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]