• Bushra Rehman

    Bushra Rehman grew up in Corona, Queens but her mother says she was born in an ambulance flying through the streets of Brooklyn. Her father is not so sure, but it would explain a few things.

Reviews and Raves

"Bushra is a little bundle of magic. Her poetry transports you from the dreary world into a colorful, surreal, emotional, and heartfelt place — she makes you wish you were home, and home is wherever she is. She can talk story you all the way from Corona to Pakistan with her insight, humor, and wisdom — and you'll be grateful for the ride." — Ishle Yi Park, The Temperature of This Water Poet Laureate of Queens

Writing

Spotlight: Chamindika

ColorLines, Sept/Oct 2006 “The work of visual artist Chamindika is populated by characters who create the unsettling sense that they are spilling out from another world.” http://colorlines.com/archives/2006/09/spotlight_chamindika.html

They Sing the City Poetic

New York Times, April 30, 2006 City Lore and the Bowery Poetry Club got a bunch of NYC poets to write an epic poem about New York City. Of course I wrote about Corona.

My Family and Earthquake Relief in Pakistan

ColorLines, Winter 2006 “…While watching my parents. . . in action, I relearned the most important lessons of activism: the strongest, most effective form of community activism is not complicated. It comes from a sense of family, love, urgency.” Earthquake (PDF)

Our Little Secrets: A Pakistani Artist Explores the Shame And Pride of Her Community’s Bathroom Practices

ColorLines, Summer 2005 “We were in the kitchen, my mother and I, when she turned to me and said, “Did you know Amreekans keep medicine in the bathroom?” I waited, not quite sure where she was going with this. She looked at me as if I was slow and then continued, “They keep it in […]

You Say You Miss My Hair

(For bald girls everywhere) Don’t you see that now the entire night and the light are my hair That the fences on delancey street the old columns the broken figures and statues that now these are my hair (your soft hands on my head are my hair) The broken english of a mother running across […]