2.12

edna st.vincent millay was an american poet in the early 1900’s. i read her poetry while i was in college [well, that is the time when i read a lot of poetry] and i enjoyed her poetry. she also apparently wrote prose under the pseudonym nancy boyd, but i have not read any of her prose work. st.vincent millay had an unconventional [in those days] lifestyle and had an open marriage as well as relationships with both men and women. she died the year after her young lover met his death from lung cancer.

Ebb
I know what my heart is like
Since your love died:
It is like a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
Left there by the tide,
A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.


First Fig
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

2.11

we had this poem in our class eleven english textbook i think. it reminds me of this depressingly true qawwali which i heard ages ago "chadhata sooraj dheere dheere dhalata hai, dhal jaayeeega..."

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

- Percy Bysshe Shelley

2.10

shel silverstein wrote this poem ‘sick’ and i love it more every time i read it. i actually had a cousin who’d claim that the whites of her eyes hurt – and this poem is pretty much along the same lines. i love the humour of “my tonsils are as big as rocks, i’ve counted sixteen chicken pox”. you cannot read this poem and not smile. and i thought it is rather appropriate for me as i start yet another monday morning

Sick
"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay,
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash, and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is---Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

-Shel Silverstein

2.9

charles bukowski was an american [german-american, to be precise] writer and poet whom i literally 'stumbled upon' on the worldwide web. according to the wiki on him, he has to his credit thousands of poems and dozens of short stories, as well as six novels. i have read nothing of his other than his poetry. i like it because it is stark, realistic and exceptionally minimalistic. most of his poetry that i have come across has a bleak, somewhat anti-social undercurrent.

Be Kind

we are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.

age is no crime

but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives

is.

-Charles Bukowski

2.8

another one from noyes, but completely different in theme. in spite of that, the style remains the same - his words draw up a crystal clear picture of the events he describes. and this time, i also have some info about noyes as a poet.

alfred noyes [1880 -1958] was an english poet. his father, a grocer and a teacher, taught noyes latin and greek. noyes attended exeter college, oxford, but left before he earned a degree. at the age of twenty-one he published his first collection of poems, the loom years (1902). in 1922 he began an epic called the torch bearers, which was published in three volumes (watchers of the sky, 1922; the book of earth, 1925; and the last voyage, 1930). the book arose out of his visit to a telescope located at mount wilson, california and attempted to reconcile his views of science with religion. his wife died in 1926 and noyes turned increasingly to catholicism and religious themes in his later books, particularly the unknown god (1934) and if judgment comes (1941). during the world war ii, noyes lived in canada and america and was a strong advocate of the allied effort. in 1949, he returned to britain. as a result of increasing blindness, noyes dictated all of his subsequent work. [information courtesy : wikipedia.com]

Daddy Fell into the Pond - a poem

Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!
And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!
Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
When
Daddy Fell into the pond!

-Alfred Noyes

2.7

i used to read a children’s magazine called ‘target’ which is now, sadly, defunct. it was an excellent publication with content far superior and intelligent than any other generated in india, for children till date. my introduction to spike milligan happened thanks to this magazine. milligan [terence alan patrick seán milligan] was born in india in the days of the raj. he suffered from severe bipolar disorder through most of his life and still managed to write some of the most brilliant comedy ever, across media like poetry, theatre, radio and so on.

A Silly Poem

Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?

-Spike Milligan

2.6

i read this poem when i was eighteen. i was already in the throes of [unrequited] love and naturally it spoke to my heart then; the love has long since been replaced by ‘my one true love’ yet the poem - i have never forgotten it since. rabindranath tagore was famous for far more serious works and his significant contributions to literature and education. but for me he will always be the man who refused the nobel prize and wrote these priceless lines.

I would ask for still more, if I had the sky with all its stars,
And the world with its endless riches;

But I would be content with
The smallest corner of this earth if only you were mine.

-Rabindranath Tagore

2.5

another long-time favourite. fantastic to read aloud, you can visualize every single scene alfred noyes wrote in this tragic poem. i know nothing about this poet other than this poem he wrote.

