Pilgrim's Progress

"Twirled" by Neha

..And to stir the mind

To a search after what it fain would find:

Things that seem to be hid in words obscure,

Do but the Godly mind the more allure;

To study what those sayings should contain

That speak to us in such a Cloudy strain...

- Pilgrim's Progress, John Bunyan (1678)

Saraktee jaye hai

Saraktee jaye hai rukh se naqaab ahista ahista

nikalataa aa raha hai aaftaab ahista ahista

Jawaan hone lage jab vo to ham se kar liyaa pardaa

hayaa yakalakht aayii aur shabaab ahista ahista

Shabefurkat kaa jaagaa hoon farishton ab to sone do

kabhee fursat men kar lenaa hisaab ahista ahista

Savaalevasl par unko uduu kaa khauf hai itna

Dabey honthon se dete hain javaab ahistaa ahistaa

Hamarey aur tumharey pyar men bass fark hai itna

Idhar to jaldee jaldee hai udhar aahistaa aahistaa

Woh bedardee se sar kaatein "ameer" aur main kahoon un se

Huzoor aahistaa aahistaa, janaab ahista ahista

- Written by Ameer Menai, Sung by Jagjit Singh

Key to urdu words: sarakti - to slip, naqab - veil, ahista - slowly, aftaab - ( vision of) moon, yakalaKht - modesty/shame, shabefurkat - night of separation, savaalevasl - question-answers, uduu - villian,

The Whitsun Weddings

....There we were aimed. And as we raced across
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 what they built. It is what they knocked down.
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

Tears of the Giraffe

Giraffe Sketch by Johan31000

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

"Wheat Field in Rain" by Vincent Van Gogh

Ab ke saawan mein shararat ye mere saath hui,

Mera ghar chhod ke kul shahar mein barsaat hui.

Aap mat puchiye kya hum pe safar mein gujri,

The luteron ka jahan gaon, wahin raat hui.

Zindagi bhar to hui guftgu gairon se magar,

Aaj tak humse hamari naa mulakat hui.

Har galat mod pe toka hai kisi ne mujhko,

Ek aawaz teri jab se mere sath hui.

Maine socha ki mere desh ki halat kya hai,

Ek kaatil se tabhi meri mulakat hui.

- Gopaldas Neeraj

खुशबू सी आ रही है

Parinda by Neha

खुशबू सी आ रही है इधर ज़ाफ़रान की,

खिडकी खुली है फिर कोई उनके मकान की.

हारे हुए परिन्दे ज़रा उड़ के देख तो,

आ जायेगी जमीन पे छत आसमान की.

बुझ जाये सरेशाम ही जैसे कोई चिराग,

कुछ यूँ है शुरुआत मेरी दास्तान की.

ज्यों लूट ले कहार ही दुल्हन की पालकी,

हालत यही है आजकल हिन्दुस्तान की.

औरों के घर की धूप उसे क्यूं पसंद हो,

बेची हो जिसने रोशनी अपने मकान की .

जुल्फों के पेंचो-ख़म में उसे मत तलाशिये,

ये शायरी जुबां है किसी बेजुबान की.

'नीरज' से बढ़कर और धनी है कौन,

उसके हृदय में पीर है सारे जहान की.

- गोपालदास "नीरज"

Untitled (aka "Last Love)

"Love on the Street" by Neha

To my daughters, I need to say:

Go with the one who loves you biblically.

The one whose love lifts its head to you despite its broken neck.

Whose body bursts sixteen arms electric to carry you, gentle, the way old grief is gentle.

Love the love that is messy in all its too much,

The body that rides best your body, whose mouth saddles the naked salt of your far gone hips, whose tongue translates the rock language of all your elegant scars.

Go with the one who cries out for his tragic sisters as he chops the winter’s wood, the one whose skin

Triggers your heart into a heaven of blood waltzes.

Go with the one who resembles most your father. Not the father you can point out on a map,

But the father who is here. Is your home. Is the key to your front door. Know that your first love will only

Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:

The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.

Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us? Can reveal to us

Our true heart’s end and its thirty years spent in poverty?

Can mimic the sound of our birdthroated mothers, replicate the warmth of our brothers' tempers? Can pull us out of ourselves until

We are no longer sisters or daughters or sword swallowers but, instead,

Women. Who give. And lead. And take and want

And want

And want

And want

Because there is no shame in wanting.

