رضوان گل۔
سينيئر رڪن
ناليواري شاعر محمد علي پٺاڻ جو انگريزي ۾ ترجمو ٿيل شاعري جو مڪمل مجموعو
Fluttering Feelings
(Poetry)
Poet
Muhammad Ali Pathan
Translated by:
Jam Jamali
Bhittai Publishers Larkano
All Rights are reserved with the publishers
Title of Book : Fluttering Feelings (Poetry)
Poet : Mohammad Ali Pathan
Translator : Jam Jamali
Publication : July 2011
Edition : 1st (Copies 2000)
Composed by : Zakria Bugti
Asad Sangi
E-Book Setting: Rizwan Gul
Title Designer: Kaptan Abro
Back title photography: Talib Hussain Chano
Layout : Ali Dino Shar
Publisher : Bhittai Publishers Larkana.
H#,913/1, Dari Muhalla,
Near Khizra Masjid Larkana
Email : pathanmuhammadali@yahoo.co.uk
jamjamali@yahoo.com
Cell : 00 92 300 3414407
00 92 307 3474831
Price : PKR-200 U$ 10, GBP 6, € 8.
Biodata of Poet
Name: Mohammad Ali Pathan
Father's Name: Habibullah Pathan
Date of Birth: 03-04-1962
Profession: Assistant Professor
(Govt. Degree College Larkana)
Phone: 0744043887
Cell: 0300-3414407
Address: H#,913/1, Dari Muhalla,
Near Khizra Masjid Larkana
Beginning of Literary Career From 1974-75
BOOKS
4 Books of poetry have been published
1- Akyoon Aala Chand (1988)
2- Aashora Aahin (1995)
3- Aghya Ojaga ( 2000)
4- Bhago Aaras Aakhsyun (2001)
UNPUBLISHED THREE NOVELS.
1- Watt winjiai jaan
2- Dhobi Ghat
3- Musafatoon Yad Joon
50 Short Stories (Published)
DRAMAS
1- (INSAF ) DRAMA Series From Sindh TV
2- (Achhi Raat Karo Chand) (Drama Series ) From KTN
3- 20 Solo plays from KTN
COLUMN
• Weekly Column 1990 to 1993 in Daily Awami Awaz
• Weekly Column in Daily Kawish, Daily Hilal-e-Pakistan
• Daily Ibrat and Daily Sindh Sujag
MEMBER
1- Sindhi Adbi Sangat
2- Roh Rihan Adbi Sangat
3- Latif Literary Forum
4- Arts Council of Pakistan Larkano.
EDITOR
1- Daat Publication (1978)
2- Murk Publication (1984)
3- Naeen Dunya Publication (From 1979)
4- Monthly Koonj (1995)
COMPILER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHIES
1. Mrs. Dr. Ashraf Abasi (Jekee Halan hekiliyon )
2. Mr. Sobho Gianchandani (Roshani je raah mein)
Dedication:
Dedicated to
my loving father,
Mr. Habibullah Pathan,
who brought me up by hammering iron
on the anvil and fighting furnace fire,
bore burns of embers and sparks.
Mohammad Ali Pathan
Mohammad Ali Pathan is the one and unique voice of sindhi poetry as always, I mean voice in the wilderness of sindh and Sindhi Poetry.
Hassan Mujtaba
Mohammad Ali Pathan is one of those young Sindhi Poets who have won critics’ recognition of their talent. In his four anthologies – Akhiyoon Aala Chand, Aashura Aahin, Aghia Oajaga and Bhago Aaras Akhriyan – he has portrayed various aspects of society, with focus on miserable condition of the common man.
What makes his poetry different from others’, are his way of expression and skilful use of language.
His verses touch the chords of readers’ hearts, leaving an indelible impression on their minds. With the help of words, he dexterously paints a picture of the downtrodden.
He realistically portrays the Sindhi Society, focusing on ravages of drought, police atrocities, kidnapping of people by bandits and the curse of honour and ethnic killings. Amid the gathering gloom, Pathan instead of being pessimist, kindles hope that there will be light at the end of the tunnel. His message of love and universal brotherhood is appealing. For fighting for rights of people, he believes that pen is mightier than sword.
Anwar Abro
RANDOM THOUGHTS OF
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Life is a whirlwind and man is a straw. It carries man to different directions, when the wind veers it by patent force of the nature. I still cherish in my memory, simple thoughts of my village elders who had forbidden me to seek admission to secondary school to learn English. For them, English was a language of infidels. It was their sheer naivety, because they had dubbed me a simpleton soul. I am really so. It was my farsighted father who affectionately encouraged me to carry on my studies after passing fifth standard in Sindhi. In secondary school, I would read booklets of English grammar in the evening in village while grazing goats in fertile field of pea plants. Thus I learned the smattering of English. After Matriculation, I started spending more time in social works and paid little heed to literature. So, I am a causal reader not a book worm nor a well read man . It is not at all a self under-estimation, but a blunt truth to share with the discerning readers.
When I joined Govt Degree College Larkana, I found my self fortunate enough to be a constant companion of my brotherly friends (late) Prof: Razak Mahar and Prof: Mohammad Ali Pathan. It was their cordial company that ignited a spark of aspiration in me for literature and I started evincing interest in it. I composed a poem in English entitled “A call to world conscience” on the plight of the people of Palestine. It availed space in Mag the weekly “a periodical in English of Jang group of publications”. When I showed it to (late) Razak Mahar, he kissed me jubilantly and took me to renowned Professor of English, Mohammad Ali Kazi better known as M.A Kazi. He read it and felicitated me with friendly frankness. Publication of my poem in Mag the weekly, aroused an aura of aspiration in Pathan also to get his poetry translated into English. It was brother (late) Razak Mahar, who convinced Mohammad Ali Pathan to get his poetry translated by me. He commanded me to take this challenging task. I complied with late brother’s command, but I landed my self in the quagmire of confusion, because it was a technical work which required skill, competence, expertise and command over both the languages to transfer the same sense, soul and sensitivity from one language to the other.
