this toxic manly ideal,
Prohibiting boys from expressing what they feel.  

 *

As a man you should always aim
To manifest and manipulate.
Manufacture a man slaughter on shame,
Mandatorily mandate your fate. 

Maneuver a manageable ego,
Make it manifolded and manipular.
A manticore of sorts, let it show,
Make it manacle, never peculiar.

Manage a masculine mantra,
Use a mandrill to ingrain the manliness.
Mangle and mantel, it into the man Tantra.
Make it mantic and filled with happiness. 

Fine tune these manly instructions, the work begins
To create nothing but emotionally suppressed mannequins.

Andrew Riad is a first-year undergraduate student at New York University Abu Dhabi.

Three Poems

Three Poems

POETRY

Three Poems

Alton Ramsey

April 2019

Everything Must Change

The Purple rain comes from the clouds
No Sun to light up the sky
And doves cry
A Sign O the Tymes
Yesterday’s page I just cannot turn

“Endless Love”

Yesterday, I dreamt about tomorrow
But somehow got caught up in today
Because it was just before midnight
When I actually fell asleep

She told me I was beyond the stars
The best thing imaginable
Her Knight in shining armor
Made her to feel of sleeping beauty
Only to awaken and find
I never knew her at all.

Dear Mama

You’ve always praised just how good I was in math, but as time goes on, I just can’t find the right equation to explain how everything about my being is so divided. Times and times again the numbers to that day, that hour, that moment play over and over again.

My heart is one vast ocean of emptiness, arms far stretched, I cannot let go of your hand. The plan is now changed, there’s much I seem not to understand.  You said I could demand this mountain cast itself into the sea, I asked only that it block the way to this now walk in the valley.

Warmth in words as family and friends tell of your wisdom and goodness, I am reminded that many in this room have not held the burden of this cup. I am frayed on all ends, sleep never begins this dream is not real, but all there is around me says that I am wide awake. Too many days past, there were so many things to say.

“What shall you do when you have no mother?” were your words of prophecy, as I marched onward thinking time would always sit at my side, and now my life seems a stand still forever.

Prayer after prayer as each teardrop falls, I wish now to see you again. Your voice hovers, the air is filled with your spirit, I know that you are there.

Alton Ramsey is an American-born Georgia native, currently living in Abu Dhabi. He is a consultant by day, poet, artist, and person of film by night. After landing in the UAE in 2011, he officially began life behind the mic at Rooftop Rhythms. He was recently chosen as Master of Ceremony for poetry performances at Louvre Abu Dhabi and currently honors a mentorship with poets throughout the Emirates.

He has been happily married to wife Benita for over 16 years and has a beautiful 5-year-old daughter, Morgan Iman.

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