The Highwayman

PART ONE
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

- Alfred Noyes

2.4

wystan hugh auden was an english poet whose work i’ve often found heavy and layered. this particular piece though is an auden poem that i truly love. it was, i believe, also used in the movie ‘4 weddings and a funeral’. according to the wiki on auden, this was originally written as “a satiric eulogy for a politician” but out of that context, it remains a poem of love and loss. i likes!

Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-W.H.Auden

2.3

this post should have gone up yesterday but was too caught up in work to even get online. i really really like this poem by lewis carroll [charles ludwig dodgson] and once upon a time i could recite it all. now, i am not so sure i can, haven’t tried in a long time. the interesting thing is carroll actually gave the meanings of some of the words he made up for this poem and you can find them here.

Jabberwocky

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe

-Lewis Carroll

2.2

for someone who, for the most part of his life, worked as a librarian, philip larkin certainly had an eventful life, with as many as three alleged relationships with different women simultaneously in the early seventies. a british poet, his poetry was plain in its usage of colloquial language and pessimism, death, fatalism featured as an underlying motif in his body of work. i first read this poem when i was 19, it featured in an anthology i picked up at the british council library.

This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

-Philip Larkin

2.1

i could not have possibly started this series without this fantastic poem.

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

-Maya Angelou

2. poetry.....the new 30

so i have decided.
it continues to be poetry, but english this time. i had a tough time tracking down the meanings of some urdu words, which in turn made my posts slower and fewer. hopefully, with english poetry that should not be a problem.

i will present 30 poems, one each day for a month, some romantic, some funny, some that i don't particularly like but can't ever forget.

pause

today i complete my thirty days of urdu poetry and there are only 15 blog posts. grrr. how typical of me.

so i am wondering today, do i go on and get to 30 posts of urdu poetry or do i accept that i only managed 15 and go on to my next area of interest...

hmmmm. decisions decisions.

1.15

another one by nida fazli. i'd mentioned this in a previous post as one of my all-time favourite movie ghazals.


kabhi kisi ko mukammal jahaan nahin milataa
kahin zamin to kahin aasamaan nahin milataa

jise bhi dekhiye vo apane aap men gum hai
zubaan mili hai magar hamazubaan nahin milataa
kabhii kisi ko mukammal......

bujhaa sakaa hai bhalaa kaun vaqt ke shole
ye aisi aag hai jisame dhuaan nahin milataa
kabhi kisi ko mukammal......

tere jahaan men aisaa nahin ki pyaar na ho
jahaan ummid ho isaki, vahaan nahin milataa
kabhi kisi ko mukammal......

1.14

born on october 12, 1938, in the city of delhi, nida fazli (muqtida hasan nida fazli) did his schooling from gwalior. his father was an urdu poet himself. during the partition of india his parents migrated to pakistan, but young nida fazli decided to stay in india. he did his post graduation at gwalior college in 1954. he wrote some critical essays on the poetry of the contemporary poets of the sixties in his book mulaqatein. it ired many a poet including sahir ludhianvi, ali sardar jafri and kaifi azmi. as a result, he was boycotted in the some poetic sessions.

the course of his career took a beautiful turn when kamal amrohi, a filmmaker, approached him. jan nisar akhtar who was appointed as a lyricist of the film razia sultan, died untimely. there were two more songs to be written, and he did that so gracefully that he started getting adulated by one and all of the industry. it was the beginning of his successful career when he started receiving increasing offers to write lyrics for hindi films. his celebrated lyrics were also used in tum to aise na the, is raat ki subah nahin and gudiya.
[information courtesy : wikipedia]

one of my favourite favourite ghazals by nida fazli featured in the movie ‘ahista ahista’ – “kabhi kisi ko mukammal jahaan nahin miltaa”

tanhaa tanhaa ham ro le.nge mahafil mahafil gaaye.nge
jab tak aa.Nsuu paas rahe.nge tab tak giit sunaaye.nge