When I read poetry of pathan, I found it worthy of translation because it embodied a universal message said in Sindhi.Hence, it needed a vent to reach the whole humanity. The poetry carries a message of human brotherhood, altruism, sympathy and empathy. It is like a clarion call for revolution against injustice, aggression and dictatorship. It also enlivens the readers with aesthetically spun anecdotes of elegance and enrapturing romance. Some of his poems transcend time and space and embrace eternity of thoughts. He has composed poems in all genres of poetry. But I have translated mostly his blank verses, because I felt myself unable to do justice with his poems patterned on the principles of prosody, and it was very difficult for me to maintain metrical and rhythmical requirements of such poems. It is no exaggeration to assert that Pathan’s blank verses are powerful, potential and imbued with meaningful messages. The blank verse genre of poetry is highly appreciated by scholars and erstwhile critics of this aesthetic form of literature.
For example, Poet Laureate Robert Frost was once caustic critic on blank verse and had cynically said so:
“Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down”.
On second thought, he commended blank verse form of poetry in these words:
“Free verse is the triumph of mind over meter”.
The poetry of Prof. Pathan, is really the triumph of mind over meter. Let’s have a look it this thought-provoking poetry that is transcendental in scope and stands at the acme of imagination, when he empathizes the interminable agonies endured by the aggrieved man of modern age. The poet feels angst of it and upbraids soulless society in these terms.
Vile World
In present age,
a bray of an ass
reaches out to the seventh heaven,
but,
a scream of an anguished man
stands strangled
in his throat!
However, I have no right to be judgmental and apologist for canvassing any one to conform to my views, rather it is up to the sweet will of learned readers, who are the best judges, to weigh the worth of the verses in their own scales of understanding.
I am not at all unmindful of this fact that this tough task was not done single handedly. There were certain hallowed hands and hearts that always graciously guided, kindly corrected my major and laughable mistakes with playful puns that bore no tinge of cynical smirk nor a sly simper to dishearten and discourage, it was their enlightened encouragement which let me go ahead to complete this uphill task.
I expansively acknowledge a great debt of gratitude of learned professor of English, Mohammad Ali Kazi better known as M.A Kazi, a silent scholar, and his competent companions, who constituted a galaxy of stellar scholars, Prof. Saeed Ahmed Soomro, Prof. Mukhtiar Ali Abbassi, Prof. Umeed Ali Saimto and Prof. Zulifqar Tunio, who enabled me with inspirational encouragement to complete this work agilely.
I am indebted to Ms. Tahmeena Khalid, editor, Mag the weekly, who boosted my morale through publication of translation of some of the verses.
I feel myself under a heavy debt of gratitude of the legends of larkana, late Anwar Peerzado, comrade Sobho Gianchandani and Mr. Anwar Abro for their admiring appreciation.
It is also a matter of honour for me to express my inner acknowledgements of Dr. S.M Moin Qureshi a renowned scholar, for his scholarly guidance and affectionate encouragement.
I am beholden to my learned friends Prof. Ali Dino Shar, Prof. Mukhtiar Samo, Dr, Moula Bux Kalhoro, Agha Noor Mohammad Pathan Resident Director, Pakistan Academy of Letters Karachi and Mr Khuram Khiraam Siddiqui Editor (English) Publications of Pakistan Academy of Letters (PAL) for their cordial commendation and encouraging enlivenment of my spirit to pursue this labour of love.
Last but not the least, I am grateful to all of my friends and critics who criticized constructively on my humble work for my improvement and introspection.
JAM JAMALI
H.No: 63/B
Sachal Sarmat Twonship
Larkana
Cell: 0307-3474831
POETRY WITH A PURPOSE
The fluttering feelings of Mohammad Ali Pathan attired in free verse have come to fore as a poetry that depicts the picture of life thriving in his part of the world. Mohammad Ali Pathan’s part of the world is teeming with people who keep on wading by centuries through uneven sandy, stony and thorny paths with vivid hope in their hearts to see the light at the end of the tunnel but mostly they fall prey to the hounds of unjust and unfair society before making it happen. Hence, this poetry to me is indeed a conglomeration of human feelings of agony, anguish, deprivation, affection, adoration, hatred, hope and disgust. The titles of most of his poems suggest so as they read like: poverty, hunger, privation, alarm, empty bowl, prime of poor, a jolt to justice, lost hope, the persecuted progenies, towards frustrated youth, helplessness, two corpses etc.
Mohammad Ali Pathan is downrightly blunt in choice of theme for his poems. The themes for his poems are drawn from the life and the longing for peace, prosperity, justice and freedom. He has written only on what he has either observed or experienced himself. Neither has he built castles in the air nor he day dreams. He does not write only for scoring the numbers and making quite a name to satiate the urge for cheap fame but he writes with a purpose. His down to earth approach towards the issues of life discussed in poetry establishes him as a poet of people and that of soil. He truly comes to the image of Pablo Neruda’s poet whose description he gives as follows, “a poet’s task must be a personal effort for the benefit of all. The closest thing to poetry is a loaf of bread or a ceramic dish or a piece of wood lovingly carved even if by clumsy hand.”
Mohammad Ali Pathan indeed is a prominent poet of Sindhi language. He has four books of Sindhi poetry to his credit, but his prominence with Sindhi readers is not solely due to his poetry, he is equally celebrated playwright and prolific prose writer also. His columns in newspapers, essays in literary magazines, short stories published in periodicals and plays staged and telecast every now and then are much appreciated by the men of letters in Sindh. However, he is yet to be recognized by the readers of English as this is his first book of poetry which has been rendered from Sindhi into English by Jam Jamali an all times fellow of the poet of Fluttering feelings. I hope the readers of this poetry will not differ me in my conviction that Mohammad Ali is a poet of his own right. Though this book contains only free verse but he has composed his thoughts in the all genres of Sindhi poetry which range from Ghazal , Wai, Geet to quadruplets known in Sindhi as cho sita. Reading a poetry with elegance and ease is indeed a skill and those of the readers who have got one they with the thorough study of the four Sindhi poetry books of Mohammad Ali will surely be made to believe that his feelings are not only fluttering but they are powerful and spontaneous which take the readers to trip around the hard realities of existence and at the same time introduce them with the subtleties of romantic life. This quality of the poetry bestows it immortality, hence it continues playing its role as a mouth piece of people’s tacit wishes and depicting a picture of their innumerable miseries through all times. This kind of the poetry establishes its strong bond with man and his world.