And you will hear yourself say: Last Love, I wish to die so I may come back to you new and never tasted by any other mouth but yours.

And I want to be the hands that pull your children out of you and tuck them deep inside myself until they are

Ready to be the children of such a royal and staggering love. Or you will say: Last Love,

I am old, and have spent myself on the courageless, have wasted too many clocks on less-deserving men, so I hurl myself

At the throne of you and lie humbly at your feet.

Last Love, let me never roll out of this heavy dream of you.

Let the day I was born mean my life will end where you end.

Let the man behind the church do what he did if it brings me to you.

Let the girls in the locker room corner me again if it brings me to you.

Let the wrong beds find me if it brings me to you.

Let this wild depression throw me beneath its hooves if it brings me to you.

Let me pronounce my hoarded joy if it brings me to you.

Let my father break me again and again if it brings me to you.

Last love, I let other men borrow your children. Forgive me.

Last love, I vowed my heart to another. Forgive me.

Last Love, I have let my blind and anxious hands wander into a room and come out empty. Forgive me.

Last Love, I have cursed the women you loved before me. Forgive me.

Last Love, I envy your mother’s body where you resided first. Forgive me.

Last Love, I am all that is left. Forgive me.

Last Love, I did not see you coming. Forgive me.

Last Love, every day without you was a life I crawled out of. Amen.

Last Love, you are my Last Love. Amen.

Last Love, I am all that is left. Amen.

I am all that is left.

Amen.

- Rachel McKibbens

Barason ke baad

baraso.n ke baad dekhaa ik shaKhs dil_rubaa saa

ab zahan me.n nahii.n hai par naam thaa bhalaa saa

abaruu khi.nche khi.nche se aa.Nkhe.n jhukii jhukii sii

baate.n rukii rukii sii lahajaa thakaa thakaa saa

alfaaz the ke jugnuu aavaaz ke safar me.n

ban jaaye jangalo.n me.n jis tarah raastaa saa

Khvaabo.n me.n Khvaab us ke yaado.n me.n yaad us kii

niindo.n me.n ghul gayaa ho jaise ke rat_jagaa saa

pahale bhii log aaye kitane hii zindagii me.n

vo har tarah se lekin auro.n se thaa judaa saa

agalii muhabbato.n ne vo naa_muraadiyaa.N dii.n

taazaa rafaaqato.n se dil thaa Daraa Daraa saa

kuchh ye ke muddato.n se ham bhii nahii.n the roye

kuchh zahar me.n bujhaa thaa ahabaab kaa dilaasaa

phir yuu.N huaa ke saavan aa.Nkho.n me.n aa base the

phir yuu.N huaa ke jaise dil bhii thaa aabalaa saa

ab sach kahe.n to yaaro ham ko Khabar nahii.n thii

ban jaayegaa qayaamat ik vaaqi_aa zaraa saa

tevar the beruKhii ke andaaz dostii ke

vo ajanabii thaa lekin lagataa thaa aashnaa saa

ham dasht the ke dariyaa ham zahar the ke amrit

naahaq thaa zo.Num ham ko jab vo nahii.n thaa pyaasaa

ham ne bhii us ko dekhaa kal shaam ittefaaqan

apanaa bhii haal hai ab logo 'Faraz' kaa saa

- Ahmed Faraz

Kharey panee ko

"Make a Wish" by Neha

Samundar ke kharey panee ko meetha kardey

Ya phir meree aankhon ko pathar kardey

- As remembered

ae khuda ret ke sehra ko samandar kar de
ya chhalakti aankhon ko bhi patthar kar de

tujhko dekha naheen mehsoos kiya hai maine
aa kisi din mere ehsaas ka paikar kar de

aur kuch bhi mujhe darkaar nahin hai lekin
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

"Spread" by Neha

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

Living Things

"Chains" by Neha

Our poems

Are like the wart-hogs

In the zoo

It's hard to say

Why there should be such creatures

But once our life gets into them

As sometimes happens

Our poems

Turn into living things

And there's no arguing

With living things

They are

The way they are

Our poems

May be rough

Or delicate

Little

Or great

But always

They have inside them

A confluence of cries

And secret languages

And always

They are improvident

And free

They keep

A kind of Sabbath

They play

On sooty fire escapes

And window ledges

They wander in and out

Of jails and gardens

They sparkle

In the deep mines

They sing

In breaking waves

And rock like wooden cradles.

