April is poetry month.
Still with me? Okay, good. I appreciate that most people don’t “do” poetry. They enivision enamoured young men penning verse to a radiant beauty, or a angsty young woman weeping over a notepad, The Bell Jar at her elbow.
For me, poems are like cats: if I come across one, I’ll pat it on the head, spend a bit of time, then send it on its way.
This does not mean I don’t recognize poetry’s importance. On the contrary: Poetry is distilled and direct. Poets have been persecuted, jailed, and killed for their words.
And yet, they persist.
Meanwhile, here’s a rubaiyat (Arabic for “quatrain”) written by Lima and addressed to the Taliban:
You won’t allow me to go to school.
I won’t become a doctor.
One day you will be sick.