“William Wordsworth in his discourse on poetry says, “Poetry is the spontaneous outflow of powerful feelings and emotions”. You will find the same spontaneity and strong outburst of feelings and emotions in the poems of Mohammad Ali when situation and time require so. He does not compromise with circumstances but speaks truth aloud. He even never hides his wailings on the politically motivated acts of terrorism in the country as well. He, in his one poem ‘Terrorism’ that is included in this book, clandestinely has made reference to Karachi the mega city of Sindh without naming it, where very gruesome acts of terrorism were perpetuated a decade or two now. The mode of terminating the opponents and the innocent people adopted by the terrorists was very tormenting and shocking. The targeted people were killed ruthlessly, their body parts were severed and then the dead bodies were put into a sack and thrown at isolated place. The killing in this manner of guiltless common people in Karachi is still carried on unabated; the blood continues colouring the roads of homeland red. The court historian of the day may compromise and avoid from identifying the murderers but Mohammad Ali Pathan yells on inhuman act and tells the truth. He laments that despite their ghastly deeds the murderers are dubbed as civilized and innocent souls in the society. The poem is indeed a cry in wilderness which is not normally heard by the inept and spineless rulers of third world countries like ours but he does not refrain rather continues doing his part of revolutionary role. He says:
In a sewed sack, an abandoned corpse is discovered,
Whose face is devastatingly disfigured and eyes gouged out,
Despite having identity card, his identification is lost,
With ruthless rite, the hirelings have hewed humanity.
Bullets of kilashakives are penetrated into his mass,
The paper of prescription for treatment is dyed red with blood.
The killers seemed to be sans shame, remorse and ruth,
His body is painted with somber scenes of dreadful death,
Yeazidism has applied modern method of merciless murders,
Through cruel custom of severing parts from body of the victim,
the people are terrorized with shocking show of savagery,
as if the ferocious fury of pharohism were repeated again.
The terrorist take pleasure in boring holes in bones with drill machines
But in the society, they are being called civilized and innocent.
He shows his disdain against Court Historians whom he castigates in his following poem.
Some spiders
Behind a web
Spun around room,
are laughing loudly,
and their formidable faces
are giving an ugly look,
like those of
court historians of yore
watching with still eyes
Abruptly
I feel provoked and my eyelids begin to shiver,
Then my poise gets perturbed so much so that
I stand up and
Take match-box in my hands
to fumigate four corners of room
to exterminate spiders
Staring through web.
The precarious conditions prevailing here have robbed us all of our sense of security, confidence and protection to our basic human rights. There looms large an all time unforeseen fear in our minds which keeps haunting and turning the image of world bleak and sketchy for us. We lose the hope and harp in darkness. The very situation is painted in the poem “infinite Apprehension”:
There prevails a pitch darkness
All around the earth.
The magnificence of moon
Is held hostage in a haze.
The twinkling lampions of hope
Are shivering and shuddering from the fear
Of some imminent storm.
In the words of Murial Rukeyser “ A poem is not its words or images, any more than a symphony is its notes or a river is its drops of water. Poetry depends on the moving relations within itself. It is an art that lives in time, expressing and evoking the moving relation between the individual consciousness and the world. The work that a poem does is a transfer of human energy, and I think human energy may be defined as consciousness, the capacity to make change in existing conditions.” Mohammad Ali seems never faltering despite all negative odds. He fully knows that the man who holds pen in his hand can do both; write “Death” and thus set the way for doom and destruction for the progeny or write “Life” and that way encourage them to proceed forward and work for changing the destiny in their favour. His poem “New Sculpture” is real the work of courage in the face of difficulties. It reads:
In the showcase of mind
all preserved portraits,
With the whirl of time,
seem to have been
broken, cracked, and collapsed.
Even then,
I a engrossed in
Sculpturing
New ideal statues,
Holding in one had a hammer
And
In an other hand a chisel.
I do not have lost hope.
I am not tired of struggle
A word poet is derived from Greek language word “poetes” that means “maker” or “creator”. Ezra Pound remarked that poets are making it new and in the process invigorating language and perception. The Sindhi poetry of Mohammad Ali Pathan is hailed on both of the counts; it is there to play its share of the role in augmenting the language as well as providing the thoughtful reading and listening so as to help the readers/listeners become perceptive about the intricacies of the life. The English translation of his poetry titled fluttering feelings will surely be gauged by its readers for extent of its communicativeness and effectiveness. As for the revitalizing perception is concerned the credit for it goes to Mohammad Ali as he is the creator and maker of the ideas which is the stuff of this poetry and Jam Jamali will be applauded for his humble contribution to the language because he has translated this poetry from Sindhi to English. No doubt Jam Jamali is just like a pay master of the English words. I have found him commanding the words in his own convenience and the words obediently following his command.
The fluttering feelings are not only about social inequity, atrocities, and injustice but it is also about finer side of the life of creator of this poetry. Despite all absurdities that he has been meted out, which have added bitterness in his disposition, he has never been aloof and oblivious of his love. He refuses to come to terms with physical absence of his beloved, but he always finds him with himself in his imagination.
“ No matter,
You are thousand miles far from me.
May you live a lively life!
You are as near to me,
Not apart,
as tears
keep existence
in
my eyes.
Besides, some other poems like “A Sob”, “Infidelity” are testimony to his delicate romantic pursuits.
Following your desertion darling,
Today I land myself in an obliterated and obscure past,
In which
I had experienced anguishes smilingly on the hope of your love
And
Even tortures and taunts were welcomed as Pharisee friends.