tum jo socho vo tum jaano ham to apanii kahate hai.n
der na karanaa ghar jaane me.n varanaa ghar kho jaaye.nge

bachcho.n ke chhoTe haatho.n ko chaa.Nd sitaare chhuune do
chaar kitaabe.n pa.Dh kar vo bhii ham jaise ho jaaye.nge

kin raaho.n se duur hai ma.nzil kaun saa rastaa aasaa.N hai
ham jab thak kar ruk jaaye.nge auro.n ko samajhaaye.nge

achchhii suurat vaale saare patthar-dil ho mumkin hai
ham to us din raa_e de.nge jis din dhokaa khaaye.nge

1.13

information courtesy : http://readerswords.wordpress.com/category/urdu/
“sudarshan faakir, poet and lyricist whose ghazals and some nazms were sung by begum akhtar in her last phase and jagjit singh in his early phase in the 1970s and 1980s died on 19 feb in jalandhar. he will be remembered as one of the significant though minor poets of the language. in context of the language issue, it needs to be remarked that he belonged to the small and diminishing tribe of non- muslim urdu poets from east punjab. krishna adeeb, who passed away couple of years back and joginder lal (known by his nome de plume naqsh lyallpuri) are others that come to mind. his compositions may not have been prolific, but each is remarkable for its profundity and perfection.”
i didn’t know he’d written this film song, ‘zindagi mein jab tumhare gham nahin the’ sung by bhupinder and i think, anuradha paudwal. also has written the famous ‘kaagaz ki kashti’ ghazal, which somehow i never liked. can’t blame the poet though, i think jagjit singh put me off that song for some reason.

zindagii tujh ko jiyaa hai koii afsos nahii.n
zahar Khud mai.ne piyaa hai koii afsos nahii.n

mai.ne mujarim ko bhii mujarim na kahaa duniyaa me.n
bas yahii jurm kiyaa hai koii afsos nahii.n

merii qismat me.n likhe the ye u.nhii.n ke aa.Nsuu
dil ke zaKhmo.n ko siyaa hai koii afsos nahii.n

ab gire sang ki shiisho.n kii ho baarish 'Fakir'
ab kafan o.D liyaa hai koii afsos nahii.n

1.12

another one by faraz.

zaKhm ko phuul to sar sar ko sabaa kahate hai.n
jaane kyaa daur hai kyaa log hai.n kyaa kahate hai.n

kyaa qayaamat hai ke jin ke liye ruk ruk ke chale
ab vahii log hame.n aabalaapaa kahate hai.n
[aabalaapaa = having blisters on the feet]

ko_ii batalaao ke ik umr kaa bichha.Daa mahabuub
ittefaaqan kahii.n mil jaaye to kyaa kahate hai.n

ye bhii andaaz-e-suKhan hai ke jafaa ko terii
Gamzaa-o-ishvaa-o-andaaz-o-adaa kahate hai.n
[sukhan = speech, words, poetry
Jafaa = oppression
Gamzaa = coquettish glance
Ishvaa = coquetry, flirtation
Andaz = style, manner, coquetry]

jab talak duur hai tuu terii parastish kar le.n
ham jise chhuu na sake.n us ko Khudaa kahate hai.n
[parastish = worship]

kyaa ta'ajjub hai ke ham ahl-e-tamannaa ko 'Faraaz'
vo jo maharuum-e-tamannaa hai.n buraa kahate hai.n

1.11

saifuddin saif lived in amritsar till the partition in 1947. even during his college years his writing was already popular and he had built a following amongst students even then. he moved to lahore and continued to write poetry, a lot of it filled with the poignancy of love and separation. i have not been able to find much information on this poet on the internet though.

here’s the piece that i have chosen. the first couplet itself touched me, particularly the imagery of “qazaa se aankh ladi hai”…



qariib maut kha.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao
qazaa se aa.Nkh la.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao

[qazaa=death]

thakii thakii sii fazaaye.N bujhe bujhe taare
ba.Dii udaas gha.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao

nahii.n ummiid ki ham aaj kii sahar dekhe.n
ye raat ham pe ka.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao

abhii na jaao ki taaro.n kaa dil dha.Dakataa hai
tamaam raat pa.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao

phir is ke baad kabhii ham na tum ko roke.nge
labo.n pe saa.Ns a.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao

dam-e-firaaq me.n jii bhar ke tum ko dekh to luu.N
ye faisale kii gha.Dii hai zaraa Thahar jaao

[dam-e-firaaq=moment of separation]

1.10

sheikh muhammad iqbal was born in sialkot, punjab, british india (now part of pakistan); the eldest of five siblings in a kashmiri family. it is believed that iqbal's family were originally hindu brahmins, but became muslim following his ancestor sahaj ram sapru's conversion to islam, although this version is disputed by some scholars. iqbal's father shaikh nur muhammad was a prosperous tailor, well-known for his devotion to islam, and the family raised their children with deep religious grounding.
iqbal's poetic works are written mostly in persian rather than urdu. among his 12,000 verses of poem, about 7,000 verses are in persian. in 1915, he published his first collection of poetry. while dividing his time between law and poetry, iqbal had remained active in the muslim league. he supported indian involvement in world war i, as well as the khilafat movement and remained in close touch with muslim political leaders such as jinnah. he was a critic of the mainstream indian national congress, which he regarded as dominated by hindus. his other very famous work is “saare jahaan se achha, hindostaan hamaaraa”

this one that i’ve selected is a well-known inspirational piece. i am particularly fond of the lines ‘tu shaheen hain, parwaaz….”


sitaaro.n se aage jahaa.N aur bhii hai.n
abhii ishq ke imtihaa.N aur bhii hai.n

tihii zi.ndagii se nahii.n ye fazaae.n
yahaa.N saikaDo.n kaaravaa.N aur bhii hai.n
[tihii = empty]

agar kho gayaa ek nasheman to kyaa Gam
maqaamaat-e-aah-o-fuGaa.N aur bhii hai.n
[nasheman=nest ; maqaamaat-e-aah-o-fuGaa.N = place(opportunity) for lamentation]

tuu shaahii.n hai paravaaz hai kaam teraa
tere saamane aasmaa.N aur bhii hai.n
[shaahi.n = falcon; paravaaz = flying]

isii roz-o-shab me.n ulajh kar na rah jaa
ke tere zamiin-o-makaa.N aur bhii hai.n

gaye din ki tanhaa thaa mai.n a.njuman me.n
yahaa.N ab mere raazadaa.N aur bhii hai.n
[raazadaan= confidante, trustworthy friend]

qana'at na kar aalam-e-ra.ng-o-buu par
chaman aur bhii aashiyaa.N aur bhii hai.n
[qana'at = to be contented]

1.9

faiz ahmed faiz (1911 - 1984) was a pakistani poet considered to be one of the most famous modern urdu poets. he was born in sialkot, in the punjab during british rule (now pakistan). after the partition of 1947, he decided to live in pakistan. faiz was a member of the progressive writers' movement, and an avowed marxist. in 1962 he was awarded the lenin peace prize by the soviet union.
faiz was charged with complicity in a failed coup attempt known as the rawalpindi conspiracy case and was sentenced to four years' imprisonment in 1951. the jail term gave him a first-hand experience of the harsh realities of life, and provided him with the much-needed solitude to think and write poetry. he was nominated for the nobel but did not win it.
the work i have picked here is beautiful for the way it depicts the end of romance when reality touches your world.

