Saturday, December 31, 2011
Pilgrim's Progress
Monday, December 26, 2011
Saraktee jaye hai
Saturday, December 17, 2011
The Whitsun Weddings
Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Travelling coincidence; and what it held
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.
- Philip Larkin
A German Requiem
It is not the houses. It is the spaces in between the houses.
It is not the streets that exist. It is the streets that no longer exist.
It is not your memories which haunt you.
It is not what you have written down.
It is what you have forgotten, what you must forget.
What you must go on forgetting all your life.
And with any luck oblivion should discover a ritual.
You will find out that you are not alone in the enterprise.
Yesterday the very furniture seemed to reproach you.
Today you take your place in the Widow's Shuttle.
*
The bus is waiting at the southern gate
To take you to the city of your ancestors
Which stands on the hill opposite, with gleaming pediments,
As vivid as this charming square, your home.
Are you shy? You should be. It is almost like a wedding,
The way you clasp your flowers and give a little tug at your veil. Oh,
The hideous bridesmaids, it is natural that you should resent them
Just a little, on this first day.
But that will pass, and the cemetery is not far.
Here comes the driver, flicking a toothpick into the gutter,
His tongue still searching between his teeth.
See, he has not noticed you. No one has noticed you.
It will pass, young lady, it will pass.
*
How comforting it is, once or twice a year,
To get together and forget the old times.
As on those special days, ladies and gentlemen,
When the boiled shirts gather at the graveside
And a leering waistcoast approaches the rostrum.
It is like a solemn pact between the survivors.
They mayor has signed it on behalf of the freemasonry.
The priest has sealed it on behalf of all the rest.
Nothing more need be said, and it is better that way-
*
The better for the widow, that she should not live in fear of surprise,
The better for the young man, that he should move at liberty between the armchairs,
The better that these bent figures who flutter among the graves
Tending the nightlights and replacing the chrysanthemums
Are not ghosts,
That they shall go home.
The bus is waiting, and on the upper terraces
The workmen are dismantling the houses of the dead.
*
But when so many had died, so many and at such speed,
There were no cities waiting for the victims.
They unscrewed the name-plates from the shattered doorways
And carried them away with the coffins.
So the squares and parks were filled with the eloquence of young cemeteries:
The smell of fresh earth, the improvised crosses
And all the impossible directions in brass and enamel.
*
'Doctor Gliedschirm, skin specialist, surgeries 14-16 hours or by appointment.'
Professor Sarnagel was buried with four degrees, two associate memberships
And instructions to tradesmen to use the back entrance.
Your uncle's grave informed you that he lived in the third floor, left.
You were asked please to ring, and he would come down in the lift
To which one needed a key...
*
Would come down, would ever come down
With a smile like thin gruel, and never too much to say.
How he shrank through the years.
How you towered over him in the narrow cage.
How he shrinks now...
*
But come. Grief must have its term? Guilt too, then.
And it seems there is no limit to the resourcefulness of recollection.
So that a man might say and think:
When the world was at its darkest,
When the black wings passed over the rooftops,
(And who can divine His purposes?) even then
There was always, always a fire in this hearth.
You see this cupboard? A priest-hole!
And in that lumber-room whole generations have been housed and fed.
Oh, if I were to begin, if I were to begin to tell you
The half, the quarter, a mere smattering of what we went through!
*
His wife nods, and a secret smile,
Like a breeze with enough strength to carry one dry leaf
Over two pavingstones, passes from chair to chair.
Even the enquirer is charmed.
He forgets to pursue the point.
It is not what he wants to know.
It is what he wants not to know.
It is not what they say.
It is what they do not say.