And now,
At this crossroad of listless life,
I feel myself confused and confounded
Upset and dumbfounded like a panicked family
Affected by severe seismic jolt
And
Deem myself like a solitary survived soldier of virulent war,
Who with weary eyes
Looks hither and thither,
Mohammad Ali’s life style is not unknown to his close friends. I am one of those who have been in bond of friendship with him since my early years of the life. We all friends come from humble origin and have undergone all the vagaries time and tasted the bitterness of the poverty. The stories of our delight and miseries are alike. The poem “Colourful cloth” is one telling the tale of childhood deprivation of one of us. This poem is indeed an FIR on our unfair, adamant and selfish social fabric. The other poems in this book encompass in them every phenomenon of the real world of the poet in which he lives. “The scene of Sindh”, “Save thirsty Thar” and “Moenjodaro” are the poems that present the picture of gloom and obscurity which have visited these places and posed them an impending destruction due to the apathy of the authorities that be. The poem “Epilepsy” is very different kind of attempt at soothing the pain by crying and complaining against an excruciating act attributed to none other than Nature.
There is a mob of men standing in a circle,
Around an object of spectacle,
A wise man and well dressed with florid face,
is lying on a lump of rubbish.
Goggling eyes in grave trouble
And shivering his legs and arms
Is doing a dance of death
Blood is oozing in thin line from an injury
Inflicted on his face while falling
In the state of unconsciousness.
It is pointing a portrait of his past present helplessness
A cry comes from the crowd
“He suffers from epilepsy, Make him smell a shoe”
A shoe relived from the foot of some one was brought
Tight to his nose.
His legs and arms have slowly begun to stop and his gawped eyes
Coming in consciousness and normalcy shed torrential tears
And become low in humiliation.
And I clench my fists in annoyance
At this offensive incident of the nature!
The poetry of Mohammad Ali in this book is like a running commentary on the human life of people of his land. However some poems also remind us that he is also not oblivious to the miseries being faced by the people of countries inflicted by the man-made disastrous. The living example of it is Ethiopia. The poem “Apathy” is like a page from contemporary history of injustice and indiscrimination imposed upon its people.
Almost all poems in this collection the poetry are worth noting here but it suits to leave it upon the readers to dive deep into the sea of thoughts confined into the verses and bring back with them what they choose themselves.
However, this is labour of love done by both Mohammad Ali and Jam Jamali, it is hoped that it will serve its purpose.
MUKHTIAR SAMO
Knowledge Centre Larkana
Thought-Provoking Poetry
Somerset Maugham was an eminent British prose writer known particularly for his short stories and novels. However, he acknowledged the importance of poetry in these memorable words, “The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the sublime activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty and delicacy. The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes,” (Saturday Review, 1957).
The success of a poem is determined not by how much the poet felt in writing it, but how much the reader feels in reading it. Viewed from this angle, the poems included in this collection are ‘successful’ for they touch the heart-strings of the reader and transport him to a world of stark realities. Prominent Sindhi writer and poet, Muhammad Ali Pathan, has battled against the vicissitudes of life. He has weathered the doom, gloom and squalor around and he sincerely desires the deteriorating socio-economico-political conditions to ameliorate. His poetry is not whimsical, but a moving portrayal of things as they are happening before our own naked eyes. One is bound to be swayed by the emotional force of these poems and the altruistic message they convey with remarkable candour and conviction.
Voltaire so very aptly maintained, “One merit of poetry few people will deny: it says more and in fewer words than prose.” Going through these poems, I got more and more convinced with the rectitude of this well though-out observation. I am inclined to add that the ‘fewer words’ of this poetry create sustained and instilling effects. As a model, I allude to his poem entitled “A Lost Hope” in which M.A. Pathan gives a heart-warming account of how a hope turns into despair:
A Lost Hope
Having
taken last puffs
at a cigarette,
he
destroyed his dreams
in
ashtray.
In “The Scene of Sindh,” he has painted a dismal picture of abject poverty and remorseless blood-letting which have rendered the people as creatures of a lesser god. Whereas the subjects of these poems are well-versed, the approach of the poet is pragmatic. Whatever rolls out of his pen is written in a rational manner. He has dwelt on topical issues like injustice, avarice, economic disparity, apathy, helplessness of the poor and the down-trodden, lack of basic amenities, forced marriages, short-sightedness, class prejudices, plight of the toiling masses, kidnapping for ransom, gun-running, etc.
Like a concerned ‘international citizen,’ Pathan is not oblivious to challenges faced by mankind globally. Hence, we find poems on such nagging problems like terrorism, quest for peace, atrocities of big powers, protection of environment, amassing of weapons, Lebanon, Ethiopia, mutual co-existence and the like.
In ‘A Louse’ the poet mentions of a reprehensible custom prevailing in the ancient city of Helsingborg (Sweden). According to it, the contestants for the throne lay their hair around a table. Then, a blood thirsty louse was let loose to land on any of the bare heads and suck blood from it. The ‘lucky’ man thus justified his candidature by exhibiting that once he ascended the throne, he would prove a louse for the people. After narrating the heinous custom, the poet draws this hair-raising conclusion which is nothing but a fact of life:
Even today,
in
third world countries,
for keeping this condemnable custom alive,
relentless struggle continues.
The rights are being wrested,
and
human shaped lice are living on exploitation
with a pat on their back
by
some world power brokers.
Yet, what is more significant about this poetry is that despite being bitter and brusque, the poet sees light at the other end of the tunnel when he says:
An Aura
When
flower like florid feet,
undeterred by affliction of oozing blood,
advance with a majestic march
on
the thorny thoroughfares to troubles,
then,
an aura of optimism
takes birth in my mind
that now
the dreamed destination is not far away!
Last, but not the least, the poems embodied in this collection are the English rendition of the Sindhi version. The skilful translation has been done by Mr. Jam Jamali, an outstanding poet of English. The translation is so fluent and eloquent that, for once, the poems seem to be the original works. Robert Frost held, “Poetry is that which is lost in translation.” This translation leads us to believe that there are some exceptions also.
All in all, this is a phenomenal effort on the part of Mr. M.A. Pathan. A renowned Chinese scholar, Ba Jin, is reported to have said, “All truly, sincere and honest writers open their hearts to their readers and thus their works survive from generation to generation.” Mr. Pathan has really opened his heart to us. He deserves kudos for his thought-provoking poetry.
Dr.S.M.Moin Qureshi
M.A. (Pol. Sc.), M.A. (Jour.),
LL.B., FBIM (London), Ph.D.