-Anne Porter

Unwords

"Circular" by Neha

He offered me a leaf like a hand with fingers.

I offered him a hand like a leaf with teeth.

He offered me a branch like an arm.

I offered him my arm like a branch.

He tipped his trunk towards me like a shoulder.

I tipped my shoulder to him like a knotted trunk.

I could hear his sap quicken, beating like blood.

He could hear my blood slacken like rising sap.

I passed through him.

He passed through me.

I remained a solitary tree.

He a solitary man.

- Nichita Stãnescu

Truth

There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these is science, and the second is art. Neither is independent of the other or more important than the other. Without art science would be as useless as a pair of high forceps in the hands of a plumber. Without science art would become a crude mess of folklore and emotional quackery. The truth of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth of science keeps art from becoming ridiculous.

-Raymond Thornton Chandler, writer (1888-1959)

Who am I?

"Spring" by Neha

What is to be done ? for I do not recognize myself,

I am neither Christian nor Jew, nor Gabr nor Muslim,

I am not of the east, nor of the west, nor of the land, nor of the sea.

I am not of nature’s mint, nor of the circling heavens.

I am not of earth, nor of water, nor of air, nor of fire;

I am not of the empyrean, nor of the dust, nor of existence, nor of entity,

I am not of India, nor of China, nor of Bulgaria, nor of Saqsin;

I am not of the kingdom of Iraqain, nor of the country of Khorasan,

I am not of this world, nor of the next, nor of Paradise, nor of Hell.

I am not of Adam, nor of Eve, nor of Eden and Rizwan.

My place is the placeless, my trace is the traceless,

’Tis neither body nor soul, for I belong to the soul of the Beloved,

I have put quality away, I have seen that the two worlds are one;

One I seek, One I know, One I see, One I call,

He is the first, he is the last, he is the outward, he is the inward;

I know none other except ‘Ya Hu’ and ‘Ya man Hu’.

If there be any lover in the world, —’tis I.

If there be any believer, infidel, or hermit,— ’tis I.

The wine-dregs, the cup-bearer, the minstrel, the harp, and the music,

The beloved, the candle, the drink and the joy of the drunken,—’tis I.

The two-and-seventy creeds and sects in the world

Do not really exist: I swear by God that every creed and sect—’tis I.

Earth and air and water and fire, knowest thou what they are?

Earth and air and water and fire, nay, body and soul too—’tis I.

Truth and Falsehood, good and evil, ease and difficulty from first to last,

Knowledge and learning and asceticism and piety and faith—’tis I.

The fire of Hell, be assured, with its flaming limbs,

Yes, and Paradise and Eden and the Houris—’tis I.

This earth and heaven with all that they hold,

Angels, Peris, Genies and Mankind—’tis I.

-Rumi

Pehla Kavi

Viyogi hoga 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

Humko dushman ki nigahon

Humko dushman kee nigahon se na dekha keeje
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

The lucky ones

"We are going to die, and that makes us the lucky ones. Most people are never going to die because they are never going to be born. The potential people who could have been here in my place but who will in fact never see the light of day outnumber the sand grains of Arabia. Certainly those unborn ghosts include greater poets than Keats, scientists greater than Newton. We know this because the set of possible people allowed by our DNA so massively exceeds the set of actual people. In the teeth of these stupefying odds it is you and I, in our ordinariness, that are here."

– Richard Dawkins

Baat Shanasai ki

" A wish" by Neha

kubaku phail gayee 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

Apni Parwaaz

Apni Parwaaz-e-Takhayyull Hain Zamane Se Juda
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

ab ke hum bichDe to shaayad kabhi khwaaboN meiN mile
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

Le chala jaan meri

le chala jaan meri rooth ke jana tera
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

Journey of the Magi

Journey by Neha

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.

- T S Eliot

The Ages

"Fallen" by Neha

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)

Knots

Circles by Neha

All in all
Each man in all men
All men in each man

All being in each being
Each being in all being

All in each
Each in all

All distinctions are mind, by mind, in mind, of mind
No distinctions no mind to distinguish

-From Knots by R.D.Laing

Ballad of a wilful woman

So she follows the cruel journey
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!"