James Fenton
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Tears of the Giraffe
Mma Ramotswe had a gift for the American woman, a basket which on her return journey from Bulawayo she had bought, on impulse, from a woman sitting by the side of the road in Francistown. The woman was desperate, and Mma Ramotswe, who did not need a basket, had bought it to help her. It was a traditional Botswana basket, with a design worked into the weaving."These little marks here are tears." she said. "The giraffe gives its tears to the women and they weave them into the basket"The American woman took the basket politely, in the proper Botswana way of receiving a gift - with both hands...."You are very kind, Mma."she said. "But why did the giraffe give its tears?"Mma Ramotswe shrugged; she had never thought about it. "I suppose that it means that we can all give something," she said. "A giraffe has nothing else to give - only tears."Did it mean that? she wondered. And for a moment she imagined that she saw a giraffe peering down through the trees, its strange, stilt-borne body camouflaged among the leaves; and its moist velvet cheeks and liquid eyes; and she thought of all the beauty there was in Africa, and of the laughter, and the love.- From Tears of the Giraffe by Alexander McCall Smith
Ab ke saawan mein
खुशबू सी आ रही है
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Untitled (aka "Last Love)
Barason ke baad
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Kharey panee ko
- As remembered
ya chhalakti aankhon ko bhi patthar kar de
aa kisi din mere ehsaas ka paikar kar de
meri chaadar mere pairon ke baraabar kar de
- As sung by Jagjit Singh
Key to urdu words: ret ke sehra = sand castles,paikar = real/concrete ,darkaar = lack, chaadar=sheet of cloth
Tujh lab ki sifat
Tujh lab ki sifat laal-e-badaksha soo kahoonga
Jaadu hai tere nain, ghazala soo kahoonga
Jalta hu shabon roz tere gham me ey saajan
Yaha soz tera misal-e-soja soo kahoonga
Mujh par na karo zulm tum ey lailiye khuba
Majnoon hu tere gham ko bayamban soo kahoonga
Dekha hu tujhe khwaab mein ey maya-e-khubi
Is khwaab ko ja yusuf-e-tanha soo kahoonga
Di baadshahi haq mein tujhe husn nagar ki
Ja kishwar-e-imaan-e-suleman soo kahoonga
Yak nukta tere safaye rukh par nahi beja
Is mukh ko tere safa-e-Quran soo kahoonga
- Written by Wali Dakkani, Sung by Abida Parveen
Key to urdu words: Sifat - quality, like/similar to ; lab = lips; laal = ruby; gazaalaaan = deer;so= compare to, badakhshaan= place in Afghanistan famous for its rubies
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Living Things
Unwords
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
Truth
-Raymond Thornton Chandler, writer (1888-1959)
Monday, November 07, 2011
Who am I?
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Pehla Kavi
Aah se upja hoga gaan,
Nikal kar nayanon se chupchap,
Bahi hogi kavita anjaan.
- Sumitra Nandan Pant
Dono or prem palta hai,
Priye, patang to jalta hi hai
Dipak bhee jalta hai.
-Maithli Sharan Gupt
Kewal badal nahin aankh ko,
Thodi si dopahar bhi lena
Jeetey jeete marte hain sab,
Tum marte marte jee lena
Jab thakan sindhu ho jai,
Aur chetna lagey doobne
Baith hridaya ke madiralai mein,
Tab -Tab dard sura pi lena.