Foreword
FLUTTERING FEELINGS
Mohammad Ali Pathan has already made his mark among the post-Shaikh Ayaz generation of young poets. He comes from the downtrodden class, a son of ironsmith. He has made it the hard way to college lectureship in Sindhi.
I remember him the first time we met when he invited me to a Sindhi, Adabi Sangat meeting in the press club, Larkana. After that he has pulled me out of the isolation and brought me to the mainstream of literature and keeps a whip driving me on to a greater effort.
His poetry is very rich in thoughts and its rendering into English by my young friend Mr. Jam Jamali is excellent.
Among the Sindhi poets and writers he needs no introduction but Jam Jamali has made him available to a larger audience through English.
I remember about the year back, Khowaja Saleem Ahmed, an excellent writer in his own right, translated Shaikh Ayaz’s select poems in English.
Shaikh Ayaz of course for long time deserves to have had a larger audience because of his stature and voluminous Sindhi poetry. Shaikh Ayaz would have been the best translator of his own poetry but he never had the time. In his later years, he suffered considerably from bouts of heart trouble and with the help of friends he has left enough for the country, and I hope that some other writers will take up the good work done by Khowaja Saleem Ahmed and bring Shaikh Ayaz to the larger audience of the globe.
Mohammad Ali Pathan has yet to make his way up to the top because the Sindhi world is overcrowded with young promising and budding writers.
Now I shall not stand in the way of the readers and the poet and here is a selection of Pathan’s poetry and you can judge for your self.
O Man!
Since centuries
you have invented
arrows, axes and swords
for your defence.
Now they seem to have been
corrupted with rust and dust.
Today,
you have progressed in invention of
a myriad of mortal weapons
short guns,
T.T pistols,
Rocket launchers
and
Bombs,
only to play game with them
to annihilate the existence
of mankind,
from the planet.
Even then,
you call yourself
cultured and cultivated.
What a wonder!
Prime of the Poor
It is presumed
that
when bloom comes in life
it brings rejuvenation
and
infuses a new life
into
pruned plants, burnt bushes and
withered flowers,
in deserts and wildness,
like a balmy breeze of spring,
which bestows beauty on barren land
and
excudes and aura of appealing floral fragrance
that
produces a state of ecstasy and trance
in hearts.
Granted that,
it might be so.
But
I have seen the youth
whose blooming age
is akin to
a skeletal starved man
portraying a patient
caught and consumed
by
Terminal tuberculosis.
Voice of Peace
On the sky
a flock of pigeons of peace
is flying un-frightened
and
there is no trace
of predatory hawks.
But
What happened suddenly?
an army of predators appeared
on firmament
that pounced on preys
and devoured the doves
whose feathers are only seen
dancing on the direction of the wind.
On the earth,
time is passing speedily
taking into its lap
mortal munitions.
No body knows
when it would un burden ammunition
from its fold
to cause cataclysm
leaving little likelihood of life
on the earth.
Hence
it is apt time
to dispose and diffuse
invented and amassed armaments,
otherwise this winsome world
would become an infernal planet.
No nation would find
safe sanctuary
and island of peace.
The poet shall be happy to get your reactions on his poetry and those of you who are Sindhi will also do service to themselves by reading Sindhi and English versions side by side. The labour of love done by Jam Jamali will be fully rewarded if you take the trouble to let the editor know your reactions to the poetry of Pathan in both versions.
SOBHO GIANCHANDANI,
O MAN!
Since centuries
you have invented
arrows, axes and swords
for your defence.
Now they seem to have been
corrupted with rust and dust.
Today,
you have progressed in invention of
a myriad of mortal weapons
short guns,
T.T pistols,
Rocket launchers
and
Bombs,
only to play game with them
to annihilate the existence
of mankind,
from the planet.
Even then,
you call yourself
cultured and cultivated.
What a wonder!
PRIME OF THE POOR
It is presumed
that
when bloom comes in life
it brings rejuvenation
and
infuses a new life
into
pruned plants, burnt bushes and
withered flowers,
in deserts and wilderness,
like a balmy breeze of spring,
which bestows beauty on barren land
and
excudes an aura of appealing floral fragrance
that
produces a state of ecstasy and trance
in hearts.
Granted that,
it might be so.
But
I have seen the youth
whose blooming age
is akin to
a skeletal starved man
portraying a patient
caught and consumed
by
terminal tuberculosis.
A LIE
Had there been
a root
to
a lie
then,
a seedling of truth
would never
have
grown green…!
POVERTY
In a mortar
of misery
it looks as if,
instead of food grains,
she were pestling
persecutions of her life…!
THE MYOPIA
The persons
Who have
a myopic sight,
are unable to transcend
the narrowness of vision,
and the width of their world
is confined nigh to their noses.
HUNGER
A starved child
seeing a dog,
eating some thing,
on a heap of filth,
feebly screamed and
said to his mother.
O mother! Snatch it for me
to eat…!
THE PRIVATION
Poverty
is
spittle,
a stumble,
a slap
and
a curse..!.
EMPTY BOWL
A begging bowl,
without penny,
stood filled
with the shadow
of the hands
of passers by,
who mumbled
“Please pardon”
THE REFLECTIONS
When
mirrors
begin to speak,
then masked faces,
with all their turpitudes,
stand exposed.
But again
they get lost
in quest of
other masks
to camouflage
their cunningness.
A JOLT TO JUSTICE
Courts
are constituted
to uphold
the scales of justice.
But
a goblet of hemlock
administered to Socrates,
dealt a death-blow to justice.
The truth
needs not
a stay of evidence.
A lie
encounters
infamy and odium
even-after
the span of centuries
and
it is greeted with stumbles and spurns
of the feet of all
everywhere in the world.
VOICE OF PEACE
On the sky
a flock of pigeons of peace
is flying unfrightenedly
and
there is no trace
of predatory hawks.
But
What happened suddenly?
An army of predators appeared
on firmament
that pounced on preys
and devoured the doves
whose feathers are only seen
dancing on the direction of the wind.
On the earth,
time is passing speedily
taking into its lap
mortal munitions.
No body knows
when it would un burden ammunition
from its fold
to cause cataclysm
leaving little likelihood of life
on the earth.