mujh se pahlii sii muhabbat merii mahbuub na maaNg
maine samjhaa thaa ke tuu hai to daraKhshaaN hai hayaat
teraa Gham hai to Gham-e-dah’r kaa jhagRaa kyaa hai
terii suurat se hai aalam meN bahaaroN ko sabaat
terii aaNkhoN ke sivaa duniyaa meN rakhaa kyaa hai
tuu jo mil jaaye to taqdiir niguuN ho jaaye
yuuN na thaa, maiN ne faqat chaahaa thaa yuuN ho jaaye

aur bhii dukh haiN zamaane meN muhabbat ke sivaa
raahateN aur bhii haiN vasl kii raahat ke sivaa
mujh se pahlii sii muhabbat merii mahbuub na maaNg

anginat sadiyoN ke taariik bahimaanaa talism
resham-o-atlas-o-kam-Khvaab meN bunvaaye hu’e
jaa-ba-jaa bikte hu’e kuuchaa-o-baazaar meN jism
Khaak meN lithaRe hu’e Khuun meN nahlaaye hu’e
lauT jaatii hai udhar ko bhii nazar kyaa kiijiye
ab bhii dil-kash hai teraa husn magar kyaa kiijiye

aur bhii dukh haiN zamaane meN muhabbat ke sivaa
raahateN aur bhii haiN vasl kii raahat ke sivaa
mujh se pahlii sii muhabbat merii mahbuub na maaNg

1.8

another one from kaifi azmi. this one was used in a hindi movie called 'haqeeqat' in the sixties. lovely, inexorable and sad.

maiN ye soch kar us ke dar se uThaa thaa
ke vo rok legii manaa legii mujhko
qadam aise andaaz se uTh rahe the
ke vo aavaaz de kar bulaa legii mujh ko
havaaoN meN lahraataa aataa thaa daaman
ke daaman pakaR kar biThaa legii mujhko

magar us ne rokaa, na mujhko manayaa
na aavaaz hii dii, na vaapis bulaayaa
na daaman hii pakRaa, na mujh ko biThaayaa
maiN aahistaa aahistaa baRhtaa hii aayaa
yahaaN tak ke us se judaa ho gayaa maiN

1.7

she was born mahjabeen bano in bombay. her father ali bakhsh was an actor in films and parsee theatre, apart from composing music for a few films. her mother prabhawati (later iqbal begam), a stage dancer and actress, was a descendant of the tagore family. mahajabeen acted in her first film at the age of six. she took on the name meena kumari for vijay bhatt's immensely popular musical baiju bawra.on her death, she bequeathed 250 diaries of her nazms, ghazals and ashaar to gulzar. some of her ghazals and nazms were released in an album titled "i write, i recite" ("mere nazm, meri zabani" in hindi) by gulzar with her takhallus ‘naaz’.


aaGaaz to hotaa hai anjaam nahii.n hotaa
jab merii kahaanii me.n vo naam nahii.n hotaa


jab zulf kii kaalikh me.n ghul jaaye ko_ii rahii
bad_naam sahii lekin gum_naam nahii.n hotaa


ha.Ns ha.Ns ke javaa.N dil ke ham kyo.n na chune.n Tuka.De
har shaKhs kii qismat me.n inaam nahiin hotaa

bahate hue aa.Nsuu ne aa.Nkho.n se kahaa tham kar
jo mai se pighal jaaye vo jaam nahii.n hotaa

din Duube hai.n yaa Duubii baaraat liye kashtii
saahil pe magar ko_ii koharaam nahiin hotaa

1.6

syed ahmad shah [1931 – 2008] wrote one of my all-time favourite nazms which i quote below. he used the pseudonym ahmed faraz for his writing and wrote his first couplet as a child disappointed with the clothes his father bought him. ethnically a pathan he learnt persian and urdu at university. during zia’s military rule, he left pakistan and lived in britain and canada for six years. apart from the nazm i have chosen here, i particularly love one sher he wrote that is something of an epigram:
zindagi to apnay hi qadmo pe chalti hai faraz
auroon k saharay to janazay utha kartay hain

and now i present the words that i have enjoyed time and over again:

ranjish hii sahii dil hii dukhaane ke liye aa
aa phir se mujhe chho.d ke jaane ke liye aa
[ranjish – grief, unpleasantness, coldness]

