A God at the Door

A God at the Door

by Tishani Doshi
A God at the Door

A God at the Door

by Tishani Doshi

Paperback(International)

$16.95 
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Overview

“We are homesick everywhere,” writes Tishani Doshi, “even when we’re home.” With aching empathy, righteous anger, and rebellious humor, A God at the Door calls on the extraordinary minutiae of nature and humanity to redefine belonging and unveil injustice. In an era of pandemic lockdown and brutal politics, these poems make vital space for what must come next—the return of wonder and free movement, and a profound sense of connection to what matters most. From a microscopic cell to flightless birds, to a sumo wrestler and the tree of life, Doshi interrupts the news cycle to pause in grief or delight, to restore power to language. A God at the Doorinvites the reader on a pilgrimage—one that leads us back to the sacred temple of ourselves. This is an exquisite, generous collection from a poet at the peak of her powers.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781780375779
Publisher: Bloodaxe Books
Publication date: 05/18/2021
Edition description: International
Pages: 80
Product dimensions: 6.25(w) x 9.25(h) x (d)

About the Author

Tishani Doshi is an award-winning poet, writer, and dancer. She has published six books of poetry and fiction. Her work has appeared in newspapers and journals such as the Guardian, the National, and the Hindu, and her essays, poems and short stories have been widely anthologized. Doshi lives in Tamil Nadu, India, and is currently Visiting Professor of Practice, Literature and Creative Writing at New York University, Abu Dhabi.

Read an Excerpt

Many Good & Wonderful Things


What more am I to say? Our kind-hearted Sirkar has done everything possible for us to protect us from the cold. We are each provided with two pairs of strong, expensive boots. We have whale oil to rub in our feet, and for food we are provided with live Spanish sheep. In short, the Sirkar has accumulated many good and wonderful things for our use.
KALA KHAN to ILTAF HUSSAIN, 27 December, 1917


History too has a hard time remembering the black waters they crossed, the small mountain villages emptied of men.
Death was different then. History is always reinventing itself. Say what you will,
but clouds have remained more or less the same, and leaving home is still leaving home, whether it’s on a jet plane or climbing the steep path behind the house with a roll of bedding on your back. But to die in a faraway place whose name you can’t pronounce,
for a king who isn’t really yours, is a sadness history still hasn’t figured out. History has been pushing for republics since Lucius
Junius Brutus, but men are hardy, is the point,
or bull-headed. And you’d think the glories of lice making mansions in their shirts was a paradise they could do without,
that trench-living would make them walk across the front with arms held high, saying,
Take me quick, I wish only to enter the realms
of God. History tries not to be sentimental,
although letters give things away. One fool longed for a flute—the world is burning,
but he wants to play. Others were gluttons,
mercenaries, spies. The wise asked for opium but write “sweets” or “dainties,” they said,
otherwise the package might not reach.
History needs to forget the dead who cover the earth like heaps of stones, who write:
Mother—is my parrot still alive?
Mother—do not go wandering madly.

Sometimes it feels as though the rain has been falling all your life and the girl you married will tire of tending the cattle.
Do not worry. This is war, where the women,
like metaphors, are always steadfast and beautiful.
In history’s version she sits under the peepal tree with your Victoria Cross pinned to her sari.
She has been waiting since 1918 and she is waiting still. So let us speak of love the way we always have,
by asking, have you eaten, darling? And what price did you get for the goats? And of course,
I miss you, but the earth is hard and the sky,
distant, and if I had wings I’d fly to you.
In Marseille they said we looked like kings.
History cannot really say what happens to men at war. So listen: At night I feed on stars.
Do not ask about the cold. They have given me whale oil for my feet and someone told me if I carried a piece of raw onion into battle, the bullets would not find me.

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