Apni Dhun Mein Rehta Hoon

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

Mary Morison

O Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!

Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor:

How blythely was I bide the stour,

A weary slave frae sun to sun,

Could I the rich reward secure,

The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',

To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,

And yon the toast of a' the town,

I sigh'd, and said among them a',

"Ye are na Mary Morison."

Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee?

If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown;

A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

- Robert Burns

The Old Wisdom

When the night wind makes the pine trees creak

And the pale clouds glide across the dark sky,

Go out, my child, go out and seek

Your soul: the Eternal I.

For all the grasses rustling at your feet

And every flaming star that glitters high

Above you, close up and meet

In you: the Eternal I.

Yes, my child, go out into the world; walk slow

And silent, comprehending all, and by and by

Your soul, the Universe, will know

Itself: the Eternal I.

-Jane Goodall

Mohabbat karney waley

Mohabbat karNe wale kam nah hoNge
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

yeh aarzoo thi tujhe gul ke ru-ba-ru karte
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

Hum hain mushtaaq

"Ghalib's Haveli in Delhi" by Neha

Hum hain mushtaaq aur woh bezaar
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]

Jalwa fir arz-e-naaz karta hai

Roz-e-baazaar-e-jaaN_sipaaree hai

[ jalwa = splendour, jaaN_sipaaree = resigning one's life into the hands of another ]

Karne gaye the; usse taGHaaful ka ham gila

kee ek hee nigaah ki bas KHaak ho gaye

[ taGHaaful = negligence, gila = complaint, KHaak = dust/ashes ]

Ishq mujhko naheeN, wehshat hee sahee

Meree wehshat, teree shohrat hee sahee

[ wehshat = solitude, shohrat = fame ]

Apnee hastee hee se ho, jo kuchch ho !

Aagahee gar naheeN GHaflat hee sahee

[ hastee = existence, aagahee = knowledge/information, GHaflat = negligence ]

Fir mujhe deeda-e-tar yaad aaya

Dil jigar tashna-e-fariyaad aaya

[ deeda-e-tar = wet eyes, tashna (or tishna ) = thirsty ]

Aa, ki meree jaan ko qaraar naheen hai

Taaqat-e-bedaad-e-intazaar naheeN hai

[ qaraar = rest/repose, bedaad = injustice ]

Poochtey hain woh ki 'Ghalib' kaun hai ?

Koi batlao ki ham batlaayain kya ?

- Mirza Ghalib

Keeping it real

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

- From " The Velveteen Rabbit" by Margery Williams, First published in 1922

Miss. Julie

August Strindberg subtitled Miss Julie “A Naturalistic Tragedy,” and set down, in his preface to the play, one of history’s most strident definitions of naturalist theatre as also one of the finest pieces of writing I have read.

From the Preface

"In the following drama I have not tried to do anything new--for that cannot be done--but I have tried to modernize the form in accordance with the demands which I thought the new men of a new time might be likely to make on this art. And with such a purpose in view, I have chosen, or surrendered myself to, a theme that might well be said to lie outside the partisan strife of the day: for the problem of social ascendancy or decline, of higher or lower, of better or worse, of men or women, is, has been, and will be of lasting interest. In selecting this theme from real life, as it was related to me a number of years ago, when the incident impressed me very deeply, I found it suited to a tragedy, because it can only make us sad to see a fortunately placed individual perish, and this must be the case in still higher degree when we see an entire family die out. But perhaps a time will arrive when we have become so developed, so enlightened, that we can remain indifferent before the spectacle of life, which now seems so brutal, so cynical, so heartless; when we have closed up those lower, unreliable instruments of thought which we call feelings, and which have been rendered not only superfluous but harmful by the final growth of our reflective organs."

