Friday, December 24, 2010


उड़ान - नेहा

पंछी तू उड़ जा
उड़ जा रे तू पंछी,
हवाओं में उड़ जा
गुफाओं में उड़ जा

उड़ जा...

पंछी तू उड़ जा
उड़ जा रे तू पंछी,
तू जहाँ जाएगा
मै तेरे पीछे पीछे

पीछे पीछे आऊँगी..

तुझे फिज़ाओं से,
नजारों से ,
गुफाओं की
दीवारों से

फिर वापस ले
आऊँगी ,
उड़ जा पंछी
तू उड़ जा

उड़ जा...

- नेहा

Thursday, December 16, 2010

If a country was a person

"The Pull" by Neha

If a country was a person
What would she be like?
or would it be he?
(Personal bias intervenes
with the poet and she
makes it a she!)

So let's repeat..

If a country was a person
What would she be like?

Would she be kind and gentle?
or would she be hard
through all that she's
been through?
The short summer, longer
autumn and longest winter?
A master, a mate or maybe a dove?

Would she look wise
with her lovely silver hair
and gentle ocean eyes?
or would she cover herself
with artificial colors, botox
and darkest glasses in town?

Would she keep
thinking of the swing on
one thousand year old mango tree ?
The good, the bad and the ugly?
Or would she open the
window to let morning breeze in?

Would she talk of love
in the time of cholera or
one hundred years of solitude
or communion or wars
or a distant lullaby?
Or would she sing
a never heard song?

Would she listen
as mother's do the
happenings at play school?
or would she be in
a hurry to tell her favorite
fairytale ?

Would she see a new
writing on the wall?
or would she see
that along the curves
the world goes on?
or maybe stairway straight to
rabbit hole under her bed?

Would she breath deep
and long?
or would she struggle to catchup
with her own breath?
or will she be looking
for a flavored fresh air bar?

Would she be able to
look at her own feet?
pedicured legs and
shoes with high heel?
or will the belly come in between?

Would she drink tap water,
whisky, beer or wine?
or some lemon, honey
with dash of herbal tea?
or home made fruit
juice will do?

Would she like to wake
up to coffee in bed with
some mozart and fresh daisies in
round yellow flower pot?
or would she check the news
to see what's been breaking
since she went early to bed?

Would she trust
knowing that it might go bust?
or her baggage would she scan
and check and rescan?
or would she look for
a train called hope at
the very next station?

If a country was a person
What would she be like?
What would she like?
What little pearl
would you whisper
in her ears?


Wednesday, December 15, 2010

A Butterfly's Dream

"Butterflies still danced" by Neha

What if life was
a butterfly's dream?

What if we were living
in belly of a giant?

What if hope was a dragonfly
sealed in amber of your heart?

What if a miracle said
please write my script?

What if universe was
a star's passing thought?

What if speed of light
was within reach?

What if we knew
the beginning of beginning?

What if there was a
unified theory of theory?

What if a history professor
wanted to live in the present?

What if an actor
wanted to be himself?

What if what
was the how?

What if how
was the what?

What if man in the mirror
wanted to come out?

What if the butterfly
was a rainbow's dream?


Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Yoon na mil

" Splash" by Neha

Yoon na mil mujh se khafa ho Jaise
Sath chal mauj-e-saba ho Jaise

Log yoon dekh ke hans dete hain
Tu mujhe bhool gaya Ho jaise

Ishq ko shirk ki hudd tak na barha
Yoon na mil humsey khuda ho Jaise

Maut bhee aaye to iss naaz ke sath
Mujh pe ehsaan kiya ho Jaise

Aise anjaan baney baithey ho
Tum ko kuch pata bhi na ho jaise

Hichkiyan raat ko aati hi Raheen
Tuney phir yaad kiya Ho jaise

Zindagi beet rahi hai "daanish"
Ek bejurm saza ho jaise

-Ehsaan Danish

Listen to this lovely ghazal by Mehdi Hassan at :

Monday, December 13, 2010

Lines by a Person of Quality

"The Reader" by Neha

Fluttering spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart,
I a slave in thy dominions,
Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourned Adonis, darling youth:
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, tune the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Armed in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful Cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy, smooth Mæander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander
With thy flowery chaplets crowned.

Thus when Philomela, drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
So the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.

-Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Ode to some yellow flowers

" Some yellow flower" by Neha

Against the blue moving its own blue,
the sea, and against the sky,
some yellow flowers.

October arrives.

And though it may be
so important for the sea to unroll
its myth, its mission, its yeast-like inspiration,
there explodes
over the sand the gold
of a single yellow plant
and your eyes
are fixed
on the ground,
they flee from the great sea and its rhythms.

We are and will be dust.

Not air, not fire, nor water
only earth
we will be
and maybe also
some yellow flowers.

- Pablo Neruda

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Riddle of the World

" The Glory" by Neha

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan
The proper study of mankind is man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise, and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a God, or beast;
In doubt his mind or body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks to little, or too much;
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused;
Still by himself, abused or disabused;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all,
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled;
The glory, jest and riddle of the world.

- Alexander Pope