10 Questions for Asnia Asim

- By Edward Clifford

Maybe it was a reaction to old age; it could be that
he resented retired life. But the ex-neurologist,
amateur collector of oriental coins, had recently

taken to scolding his poor wife for all that praying
under her breath, Mashallah-this and Inshallah-that.
—from "Mr.Kemal Questions God," Volume 64, Issue 1 (Spring 2023)

Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
My first poem “The White Petal” startled itself into existence through me. I was a lonely Pakistani kid struggling with overwhelming unrest. As I wrote the poem, the vague aroma of its ambience became significant. I remember feeling transported, less alone, but more importantly, I felt a kind of ecstasy as the image of a soft white flower covered in dewdrops against a dark backdrop emerged from an otherwise ordinary moment. The words conjured the flower’s texture in my mind. There was a mood hanging around it. The colors were not colors but tastes and the sounds of the words, the line breaks, were like consciousness in its purest form—a form that was kind of spiritual, for lack of a better word.

What writer(s) or works have influenced the way you write now?
Rainer Maria Rilke and Fernando Pessoa are my two most lasting poetry-prose loves. Apart from them, Arundhati Roy’s fiercely independent style of fiction and activist writing has greatly impacted my decision to become a writer and stick to it. God of Small Things is my desert-island book. During the long and lonely stretches of a writing project, sometimes I feel like giving up. As an introverted South Asian woman, when I feel lost in the sphere of high-networking and multibillion dollar publishing, I watch an interview of Arundhati Roy on YouTube and just her manner of talking about writing, her commitment to political justice despite the threats to her life, sustain my resolve. I have an intensely abiding girl-crush on her. Once, in Boston, Lady Luck happened to sit me right behind Roy before she walked up to the stage to be interviewed by Noam Chomsky; I think a part of my spirit has never left that seat.

What other professions have you worked in?
Being born to a Pakistani middle-class household meant writing as a career was not an option. Financial security took top priority for very good reasons. So, I went to business school and later joined The World Bank in Washington DC. I also worked as a financial analyst in Boston for many years. Meanwhile, inside me, instead of disappearing, the grief of unpursued art became stronger like nostalgia for an undiscovered homeland. So finally, I quit my job and joined a program at the University of Chicago to study poetics and creative writing.

What did you want to be when you were young?
I had a difficult childhood. I just wanted to be loved unconditionally by my parents. Unfortunately, with the many stressors that competed for their attention, love required accomplishing on my part. Many professions came to me as mirages for that unmet approval. But longing is a notorious shapeshifter, and when I was young it often whispered to me, If you become x (doctor, engineer, the creator of Facebook, housewife with many kids, professor of anthropology, psychologist, financial analyst . . .) you’ll finally feel complete. So naturally I became a poet.

What inspired you to write this piece?
The subject of this piece is a schism in human thought that might be as old as human thought itself: the idea that what makes us remarkable as a species is our practical intellect vs. the wonder of being a part of the universe and participating in its dazzling unfolding, what Robert Bly called the “spiritual intellect”. This subject is a constant source of exploration for me.

In the poem, I relate to both sides by imagining a wholeness that might contain them, that can hold both Mr. Kemal’s wrath about the irrational loopholes in religion as well as the kindness of interpretation the same loopholes inspire in his wife. Another word for this wholeness is love. Their personalities seem radically different but what binds them is their love for each other; it provides a kind of interior unity for their lasting relationship.

Questioning God also seems like a tricky thing to tackle in the Islamic context, but it is in fact quite a common trope in Urdu and Arabic poetry. In family as well you often have that cantankerous uncle sitting on the balcony with his tea quasi-blaspheming under his breath. The inspiration for Mr. Kemal came from one such uncle. But contrasting him with Mrs. Kemal is what really brought the poem to life. It narrates from her point-of-view, which is pretty much antithetical to the Cartesian I-think-therefore-I-am-ness. No, she feels. Religion is just a vehicle for her feeling to unite with a grander, gleaming sense of being. This depth of feeling is what irritates, and intrigues Mr. Kemal and his irritation and intrigue are what in turn endear him to Mrs. Kemal. They are enclosed here in something larger than their individualities, there is a wholeness about them. This renegotiation between opposing ways of existing mediated by tenderness and love fascinates me. And is the inspiration behind this piece.

Is there a city or place, real or imagined, that influences your writing?
Yes, an imagined city, in the sense that it is a real place, but I’ve never visited it. It’s a Lebanese seaside town called Jieh about 15 miles south of Beirut. Apparently, Prophet Jonah was spat on the shores of Jieh by the giant fish that miraculously harbored him in her belly for three days. Many of the poems for my chapbook Quarantine with Rilke are written from the point-of-view of a resident of Jieh sitting on the balcony of an apartment facing the Mediterranean Sea. During my visits to Lebanon, I often pass this place en route from Beirut to my husband’s hometown up in the mountains. The patch of sea in front of Jieh catches the sun in a tremulous, bright scattering that reflects on the windows of apartments that look empty. It is absurdly, hauntingly beautiful.

Is there any specific music that aids you through the writing or editing process?
I almost always write to instrumental music. Mood guides my choice of music which guides my choice of words. Some of my favorite composers and artists are Alexandre Desplat, Max Richter, Glenn Gould, and Frédéric Chopin. While music ripples through my writing and opens new vistas of imagination, I can never edit without complete silence. I really enjoy this contrast. Writing is daydreamy and open-ended, but editing is all about precision and darling-killing.

Do you have any rituals or traditions that you do in order to write?
After my morning walk, I drink tea and watch art history videos on the YouTube channel Smarthistory. Then I sit in silence and try to understand what I am or have been feeling. I listen to music and read poems about keywords that might express that feeling. At some point an image kindles a corresponding idea or vice versa and I know it's my invitation into a poem. I dive in.

If you could work in another art form what would it be?
If I could go back in time, I would love to try out music video production. Growing up in Pakistan, we only had two state-controlled television channels. Then, in the 1990s, MTV catapulted onto my innocent and highly censored mindscape when my parents decided to install a dish antenna on our rooftop. It radically changed the way I experienced music. “Your Woman” by White Town, Audioslave’s “Like a Stone”, Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ “Around the World” are some of the first videos I saw that doubled the enjoyment of their lyrics.

It’s an incredible genre that brings together music, dance, videography, acting, costume, and makeup. In a way, when I write a poem to a music score, I am already producing a video in my head. I love it when different creative genres fuse together and enhance the sensory radius of artistic pleasure.

What are you reading right now?
The most noteworthy book I’m currently reading is Hold On to Your Kids by Gordon Neufeld and Gabor Maté. Love is not enough, according to them, we need to be vigilant about ensuring that our kids are securely attached to us. In a highly fragmented capitalist society, the idea of enduring and attentive love has started to feel like a myth. Stress and overwork can unwittingly create an “attachment void” in the modern parent-child relationship. To fill this void children are becoming dangerously attached to their peers or the peer culture in general. I recently became a mother, and this book reads like a navigation manual for my parental instinct. It’s quite illuminating, albeit a bit scary.