Hence
it is apt time
to dispose and diffuse
invented and amassed armaments,
otherwise this winsome world
would become an infernal planet.
No nation would find
safe sanctuary
and island of peace.
ABATTOIR
A butcher
is
sharpening
a knife on
a whetstone.
An animal
is
counting its
last moments of life
with bated breath.
A LOST HOPE
Having
taken last puffs
at a cigarette,
he
destroyed his dreams
in
ashtray
SPIDERS / COURT HISTORIANS
Some spiders
behind a web
spun around room,
are laughing loudly
and
their formidable faces
are giving an ugly look,
like those of
court historians,
of yore.
Watching with still eyes,
abruptly
I feel provoked
and
my eyelids begin to shiver.
Then,
my poise gets perturbed
and
my fortitude frustrated
so much that
I stand up
and
take match-box in my hands
to fumigate four corners of room
to exterminate spiders
staring through a web.
A NEW STEP
Begetting a baby through test tube
is
a big breakthrough of man
towards
a progress of his progeny.
Invention of hydrogen bombs
is
a new stride of man
towards
annihilation of whole humanity.
VALOUR
The naked sword,
which is in your hands,
I understand,
would sever my head.
But
the head
that stands straight
and above the collar of my shirt,
will not bow.
Because,
I know that
umpteen invented bombs
in the world,
might turn mountains into smithereens,
yet
their heads held aloft
could not be buckled.
A SMILE
Unlike you,
I do not want
to affix an autumnal scene
on
my face.
I,
inspite of
fostering fathomless ocean of frustrations
in my bosom,
and
wallowing in a wilderness of worries,
from
toe to the hair of head,
simmering and smoldering,
I am not wonted to weeping.
Because blubbering
is
a pointer to pessimistic perceptions
and
in order to win victories,
there must be
a smile on the face,
even though,
it may be
simply a simulation.
TEARS AND YOU
No matter,
you are thousand miles far from me.
May you live a lively life!
you are as near to me,
not apart,
as tears
keep existence
in
my eyes.
THE PERSECUTED PROGENIES
The caravans
of
ruined races
are roaming along,
with a caravan of ruination
of my life.
Heads are capped
with
partly burned
turbans
of
troubled principles.
How heavy are
the avalanches
of
anguish !
TOWARDS FRUSTRATED YOUTH
Dead souls
do not kindle candles of cognitions.
And,
they who are
devoid of discernment and spirit,
do not get guidance
to pass through a thorny thoroughfare.
They only effuse
decomposition and darkness
in the jail of graves…!
INFIDELITY
Following your desertion darling,
today
I land myself
in
an obliterated and obscure past,
in which
I had experienced anguishes smilingly
on the hope of your love,
and
even tortures and taunts
were welcomed as pharisee friends.
And now,
at this crossroad of listless life,
I feel myself
confused and confounded
upset and dumbfounded
like a panicked family
affected by severe seismic jolt
and
deem myself like a solitary survived soldier
of virulent war,
who
with weary eyes,
looks hither and thither.
ENEMY OF ENLIGHTENMENT
Where land was not watered for centuries,
where flowers had not blossomed,
where the earth was completely covered,
repressive rine and glacial gloom.
Behold! there has risen the sun.
Look! There are rays of the sunshine.
All visions stranded in eyes in pitch darkness
came true.
There came glow of gladness on faces,
success smiled on humanity.
Cities were established
greenaries grew around.
But,
o beloved!
Upon my motherland,
prevails a pitchy pall of long night
like a layer of fastened frost,
that does not melt.
The sun does not rise.
The day does not break.
From the clay of kindness
a plant of polarity is produced.
All people fear from one another.
Terror terrifies,
it gnashes teeth.
There is mirage and illusion around.
There is silence and stillness around.
And
in the seething silence,
they who are thinking,
they who are struggling
that
there must be a day,
there must be an end to a night,
they are being followed by
some caravans of killers,
carrying kilashankovs,
with a myopic mission,
to track talented trail blazers
of
popular enlightenment and emancipation.
What a hunt for the pioneers of peace,
prosperity and renaissance.
NEW SCULPTURES
In the showcase of mind,
all preserved portraits,
with the whirl of time,
seem to have been
broken, cracked and collapsed.
Even then,
I am engrossed in
sculpturing
new ideal statues,
holding in one hand a hammer
and
in an other hand a chisel.
I do not have lost a hope.
I am not tired of a struggle…!
HELPLESSNESS
People say,
my enemy has bought a shot-gun.
I start searching for
my rust-ridden and obtuse edged axe,
in the nook and corner of my home.
My wife and children
observe appearance of anguish on my face
and
astonishingly ask,
What do you search for?
The hatchet!
What kind of hatchet?
That what was blunted and corrupted,
whose
handle was broken
and
that which had not seen hands of
blacksmith for years
to repair its dents and sharpen its edge.
Yes, the very same axe
(a bequest bequeathed by my elders)
where is it ?
Now, I would get it repaired, whetted
and provided with a new handle.
But,
it was sold with scrap-iron to a vendor,
a long time ago,
in the days of your imprisonment,
when
we had been left without provisions
to extinguish inferno of hunger
and
the shopkeeper had refused
to supply victuals
on credit.
I become a bit berserk and hysterical
and
begin blurting
my avowed enemy has bought a shot-gun.
A QUEER QUESTION
When you
look yourself into the mirror,
you feel exaltation
of overwhelming ego.
But
when you appear before
some mighty man,
you suffer from
an obsession of inferiority.
Why it happens so?
APATHY
On the arid land
of Ethiopia,
the people of
famine famished faces,
bony bodies
ugly appearances,
all
the youth, the old
women and men,
boys and girls
are excruciated
by
a barbarian bite of hunger
( our sisters and brothers ).
They are making muffled protests
with suppressed cries
and
are being persistently pushed
towards the pit of poverty
to die of hunger.
And,
their domesticated dogs
( whose real masters they are )
caught by cupidity and avarice,
negating all norms of humanity or fidelity
and
scaling all walls of venerated values,
have rallied round
the cool crumbs of bones and bodies
to hound.