-RamSanehi Lal Sharma 'Yayawar'
Courtesy: Manish Chauhan
Monday, September 26, 2011
Humko dushman ki nigahon
Pyaar hi pyaar hain hum humpe bharosa keeje
Chand yaadon ke siwa haath na kuch aayega
Is tarah umr-e-gureza ka na peecha keeje
Roshni auron ke aangan mein gawara na sahee
Kam se kam apne ghar mein to ujaala keeje
Kya khabr kab wo chale aayenge milne ke liye
Roz palkon pe nayee shamme jalaya keeje
- Sung by Chitra Singh
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The lucky ones
Friday, July 29, 2011
Baat Shanasai ki
us ne khushboo ki tarah meri pazirai ki
kaise kah dun k mujhe chor diya hai us ne
bat to sach hai magar bat hai ruswai ki
wo kahin bhi gaya lauta to mere paas aaya
bas yahi baat hai achee merey harjai ki
tera pahlu tere dil ki tarah abad rahe
tujh pe guzre na qayamat shab-e-tanhai ki
us ne jaltee hui peshani pe jo hath rakha
rooh tak a gai tasir masihai ki
- Parveen Shakir
Listen to this ghazal on YouTube by Abida Parveen and Mehdi Hassan
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Apni Parwaaz
Jiss Jagah Koyi Na Pahuncha Wahaan Tak Pahunche
Main Samajhta Huun Harr Dil Mein Khuda Rehta Hain
Mera Paigam Mohabbat Hain Jaahan Tak Pahunche
- Ahsan Sherazi
Ab ke hum
jis tarah sookhe huye phool kitaaboN meiN mile
dhoonD uJde huye logon meiN wafa ke moti
ye khazane tuJhe mumkin hai kharaboN meiN mile
tu khuda hai na mera ishq faristoN jaisa
dono insaaN haiN to inum itne hijaaboN mein mile
gham-e-duniya bhi gham-e-yaar meiN shaamil kar lo
nasha behta hai sharaaboN meiN to sharaboN meiN mile
ab laboN meiN hooN na tu hai na wo maaji hai faraaq
jaise do saaye tamaana ke saraabOn meiN mile
Writer: Ahmed Faraz
Singer: Mehdi Hassan
Monday, July 18, 2011
Le chala jaan meri
aise aanay se to behtar tha na aana tera
tu jo ay zulf pareshaan raha karti hai
kis ke ujre howay dil mein hai thikana tera
aarzu he na rahi subh e watan ki mujh ko
shaam e ghurbat hai ajab waqt sunhana ter
apni aankhon mein abhi kond gayi bijli si
hum na samjhe ke yeh aana hai ke jaana tera
tu khuda to nahi, ae naaseh naadaan mera
kya khata ki jo kaha maine na maana tera
le chala jaan meri rooth ke jana tera
aise aanay se to behtar tha na aana tera
-Daag Dehlvi
Note:
1) See performance by Abida Parveen here
2) For complete translation see Ek Fankar's Blog
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Journey of the Magi
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times when we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities dirty and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wineskins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
The Ages
WHEN, to the common rest that crowns our days,
Called in the noon of life, the good man goes,
Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays
His silver temples in their last repose;
When, o’er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows,
And blights the fairest; when our bitterest tears
Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close,
We think on what they were, with many fears
Lest Goodness die with them, and leave the coming years.
- William Cullen Bryant (1794–1878)
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
Knots
Friday, June 24, 2011
Ballad of a wilful woman
That ends not anywhere,
And dreams, as she stirs the mixing-pot,
She is brewing hope from despair.
- D H Lawrence , From "Look! We have come through!"
Monday, June 20, 2011
Apni Dhun Mein Rehta Hoon
Main bhi tere jaisa hoon
O picchli rut kay saathi
Abke Baras main tanha hoon
Teri gali mein sara din
Dukh kay kankar chunta hoon
Mera diya jalaye kaun
Main tera khali kamra hoon
Apni leher hai apna rog
Dariya hoon aur pyasaa hoon
Aati rut mujhe royegi
Jaati rut ka jhonka hoon
Apni dhun mein rehta hoon
Main bhi tere jaisa hoon
- Written by Nasir Kazmi , Sung by Ghulam Ali
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Mary Morison
The Old Wisdom
Saturday, June 04, 2011
Mohabbat karney waley
Teri mehfil main lekin hum nah hoNge
Zamaane bhar ke gham yah ik tera gham
Yeh gham hoga to kitNe gham nah hoNge
Dilon ki uljah ne bardti rahengi
Agar kuch mushWare baaham nah hoNge
Agar tu ittifaaqan mil bhi jaeN
Teri furqat ke sadMai kam nah hoNge
'Hafeez' oon se mein jit na badGumaaN hooN
Woh mujh se is qadar barham na hoNge
-Hafeez Hoshiarpuri
Listen to this beautiful ghazal by Mehdi Hassan on YouTube
Ye aarzoo thee
hum aur bulbul-e-betaab guftagu karte
payaam bar na mayassar hua to khoob hua
zabaan-e-ghair se kyaa shar ki aarzoo karte
meri tarah se maah-o-mahar bhi hain aavaaraa
kisi habib ko ye bhi hain justajoo karte
jo dekhte teri zanjeer-e-zulf kaa aalam
aseer hone ke aazaad aarzoo karte
na poochh aalam-e-baragashtaa taali-e-"Aatish"
barasati aag main jo baaraan ki aarzoo karte
- Sung by Abida Parveen
Friday, June 03, 2011
Hum hain mushtaaq
"Ghalib's Haveli in Delhi" by Neha |
ya ilahee! ye majra kya hai?