pahale se maraasim na sahii phir bhii kabhii to
rasm-o-rahe duniyaa hii niibhaane ke liye aa
[maraasim – obligations, as dictated by custom / tradition]

kis kis ko bataaye.nge judaa_ii kaa sabab ham
tuu mujh se khafaa hai to zamaane ke liye aa

kuchh to mere pindaar-e-muhabbat ka bharam rakh
tuu bhii to kabhii mujh ko manaane ke liye aa
[pindaar – pride]

ek umr se huu.n lazzat-e-giriyaa se bhii maharuum
ai raahat-e-jaa.n mujh ko rulaane ke liye aa
[lazzat-e-giriyaa – joy of crying /sadness]

ab tak dil-e-khush_faham ko tujh se hai.n ummiide.n
ye aakhirii shamme.n bhii bujhaane ke liye aa

1.5

kaifi azmi was born as syed akhtar hussain rizvi into a family of landlords in the small town of mejwaan, in uttar pradesh. his father wanted to send his sons to schools imparting modern education, including english, against the stiff opposition of his relatives. however, azmi could not get this opportunity because his elders wanted him to become a theologian. he was admitted to a reputed seminary in lucknow. however, his nonconformist nature created many problems for the authorities of the seminary. he formed a students' union and asked all the students to go on strike to get their demands fulfilled. the strike continued for a year and a half. though the strike was called off, he was expelled from the seminary. this was the end of his elder's dream of training him to become a theologian. he wrote his first ghazal at the age of eleven and eventually graduated from typical love poetry to a more aware, more progressive and decidedly socialist outlook.
The one that I’ve picked is of course about love and separation.

ab tum aagosh-e-tasavvur me.n bhii aayaa na karo
mujh se bikhare huye gesuu nahii.n dekhe jaate
surkh aa.nkho.n kii qasam kaa.npatii palako.n kii qasam
thar-tharaate huye aa.nsuu nahii.n dekhe jaate

[aagosh-e-tasavvur=in the grasp/reach of dreams/imagination]

ab tum aagosh-e-tasavvur me.n bhii aayaa na karo
chhuut jaane do jo daaman-e-vafaa chhuut gayaa
kyuu.n ye lagaziidaa kharaamii ye pashemaa.n nazarii
tum ne to.daa nahii.n rishtaa-e-dil tuut gayaa

[lagaziidaa kharaamii=hesitant walk; pashemaa.n nazarii=penitent gaze]

ab tum aagosh-e-tasavvur me.n bhii aayaa na karo
merii aaho.n se ye rukhsaar na kumalaa jaaye.n
dhuu.ndatii hogii tumhe.n ras me.n nahaa_ii hu_ii raat
jaao kaliyaa.n na kahii.n sej kii murjhaa jaaye.n

[rukhsaar=cheek]

ab tum aagosh-e-tasavvur me.n bhii aayaa na karo
mai.n is uja.de huye pahaluu me.n bithaa luu.n na kahii.n
lab-e-shiirii.n kaa namak aariz-e-namakii.n kii mithaas
apane tarase huye ho.ntho.n me.n churaa luu.n na kahii.n

[lab-e-shiirii.n=sweet lips; aariz-e-namakiin=salty cheeks]

1.4

this is long because i won't beposting over the weekend.

if you enjoy urdu as a language, reading ghalib is an absolute must. he writes of love and philosophy and god and wine and all of this in a manner that is sometimes introspective sometimes irreverent and sometimes deeply insightful. even his subtle tongue-in-cheek humour comes through as a pleasant surprise while wading through heavy urdu couplets.

born mirza asadullah baig khan in agra to aristocratic parents, he spent most of his life in delhi [chandni chowk to be precise]. he used the takhallus ‘asad’ [ meaning lion] as well as ‘ghalib’ [meaning dominant or powerful] interchangeably. married at the age of thirteen, he fathered seven children none of whom survived. he lived on state patronage, credit or his friends’ generosity, never really working for a livelihood. [info from wikipedia]
no wonder he had the time and energy to be such a prolific writer. ghalib is one of my all-time favourites.