*****

"Not long ago they reproached my tragedy "The Father" with being too sad--just as if they wanted merry tragedies. Everybody is clamouring arrogantly for "the joy of life," and all theatrical managers are giving orders for farces, as if the joy of life consisted in being silly and picturing all human beings as so many sufferers from St. Vitus' dance or idiocy. I find the joy of life in its violent and cruel struggles, and my pleasure lies in knowing something and learning something. And for this reason I have selected an unusual but instructive case--an exception, in a word--but a great exception, proving the rule, which, of course, will provoke all lovers of the commonplace. And what also will offend simple brains is that my action cannot be traced back to a single motive, that the view-point is not always the same. An event in real life--and this discovery is quite recent--springs generally from a whole series of more or less deep-lying motives, but of these the spectator chooses as a rule the one his reason can master most easily, or else the one reflecting most favourably on his power of reasoning. A suicide is committed. Bad business, says the merchant. Unrequited love, say the ladies. Sickness, says the sick man. Crushed hopes, says the shipwrecked. But now it may be that the motive lay in all or none of these directions. It is possible that the one who is dead may have hid the main motive by pushing forward another meant to place his memory in a better light."

*****

" In regard to the character-drawing I may say that I have tried to make my figures rather "characterless," and I have done so for reasons I shall now state.

In the course of the ages the word character has assumed many meanings. Originally it signified probably the dominant ground-note in the complex mass of the self, and as such it was confused with temperament. Afterward it became the middle-class term for an automaton, so that an individual whose nature had come to a stand still, or who had adapted himself to a certain part in life--who had ceased to grow, in a word--was named a character; while one remaining in a state of development--a skillful navigator on life's river, who did not sail with close-tied sheets, but knew when to fall off before the wind and when to luff again--was called lacking in character. And he was called so in a depreciatory sense, of course, because he was so hard to catch, to classify, and to keep track of. This middle-class notion about the immobility of the soul was transplanted to the stage, where the middle-class element has always held sway. There a character became synonymous with a gentleman fixed and finished once for all--one who invariably appeared drunk, jolly, sad. And for the purpose of characterization nothing more was needed than some physical deformity like a clubfoot, a wooden leg, a red nose; or the person concerned was made to repeat some phrase like "That's capital!" or "Barkis is willin'," or something of that kind. This manner of regarding human beings as homogeneous is preserved even by the great Moliere. Harpagon is nothing but miserly, although _Harpagon_ might as well have been at once miserly and a financial genius, a fine father, and a public-spirited citizen. What is worse yet, his "defect" is of distinct advantage to his son-in-law and daughter, who are his heirs, and for that reason should not find fault with him, even if they have to wait a little for their wedding. I do not believe, therefore, in simple characters on the stage. And the summary judgments of the author upon men--this one stupid, and that one brutal, this one jealous, and that one stingy--should be challenged by the naturalists, who know the fertility of the soul-complex, and who realize that "vice" has a reverse very much resembling virtue."

*****

"My souls (or characters) are conglomerates, made up of past and present stages of civilisation, scraps of humanity, torn-off pieces of Sunday clothing turned into rags--all patched together as is the human soul itself. And I have furthermore offered a touch of evolutionary history by letting the weaker repeat words stolen from the stronger, and by letting different souls accept "ideas"--or suggestions, as they are called--from each other."

*****

"I believe love to be like the hyacinth, which has to strike roots in darkness before it can bring forth a vigorous flower. In this case it shoots up quickly, bringing forth blossom and seed at once, and for that reason the plant withers so soon."

*****

From the Play

" JEAN.

You're mighty queer, do you know!

JULIA.

Perhaps. But so are you. And for that matter, everything is queer. Life, men, everything--just a mush that floats on top of the water until it sinks, sinks down! I have a dream that comes back to me ever so often. And just now I am reminded of it. I have climbed to the top of a column and sit there without being able to tell how to get down again. I get dizzy when I look down, and I must get down, but I haven't the courage to jump off. I cannot hold on, and I am longing to fall, and yet I don't fall. But there will be no rest for me until I get down, no rest until I get down, down on the ground. And if I did reach the ground, I should want to get still further down, into the ground itself--Have you ever felt like that?

JEAN.

No, my dream is that I am lying under a tall tree in a dark wood. I want to get up, up to the top, so that I can look out over the smiling landscape, where the sun is shining, and so that I can rob the nest in which lie the golden eggs. And I climb and climb, but the trunk is so thick and smooth, and it is so far to the first branch. But I know that if I could only reach that first branch, then I should go right on to the top as on a ladder. I have not reached it yet, but I am going to, if it only be in my dreams."