[ mushtaaq = interested, bezaar = displeased]
Main bhee mooh mein zabaan rakhta hoon
Kash! poocho kee "mudda kya hai?
[ mudda = concern/ issue]
Jaan tum par nisaar karta hoon
Mai nahee jaanta kee khuda kya hai
Bas ki dushwar hai har kaam ka aasaan hona
Aadmi ko bhee mayassar nahiin insaan hona
[Dushwaar=difficult; Mayassar=possible]
Keeping it real
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
Miss. Julie
Like the Water
Thursday, May 26, 2011
The Nomad Flute
You that sang to me once sing to me now
let me hear your long lifted note
survive with me
the star is fading
I can think farther than that but I forget
do you hear me
do you still hear me
does your air
remember you
o breath of morning
night song morning song
I have with me
all that I do not know
I have lost none of it
but I know better now
than to ask you
where you learned that music
where any of it came from
once there were lions in China
I will listen until the flute stops
and the light is old again
- W.S. Merwin from " In The Shadow of Sirius"
Saturday, May 07, 2011
Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
- Mary Oliver
Monday, May 02, 2011
Dard ka hudd se guzarna
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Ek bass tu hi nahee
Mainey jo sang taraasha tha khuda ho baitha
Uth ke manzil hi agar aaye to shayad kuchh ho
Shauq-E-Manzil to mera aablaa-pa ho baitha
Masalaht cheen gayi quwwat-e-guftaar magar
Kuchh na kehna hee mera meri kata ho baitha
Shukriya ai mere qaatil ai masiha merey
Zehar jo tuney diya tha wo dawa ho baitha
Jaan-e-shahazaad ko min-jumlaa-e-ada pa kar
Huuk wo utthi ki ji tan se juda ho baitha
- Farhat Shehzad
Key to urdu words: Khafa: Angry, Annoyed, Displeased, Sang: Stone, Taraashaa: Carving ; Shauq-e-Manzil: Eager search of the goal/destination, Aabalaa-paa: Blistered Feet;Maslehat: Public interest, a thing that is right or wrong, Cheen-na: Snatching, Quvvat: Strength, Guftaar: Conversation, Discourse, Speech, Talk, Quvvat-e-Guftaar: Strength of Speech, Sadaa: Sound, Tone, Voice, Qaatil: Killer, Masihaa: God ( as Christ) , Zehar : Poison, Dawa: Medicine , Shehzad: A reference to the poet, Farhat Shehzad, Min-jumla-e-ada: fragile state, Huuk: shooting pain ( translation thanks to Ek Fankaar )
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Do not go gentle into that good night
Friday, April 15, 2011
To Women As Far As I'm Concerned
Monday, March 21, 2011
Nasadiya: The hym of creation
There was neither non-existence nor existence then.
There was neither the realm of space nor the sky which is beyond.
What stirred?
Where?
In whose protection?
Was there water, bottlemlessly deep?
There was neither death nor immortality then.
There was no distinguishing sign of night nor of day.
That One breathed, windless, by its own impulse.
Other than that there was nothing beyond.