hazaaro.n Khvaahishe.n aisii ki har Khvaaish pe dam nikale
bahut nikale mere armaa.N lekin phir bhii kam nikale
Dare kyuu.N meraa qaatil kyaa rahegaa usakii gardan par
vo Khuu.N jo chashm-e-tar se umr bhar yuu.N dam-ba-dam nikale
[chasm-e-tar = wet eyes; dam_ba_dam=continously]

nikalanaa Khuld se aadam kaa sunate aaye hai.n lekin
bahut be-aabaruu hokar tere kuuche se ham nikale
[Khuld=Paradise]

bharam khul jaaye zaalim tere qaamat kii daraazii kaa
agar is turraa-e-purapech-o-Kham kaa pech-o-Kham nikale
[qaamat=stature; daraazii=length/delay; turra=ornamental tassel worn in the turban] [pech-o-Kham=curls in the hair]

magar likhavaaye koii usako Khat to hamase likhavaaye
huii subah aur ghar se kaan par rakkhar qalam nikale

huii is daur me.n ma.nsuub mujhase baadaa-ashaamii
phir aayaa vo zamaanaa jo jahaa.N se jaam-e-jam nikale
[ma.nsuub=association, baada_aashaamee=having to do with drinks]

huii jinase tavaqqo Khastagii kii daad paane kii
vo hamase bhii ziyaadaa Khastaa-e-teG-e-sitam nikale
[tavaqqo=expectation; Khastagii=injury, daad=justice] [Khasta=broken/sick/injured, teG=sword, sitam=cruelity ]

muhabbat me.n nahii.n hai farq jiine aur marane kaa
usii ko dekh kar jiite hai.n jis kaafir pe dam nikale

zara kar jor siine par ki tiir-e-pursitam nikale
jo vo nikle to dil nikale jo dil nikale to dam nikale

Khudaa ke vaaste pardaa na kaabe se uThaa zaalim
Kahii.n aisaa na ho yahaa.N bhii vahii kaafir sanam nikale

Kahaa.N maiKhaane ka daravaazaa 'Ghalib' aur kahaa.N vaaiz
par itanaa jaanate hai.n kal vo jaataa thaa ke ham nikale
[vaaiz=preacher]

1.3

sampooran singh kalra, now 72, is one of india’s best known poets. born in 1936, this clean-shaven sikh worked as a car mechanic before he turned to writing full-time. like most urdu / hindi poets in india, he too achieved fame and glory thanks to bollywood. allegations have been made that he ‘stole’ poetry from the actress he had an affair with, a woman who herself was a melancholic poetess. because i love useless trivia i know that her last movie was his debut movie as director.

i don’t like all his poetry because it is sometimes pretentious, as if he revels in being esoteric and un-understood.
this simple nazm however caught my eye and i really enjoyed it. it is just a simple collection of thoughts on writer’s block, which the poet manages to take to a sublime romantic level by just the last two lines.

nazm ulajhii huii hai siine me.n
misare aTake hue hai.n hoTho.n par
u.Date-phirate hai.n titaliyo.n kii tarah
lafz kaaGaz pe baiThate hii nahii.n
kab se baiThaa huu.N mai.n jaanam
saade kaaGaz pe likhake naam teraa

bas teraa naam hii mukammal hai
isase bahatar bhii nazm kyaa hogii

incidentally the poet is better known as gulzar.

