Aisha Amir Ahmed

@bardophile.bsky.social

525 Followers 508 Following

Screenshot from Google Earth, demarcating the boundaries of an informal settlement in F Block, Johar Town, Lahore.
Photograph of a dirt field taken through a car windshield. Pale blue sky, green trees and power lines in the background. A fence made of barbed wire and concrete posts is visible at the far end of the field. The rest is just dirt with some scattered small rocks.
Photograph of an informal settlement taken through a car window dotted with raindrops; a cloudy sky and trees in the far background. In front of that, makeshift tents in a muddy field dotted with piles of garbage. Two people sit cross legged in front of one of the tents, next to a small water cooler and other household items. Several donkeys and horses can be seen, covered in plastic sheets and possibly a tarpaulin. Unhitched two-wheel donkey carts are standing here and there in relatively dry spots. A large muddy puddle in the centre, and the foreground is the front of the muddy field crisscrossed with tire tracks.
Stuffed cat propped up on a bed looks out the window
Plaque celebrating 10 million users, with a large black #247,229, and a blue circular seal saying Certified Bluesky Elder, First 10% The bottom left-hand corner of the plaque reads Aisha Amir Ahmed, @bardophile.bsky.social and the bottom right-hand corner reads Joined Jul 5, 2023.
Screenshot of a poem, black text on white background. The text is as follows: Atlas - by U.A. Fanthorpe There is a kind of love called maintenance Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it; Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs; Which answers letters; which knows the way The money goes; which deals with dentists And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains, And postcards to the lonely; which upholds The permanently rickety elaborate Structures of living, which is Atlas. And maintenance is the sensible side of love, Which knows what time and weather are doing To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring; Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps My suspect edifice upright in air, As Atlas did the sky.
Screenshot of tweet from @Austen1stDrafts. The text is: Last night I dreamt I went to Cholmondeley again. Timestamp 1:54 14 Mar 24
New Year by Carol Ann Duffy I drop the dying year behind me like a shawl and let it fall. The urgent fireworks fling themselves against the night, flowers of desire, love’s fervency. Out of the space around me, standing here, I shape your absent body against mine. You touch me as the giving air. Most far, most near, your arms are darkness, holding me, so I lean back, lip-read the heavens talking on in light, syllabic stars. I see, at last, they pray at us. Your breath is midnight’s, living, on my skin, across the miles between us, fields and motorways and towns, the million lit-up little homes. This love we have, grief in reverse, full rhyme, wrong place, wrong time, sweet work for hands, the heart’s vocation, flares to guide the new year in, the days and nights far out upon the sky’s dark sea. Your mouth is snow now on my lips, cool, intimate, first kiss, a vow. Time falls and falls through endless space, to when we are.
Screenshot from The Yale Review In Those Years Adrienne Rich In those years, people will say, we lost track of the meaning of we, of you we found ourselves reduced to I and the whole thing became silly, ironic, terrible: we were trying to live a personal life and yes, that was the only life we could bear witness to But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged into our personal weather They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove along the shore, through the rags of fog where we stood, saying I