“How fitting that your faith is just another language / you’re losing, or one you
never learned to speak.” (76)
Qurat Dar’s Non-Prophet is a collection of poems that was published in September
2025 by icehouse poetry, winning the inaugural Claire Harris Poetry Prize. It is a revelation
that unveils itself gradually through the process of reckoning. In a world where
“every day is its own Judgment” (20), Dar invites her readers to dissect how faith (and
a lack thereof) collides with climate anxiety, capitalism, feminist futures, and fatality.
It is a poignant three-part collection that marries the mundane with the fanatic, and
one that will simultaneously remind you of both Sufi traditions and modern environmentalist
writing.
Non-Prophet is as concerned with the archaic and the ancient as it is with the future.
Alongside prophetic calls that mirror eulogies where the author “wither[s] / in retrograde”
(32), there are soothsayers who foresee the dystopia of the present day. Playing
on the phonetic pronunciation of the title—“non-profit”—the collection contends
with the realities of capitalism and climate change at every corner. While the Great
Pacific Garbage Patch is “an unforgiving galaxy” (19), those with “glass-walled oases
…. enjoy the world’s last coffee beans with foreign dignitaries” (28). Non-Prophet is
unafraid of making bold claims about privilege and how it fits into the puzzleboard of
imperial politics relating to global war and climate change. It is hauntingly accurate,
too, because in fact “nobody watches the news now / only the weather” (28).
In the age of artificial intelligence, “Deepfake Qurat” (51) meanders through the
authenticity of her own narrative. The yearning for a naturalist escape coincides
with a lived existence debilitated by inorganic, plastic connections, and together they
form a confusing, hybrid entity such that “my phone has eyes on either side, / like a
gazelle or other easy prey” (20). The individual’s own identity melts into this new
Frankensteinian monster, as Dar narrates how “My laptop breathes for the both of
us” (72).
Urdu perforates through Non-Prophet like the wafting aromas of attar and imbues
Dar’s poetry in English with a distinct cultural sound. Navigating identity through
linguistics is a frequent feature of the collection, and the poet muses on how “Urdu
tastes something / like grief” (75). In “Ode to the Plate,” the scents and flavours ofKashmiri chai and kulfi at family dinner provide a burst of sensation to the readers’ palate, complicated only by the way “Urdu feels clumsy in [my] mouth / as a shared
tongue would” (50). Elsewhere, languages come head-to-head in matters of the Quran:
When asked to recite the verse in Arabic
and Urdu, you wonder which of the two
you mired more deeply with the strangling
vine of your tongue. (76)
Reading Dar’s poetry is a rewarding sensory experience—not just because of how
it characterizes matters of the tangible world, but especially in its approach to the elusive,
mystical, wordless elements of life. The intoxicating nature of devotion is distilled
“in sips” as, “microdosing fanâ” (17), the author repeats a prayer. Lingering Sufi influences
grant a musical quality to the collection and ensure a deliberate slowing down,
like “Mist in its slow procession” (54).
I enjoyed Non-Prophet intimately because so many of the collection’s characters,
stories, and questions resonated so deeply with my own. When Dar writes of translating
herself into English and shaving “the accent from my brows” (71), I felt my own
Indian immigrant hair rise in agreement. When she grapples with the defamiliarizing
experience of visiting her birthplace after seven years and the strangeness of becoming
a privileged non-resident-whatever whose stomach can’t handle the digestive demands
of a different country’s diet, my own Bisleri-dependent insides turned in solidarity. The
summers I spent visiting my homeland came rushing back in my memory, complete
with “All this shame and no bottle to drink it” (44).