What a duplicitous role
are playing
these devoted dogs!
A SOB
Festivals were celebrated
and
my days passed unenjoyed.
Spell of spring too
bade me bye-bye
without bestowing a bit
of mirthful moment.
Now
I am living
in an autumny season
and
before my eyes
is
an interminably horrible haze.
Your visit was also
swift and flying
like
a quick current of ocean
that
streams back from
centuries thirsty land
leaving its thirst unquenched.
SAVE THIRSTY THAR
Marvi’s motherland (Thar),
suffers from
drought and dearth.
Marvi’s kinsfolk
are looking to sky for the rain.
It is not known
where,
clouds, favourite friends of Bhittai,
have taken flight
on the wings of the wind?
Folks are facing famine.
Death has become
cheaper than food grains and water.
Ponds and lakes, instead of water, dust fly,
misery makes blood of the masses dry.
Leaving homes with cattle in long rows,
caravans of the hunger and thirst hit narrate woes.
Many people have vowed not to leave native land,
with a feeling of fidelity to die on silvery sand.
From the famished faces of people
a blush of buoyancy and vivacity
is vanishing.
A cry comes from
the wilderness.
Protect poetic legacy of Latif !
Save thirsty Thar.
CATARACTS
Blights by birth,
darkness,
disease and accidents.
All aspects of life
seem to be cracked and broken
by
conspiracies of fate.
Every hope is
hurled with stones.
Every wish is crying
on the crucifix.
Bated breath,
crippled concepts,
open eyes
and
dim sight.
Cataracts is moving fast
to terminate twilight of life.
Last breaths and ordeal of death.
An irresistible torrent of tears
percolating from pores of eyes
over unrealized dreams.
Helplessness.
Recommendations for care
and
death throes!
A WONDER
Rubicund luscious lips,
left little open,
like pomegranate parts.
Big black eyes
brimmed with romance.
Florid face,
reflecting a blush of enigmatic smile
and
a marvallous mole chiseled on a left cheek.
Wrists and arms,
covered with thinly golden hairs,
with bangs of bangles,
singing some lasting lyrics
are
moving towards
sturdy chest of her chum.
Heaving hugely heart warming sighs
were relaying a message
as if earthen jars of love
were getting backed in
an aflame oven of amour
to paint them fast.
Suddenly,
from
the breast of fragile and old earth
erupted
a veneered volcano of ruthless rites
gushing
vindictive values and cruel customs,
which took lives
of a pair of paramours,
on the eve of
twilight of the sun,
setting in mighty mountain,
of 20th century,
leaving a legend of love
for
man
of 21st century
a marvelous myth…!
ROMANCE
You are
tired of
carrying the cross
of your life.
And,
I
sprinkling petrol
on my crucifix,
with a match have ignited a ferocious fire,
upon which
I am warming my hands
and
without any moan and groan,
I am perceiving
an easy approach
to pursue my will.
Look! You have seen only one aspect
of life
and
an other side of it
has not been explored
by
latent pigment of your imagination.
In truth,
your
tasting trauma
is
an aftermath of
your being besieged by
baseness
and
your being
miles away
from
aim oriented existence.
It is verily an unwise and futile living
and
in real sense,
for
leading purposeful life
one
has to cast off
the yoke
from
one’s neck
like
the wayward winds
that
wend their ways
towards
undetermined destinations,
and
uncharted directions.
Verily,
it is an ethos of survival
and
it is a romance of life…!
DEVASTATIONS
In presence of your hubby and my wife,
if,
incidentally,
our hands get dyed red
with henna of love
and
become clasped with one another
as an emblem of close cordiality.
This proximity
between you and me
would engender such an interminable series of calamities
as a confluence of
positive and negative live wires
of electricity
causes ignition of agglomeration of embers
that wreaks
dreadful disasters.
Better be so,
neither you dream of me at nights,
nor I should commune with you in dreams….!
DISTANT DESTINATIONS
The inn
wears strange look of gloom.
Laughters of the topers
are troubled.
Goblets of wine,
get filled, collided, emptied,
refilled and gulped in throats.
Eyes become brimmed with tears.
Glances get stranded in the
coffins of clouds.
Everyone is wistfully waiting.
Everyone is vexatiously upset.
It looks that
fire has caught the tavern unawares.
The glasses are broken with big bang.
From entry door,
a storm of black smoke
enters striding
with full fun and frolic.
Drunkards disappoint death
by singing
lyrics of life aloud
and
bravely bid bye-bye
to the bar
before
pursuing their pursuits
and
treading on tracks
directed to
different distant destinations…!
DIFFERENCE
On
left axis of the planet,
lights are lit
that
shed luster on life
and
right wing of the world
is
still
in the grip of gloom and doom
of
customary classifications
like
extinguished ashes
kept in cold storage.
In one part of planet,
human history
is
adding lustrous leaves
with the annals of enlightenment
like
shining sun
that
showers
shafts of sheen.
And
in other side,
there are
swarms of ants
walking on the surface
and
voracious vultures
are landing on the earth…!
ARID EYES
Empty stomach,
carrying
in hands a blank bottle
for medicinal mixture
and
a six days born baby
having
pale and feeble face,
caught in an acute cough
is
clung to the chest
of
the mortified mother.
But
a mother
who is
experiencing pangs of poverty
and
is devastated by diseases,
bears no ounce
of lactation
to breast-feed
her beloved baby.
Her eyes are only flooded with tears,
that are
spilling over
corroded countenance
of the kid.
The child
turns his face
from the bosom of
stranded mother
and
is protesting against hunger
with weeping and whine.
Distraught mother,
gets hysterical
to see no comrade,
to comfort her in the hour of agony
in the vast world.
Pretty time passes
yet
no doctor appears.
The sun
is
speedily releasing its rays
to shed sheen
towards the sky.
All of a sudden,
eyes of the child
are firmly fixed
on an RCC ceiling
of a charitable hospital.
Arid eyes,
of latently lamenting
and mourning mother
are giving a look of
sandy drought-hit desert
and are
witnessing silently
her dying sweet son
as if
he were
an alien child…!
