Friday, June 17, 2011

Bread


If you don’t have a bread today, don’t worry
Your wealth is, after all, safe,
Locked in steel almirahs,
Read its account in every paper,
See on TVs also.
If you don’t have a bread, you do have a TV,
What do you say, you don’t have a TV?
Do your children not go to school?
You naïve! How could you be satisfied?
Come, let me tell you the secret of bread,
Got a suit on hire from somewhere,
And rent a car too,
Arrange for a dinner,
And forget the bread,
It will come itself along with every leader.

Joys That Did Not Suit


Since the joys bit me,
‘Am frightened and scared,
For, a joy,
Somewhere,
Jotted in my luck
May be hiding in ambush.
O God! Save me!
The share of my joy
May be bestowed upon your slave,
Whom it suits.

Forgetfulness


How long it is when the thought took leave,
Don’t remember since when this audacious tongue
Is voiceless,
Longing for words and speech,
How long it is that the keen eye has no fondness
For the fun,
Don’t remember how long the ears are deaf,
Not listening a song or the groan,
How long I had forgotten about the lips and cheeks,
How long it is that the lock is the keeper of every
Door of pleasure,
How long it is that the ship of every dream is caught
in the whirl,
Since when the skirt of life is rosy and glowing,
How long it is that the wise have forgotten
The manners of madness.
Truly speaking, since that time I don’t remember anything.
Returned shocked and disturbed from the
Celebration of civilization,
With the pangs of life pressed to the bosom,
The crazy brokenheart is living with a life on fire.

The Taste of Pain Persists


Are the chains broken?
Are the prisoners set free?
Are the accounts of pain closed?
Is there none broken by cruelty?
Is there none suffering from hunger?
Does the tiller owns the land?
Are the poets left heart-broken?
Are the flames of poetry dead?
Or lost in increasing din?
Who will now put lamps (of heads) on the killing post?
As the night of tyranny lingers on,
Will a Masiah come again?
Or would carry his own Cross?
Every sufferer of pain

The Whisper of Happiness


Breeze’s gentle thumping of the flower,
Shower of the dew on petals,
The peace offer of the pleasant stroll,
Or a pleasant and intoxicating act,
For recapturing a refreshing dream,
Or a flowery hands’ thumping of the heart.

What is this! My God!
Who is looking for sparks?
Opening the book of life,
Turning it leaf by leaf!
Chapters of the book have slept,
Dreams of beauty spots have slept,
The pangs of youth have slept,
Questions are awake,
 but all the answers have slept.

Whose finger it is on life’s violin?
Tinkering like a stroke,
The tunes that have slept in the string,
Who has come to wake them up?
Is it the mad tide or a storm?
Breaking the silence of Hoogly,
Shaking the boat,
That had, a long time ago, crossed the river,
Carrying the tired boatsman,
In the arms of the quiet bank,
Waiting for the sure appearance
Of the trustworthy morning star.

The Pinch


O my pen! Come! Let me kiss you
A pain has woken up, perhaps,
For the pinch in my heart is increasing today.
Pains knocked at earlier also, but,
Wept hiding behind the door and the wall
Were not the sinners among the old, but
The world of anguish was alive, anyway, but
If one was in anguish there were sympathisers too
Behind curtains used to be the sinners,
An ointment used to be prescribed for every injury,
There used to be pains but with breaks and less severe.

The Journey Continues


Blistered feet and wild frenzy,
Are co-travellers and colleagues
Got along with innocently.
And the childhood, an innocent bird,
Passed by somewhere on the way,
I saw it in despair.
Then there was a deceptive moonlight
Or a mirage,
Or say, it was an unheady wine.
It was youth or a curse
Passed by with a smile
But my co-travellers and colleagues are
Blistered feet and wild frenzy
The hell of a journey
Still continues.


The Urdu Version

The Gift of Injuries


I am the buyer,
I love every injury.
The gift I got from my fans
Is treasured in the vault of my heart,
Close to the lifeline.
And those given by the time are hidden
‘neath the shirt’s skirt
And where could I hide the injuries
That are all around me
Their traders entice me with?
Is there no buyer for them except me?
None is unwise, none is wiser?
I am the only buyer,
Is there no buyer at all?

Friday, June 10, 2011

The Autumn


There were fruits and flowers on this tree,
Stones came from children
As if showers of flowers!
What a shadow! What a wall!
Many a tired and stricken,
Many a lovely and the sad,
Stopped here for a while and then moved on.
As if it was the path mark.
They stretched here
With youthful excitement,
With sweet smelling breath,
With wild gossips,
Came and sat under the shadow,
Chattering.
But as the autumn arrived
Neither children, nor the older ones
Nor the tired traders anymore.
In a matter of days,
They will come with hatchets

The Urdu version

The Subdued Fire


The spring is withering though,
That very autumn will be celebrated
Must be remembering the days,
Of spring celebrations every day.
Don’t believe the leaves and twigs,
Dried and parched,
They still hide the fire within,
Flames are still asleep,
Asleep is the outburst of sparks.
Don’t provoke them,
Don’t provoke now


The Urdu Vesion