1.2

sahir ludhianvi was born into the wealthy family of a muslim zamindaar as abdul hayee on march 8, 1921 in ludhiana, punjab. sahir's parents had a very loose and estranged relationship leading to a difficult and somewhat deprived childhood for sahir.
a colossus amongst film lyricists, sahir ludhianvi was slightly different from his contemporaries. a poet unable to praise khuda (god), husn (beauty) or jaam (wine), his pen was, at its best, pouring out bitter but sensitive lyrics over the declining values of society, the senselessness of war and politics, and the domination of materialism over love. whenever he wrote any love songs, they were tinged with sorrow, due to realisation that there were other, starker concepts more important than love. in 1949, sahir fled from lahore to delhi. after a couple of months in delhi, he moved to and settled in bombay, beginning his long tryst in bollywood. [info from wikipedia]
this is the original piece of which a part features in the seventies’ multi-starrer “kabhie kabhie”. i love the flow of words, i love the nuances of pain and i love reading this aloud in my head.


kabhii kabhii mere dil me.n Khayaal aataa hai...
ke zindagii terii zulfo.n kii narm chaao.n me.n guzarane paatii to shaadaab ho bhii sakatii thii
ye tiirgii jo merii ziist kaa muqaddar hai terii nazar kii shuaao.n me.n kho bhii sakatii thii

ajab na thaa ke mai.n begaanaa-e-alam ho kar
tere jamaal kii raanaaiiyo.n me.n kho rahataa
teraa gudaaz badan terii niim-baaz aa.Nkhe.n
i.nhii.n hasiin fasaano.n me.n maaho rahataa

pukaaratii.n mujhe jab talKhiyaa.N zamaane kii
tere labo.n se halaawat ke ghuu.NT pii letaa
hayaat chiikhatii phiratii barahanaa-sar,
aur mai.n ghanerii zulfo.n ke saaye me.n chhup ke jii letaa

magar ye ho na sakaa
aur ab ye aalam hai ke tuu nahii.n, teraa Gam, terii justajuu bhii nahii.n
guzar rahii hai kuchh is tarah zi.ndagii jaise
ise kisii ke sahaare kii aarazuu bhii nahii.n

zamaane bhar ke dukho.n ko lagaa chukaa huu.N gale
guzar rahaa huu.N kuchh a.njaanii guzar_gaaho.n se
muhiib saaye merii simt ba.Date aate hai.n
hayaat-o-maut ke pur_haul Khaarazaaro.n se

na koii jaadaa na manzil na roshanii kaa suraaG
bhaTak rahii hai Khaalaao.n me.n zindagii merii
i.nhii.n Khalaao.n me.n rah jaauu.Ngaa kabhii khokar

mai.n jaanataa huu.N merii ham-nafas magar yuu.N hii
kabhii kabhii mere dil me.n Khayaal aataa hai

shaadaab – green / verdant
tiirgii – darkness / gloom
ziist – life
shuaa - ray / beam
raanaaii – grace, beauty
gudaaz – soft / plump
niim baaz – intoxicated
talkhiyaan – bitterness [?]
barahanaa–sar – bare-headed
pur–haul – full of horror / horrific
khaarazaar – thicket of thorns

1.1

a sweet little romantic nazm from daag dehlvi.
nawab mirza khan (1831 – 1905), was an indian poet famous for his urdu ghazals. he wrote poems and ghazals under the ‘takhallus’ 'daag dehlvi' (daag= an urdu noun meaning stain, grief and taint while dehlvi= belonging to or from delhi).

ajab apanaa haal hotaa jo visaal-e-yaar hotaa
kabhii jaan sadaqe hotii kabhii dil nisaar hotaa

na mazaa hai dushmanii me.n na hai lutf dostii me.n
koii Gair Gair hotaa koii yaar yaar hotaa

ye mazaa thaa dillagii kaa ke baraabar aag lagatii
na tumhe.n qaraar hotaa na hame.n qaraar hotaa

tere waade par sitamagar abhii aur sabr karate
agar apanii zindagii kaa hame.n aitabaar hotaa

1.urdu shaayari

that's what i am going to be reading for the next thirty days and i will be putting up one of my favourite pieces each day.

the inspiration

this blog is wholly completely and totally a cause de sky. she has started a new blog which chronicles her experiments and forays into thirty days of something. of course she has far more discipline than i do, so i will be very surprised if i continue this beyond the first thirty days. and i will be even more surprised if she stops before the first three hundred.
:-) that's just they way it is.

so i need to figure - the first thirty - hmm, what should i get into?