Schuyler once told a friend that “life had been after him with a sledgehammer.” But the poet’s work was sharp and humane, a marvel of twentieth-century literature ... .
The poems were eloquent and one hoped that one would get to see the poet on the campus ... The poet stopped, said hello and I mumbled that I had read his poems ... But what remains in the end for poets are their words.
In the stillness of dawn, just as the sun began to stretch its light across the sky, my grandmother would already be rising from bed, as if sleep had only brushed past her without ever truly settling in.
In the small pockets of Shia neighbourhoods across Kashmir, the sound of marsiyas, poetic elegies mourning the tragedy of Karbala, once shaped not just rituals of remembrance, but also the moral pulse of the community.