Darkness was hidden by darkness in the beginning,
with no distinguishing sign, all this was water.
The life force that was covered with emptiness,
that One arose through the power of heat.
Desire came upon that One in the beginning,
that was the first seed of mind.
Poets seeking in their heart with wisdom
found the bond of existence and non-existence.
Their cord was extended across.
Was there below?
Was there above?
There were seed-placers, there were powers.
There was impulse beneath, there was giving forth above.
Who really knows?
Who will here proclaim it?
Whence was it produced?
Whence is this creation?
The gods came afterwards, with the creation of this universe.
Who then knows whence it has arisen?
Whence this creation has arisen
- perhaps it formed itself, or perhaps it did not -
the One who looks down on it,
in the highest heaven, only He knows
or perhaps even He does not know.
- Rig Veda
Translation by Wendy Doniger O'Flaherty. From the Book "The Rig Veda - Anthology"
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Whoever brought me here
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here, will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
- Rumi , Translation by Coleman Barks
Tuesday, March 08, 2011
Aayi Zanjeer Ki Jhankar
Khudaa khair karey
Aayi zanjeer ki jhankaar Khudaa khair karey
Dil huaa kiskaa giraftaar Khudaa khair karey
Aayi zanjeer ki jhankaar
Jaaney ye kaun meri rooh ko chhookar guzraa
Jaaney ye kaun
Jaaney ye kaun meri rooh ko chhookar guzraa
Ek qayaamat huyi bedaar
Ek qayaamat huyi bedaar
Khudaa Khair karey
Lamhaa lamhaa meri aankhon mein khinchi jaati hai
Lamhaa lamhaa meri aankhon mein khinchi jaati hai
Ek chamakti huyi talwaar Khudaa Khair karey
Ek chamakti huyi talwaar
Dil hua kiska giraftar khuda khair karey
Aayi zanjeer ki jhankar
Khoon dil kaa na chhalak jaaye kahin aankhon se
Khoon dil kaa na chhalak jaaye meri aankhon se
ho na jaaye kahin izhaar
ho na jaaye kahin izhaar
ho na jaaye kahin izhaar Khudaa khair kare
- From the Hindi movie " Razia Sultana", Lyrics by Jaan Nissar Akhtar, Sung by Kabban Mirza, Music by Khayyam
Learn more about this ghazal's story at : http://tinyurl.com/4fq56c8 .Incidentally, I recently visited Razia Sultana's (debated) tomb and today bumped into this otherworldly song from the movie "Razia Sultana"... serendipity - as usual!
Listen to this beautiful ghazal in Kabban Mirza's voice at : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HKlFQMXQ694
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Chief Seattle's Letter : The Web of Life
"The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? the land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?
Every part of the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every meadow, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and experience of my people.
We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the dew in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man all belong to the same family.
The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred. Each glossy reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father.
The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. So you must give the rivers the kindness that you would give any brother.
If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life that it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also received his last sigh. The wind also gives our children the spirit of life. So if we sell our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.
Will you teach your children what we have taught our children? That the earth is our mother? What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.
This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
One thing we know: our God is also your God. The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its creator.
Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted with talking wires? Where will the thicket be? Gone! Where will the eagle be? Gone! And what is to say goodbye to the swift pony and then hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.
When the last red man has vanished with this wilderness, and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, will these shores and forests still be here? Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?
We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. So, if we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it, as we have cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it. Preserve the land for all children, and love it, as God loves us.
As we are part of the land, you too are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also precious to you.
One thing we know - there is only one God. No man, be he Red man or White man, can be apart. We are all brothers after all."
- This letter was written by Chief Seattle, a Susquamish chief , who lived on the islands of the Puget Sound, in response to the United States government's inquiry in 1852 about buying the tribal lands for the arriving people of the United States. I read it in the Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell in relation to a discussion on ethics and morality. It speaks volumes about our timeless relationship to earth and need to respect the web of life of which humans are but a small part of.