*****

" JEAN.

[Rising]

No! Forgive me instead what I have been saying. I don't want to strike one who is disarmed, and least of all a lady. On one hand I cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discover that what has dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that the hawk is simply grey on the back also; that there is powder on the tender cheek; that there may be black borders on the polished nails; and that the handkerchief may be dirty, although it smells of perfume. But on the other hand it hurts me to have discovered that what I was striving to reach is neither better nor more genuine. It hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are far beneath your own cook--it hurts me as it hurts to see the Fall flowers beaten down by the rain and turned into mud."

*****

"JEAN.

Have you not loved your father, Miss Julia?

JULIA.

Yes, immensely, but I must have hated him, too. I think I must have been doing so without being aware of it. But he was the one who reared me in contempt for my own sex--half woman and half man! Whose fault is it, this that has happened? My father's--my mother's--my own? My own? Why, I have nothing that is my own. I haven't a thought that didn't come from my father; not a passion that didn't come from my mother; and now this last--this about all human creatures being equal--I got that from him, my fiance--whom I call a scoundrel for that reason! How can it be my own fault? To put the blame on Jesus, as Christine does--no, I am too proud for that, and know too much--thanks to my father's teachings--And that about a rich person not getting into heaven, it's just a lie, and Christine, who has money in the savings-bank, wouldn't get in anyhow. Whose is the fault?--What does it matter whose it is? For just the same I am the one who must bear the guilt and the results--"

Read the complete Preface and Miss.Julie here

Like the Water

"The Element" by Neha

......Like the water
of a deep stream, love is always too much. We
did not make it. Though we drink till we burst
we cannot have it all, or want it all.
In its abundance it survives our thirst.

- Windell Berry ( From " My Story As Told by Water")

The Nomad Flute

To Music by Neha

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"

Wild Geese

The Village of Prades by Joan Miró ( 1917 )

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

Dard ka hudd se guzarna

Pollard Willows with Setting Sun by Van Gogh - 1888

Ishrate qatrah hai, dariya mein fana ho jana

Dard ka hudd se guzarna hee dawa ho jana

Tujh se qismat mein reri soorate qafle abjad

Tha likha, baat ke bante hi juda ho jana

Dil hua kashmakash charai zahmat mein tamam

Mit gaya ghisne mein is uqdey ka wa ho jana

Ab jafa se bhi hain mahroom hum allah allah!

Is qader dushmane arbabe wafa ho jana!

Zof se giryah mubaddil bah dam serd hawa

Bawer aaya hamein pani ka hawa ho jana

Dil se mitna teri angusht hinaee ka khayal

Ho gaya gosht se nakhun ka zuda ho jana

Hai mujhe abre bahari ka baras ker khulna

Rote rote game furqat mein fana ho jana

Gar nahin nikhate gul ko tere koche ki hawas

Kiyon hai girde rahe jolane saba ho jana

Bakhshe hain jalwai gul joshe tamasha Ghalib!

Chashm ko chahiye her rang mein wa ho jana

Taki tujh per khule ajaz hawai saiqal

Daikh bersatmein sabz aiene ka ho jana

- Mirza Ghalib

Key to urdu words: Ishrat- heartfelt wish (desire), qatrah- drop of water , fana- to get destroyed (mit jana)

Ek bass tu hi nahee

Southern Gardens by Paul Klee ( 1936)

Ek bass tu hi nahin mujhse khafa ho baitha
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 )

Notes: Listen to beautiful renditions of this ghazal on YouTube by Abida Parveen and Mehdi Hassan

Do not go gentle into that good night

The Starry Night Sketch by Vincent Van Gogh

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

- Dylan Thomas

Love this reading by Anthony Hopkins : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1fTlIsUGks&feature=fvwrel

To Women As Far As I'm Concerned

to a certain several women I have known

The feelings I don't have I don't have.

The feeling I don't have, I won't say I have.

The feelings you say you have, you don't have.

The feelings you would like us both to have, we neither of us have.

The feelings people ought to have, they never have.

If people say they've got feelings, you may be pretty sure they haven't got them.

So if you want either of us to feel anything at all

You'd better abandon all ideas of feelings altogether.

- D H Lawrence

Nasadiya: The hym of creation

"The Hym" by Neha

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"