HURT HEART
Why do you
pierce pins
of your
caustic comments
in my
sensitive heart?
My heart
is
already injured.
In what
abscesses of it,
would you
prick pins?
The state of
this lacerated heart
is akin to
the blood stained heart,
of a wayfarer,
lying dead by the side of the hill,
which was gnawed
by
the mountain mice…!
LIGHTNING
Some times,
so happens
that
when,
a mighty man,
out of arrogance,
un provocatively and aggressively
attacks on
a meek man,
the aggrieved one,
instead of
whines and whimpers,
gains grit
and
fights ferociously
with
formidable foe,
like
the lightening lightning
that
incinerates
all trees and animated things
to ashes
and
reduces standing structures
to a rubble
where upon
it descends
with thunder and wrath…!
A TRAGEDY
It becomes a great tragedy
of man,
when,
he throws his torn books of shattered dreams
into the lap of someone
as
to beg bounty of solace and sympathy.
and
develops a desire to see his globules of grief
percolating from the eyes of somebody.
if I can not reciprocate return
of your lively love,
in a welcome way,
for some reasons,
then
why I should try
to print a perplexed portrait
of my first and last
unattained amour
on a crystal glass
of your heart?
A YEARNING
The signals in the world
are standing with lowered heads
and
rail tracks are running.
The pointers on a watch
are swirling so swiftly
as muzzles of the mortars
move in bloody battlefield.
Still no train arrives
people are perturbed and harrowed.
Every prospective passenger
yearns for reaching
his destination
somehow.
But
the train had been
stopped to ply for long time,
about which
people are aware
that it is not to come.
Even then,
the men making mobs
are
waiting wistfully
for it arrival
to leave for
their desired destinations.
HAUNTED BY THE HEARTHS
I have climbed to
the crest of hamalya.
But
I am being haunted by hearths
living at low
who are
weak and worries-worn,
splashed in perspiration,
(whose bodies are beset
by bacteria of different disease).
I think of a rupture
with these reeky relations,
but I can not relinquish them.
I am entangled in
a labyrinth of relationship
that has forced me
to climb down from the pinnacle of hamalya.
A RUFFLE
O suhni of today
come on,
gutting comfortable
bridal bed sheet of Dum
unruly ripples of river
and my cordial cries,
call you with up braidings,
for causing delay
in holding communion with
your beloved.
Yesterday,
you,
relying on earthen jar
being undeterred by horror and terror,
quitting cosy bridal bed sheet
while calling out sahar sahar,
and
causing fear among
brutal beasts
lying in ambush around Indus
had
rendered affinity of adoration
immortal
by
offering your self
to strong streams of ruffled river.
Today,
despite
having
availability of backed jars,
you do not muster courage
to leave luring bridal bedding of dum
it is sad and surprising.
On the other bank
your Mehaar
is
wistfully waiting for a warm welcome
and
is making rounds around
like
a violent whirlwind.
and
undulations of Indus
are anxious to embrace
an everlasting perfumed present
of your beautiful body.
Notes:
1. Suhni is a key character(Herione) of suhni mehhar folklore in sindhi literature.
2. Dum is an unfavorite husband of suhni.
3. While “Mehaar” is a beloved of suhni and “Sahar” is his appellation of affection as used in poetry of Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai
TWO CORPSES
On
two bed sheets of double bed,
she and I
with swellen faces beneath coverlets
are lying like perturbed patients.
our tongues are branded.
Our eyes are stitched.
Nevertheless,
chunking of chains rings in our minds,
she has ceased sobbing since long
and
upon my laughter
is
clamped deathlike lull.
Now
we both are
fastening Portraits of dead dreams
in moth-eaten albums
of our minds
she
who bed-ridden in hospital,
instead of
lying asleep on bridal bed sheet,
for taking an over dose of pills,
was welded into wedlock.
and
in her state of unconsciousness
“yes” was obtained by her kins
with manipulated “nod” of her head.
I was sitting
in the flock of friends
with down-head and seething silence
and
with latent lamentation.
whose marriage was solemnized?
Of two corpses.
There was stench and reek around.
now
between the double bed
even the mirrors of afflictions
have become dimly dark.
TOWARDS YOU
I shed tears,
on the piteous plight
of
mine and me like miserable-men,
marred by merciless misery,
and
you get annoyed and boring.
As an emblem of dislike and disdain
you leave me in lurch
by taking pretty paces on wide ways
holding in hands a border of
your beautiful silky Sari.
O unruly ripple!
Wading through a sea of the city.
With appealing antics,
my implorations can not stop you,
nor the arms of this barren beach
could hold you in a hug.
Only
floating ferries
could kiss and touch you.
A DUSTBIN
Having composed the last lyric
attributing it to your name,
which contains
a tall tale of grueling grief
gifted by you,
has been thrown with force,
like a fused bulb,
at your doorstep.
Would that
your feet too fester
and
abscesses in them agonize you
before meeting me.
and
you come out from home,
to collect smithereens of smashed glass,
with your soft hands,
to throw them into dustbin
with a feeling of regret
for Your ruthless rudeness.
MOEN-JO-DARO
The sun deity
behind stupa of Moen Jo Daro
jumped into some deeply dark ditch.
the surges of unbounded Indus,
flowing for centuries at the distance of 2 kms,
became so sad and upset
as if the blighted bride.
were in bereavement and bewilderment
at a sudden suicidal death
of her groom.
in the nuptials night,
without having communion with him
far a few moments of mirth.
The ferment of feelings,
like that of bereaved bride
at her marital misery and mortification,
not only glowed in grief
in the eyes of Indus,
but I also felt agony
of scorching sand of sorrows
in my agitated eyes.
I had seen sometime ago,
the civilization of sindh,
standing aloft for five thousand years,
on centuries old saline soil.
Warm winds of time,
strong storms and ferocious floods
could not eliminate its existence.
But,
the very same civilization
was so washed away,
in nefarious night of negligence,
by inundation of indifference
that
there did not seem
even the semblance of broken brick
at the moment,
various violent whirls occurred,
which took away
big banks of the dust in clouds.
In pitch darkness
towards unknown places.
INFINITE APPREHENSIONS
There prevails a pitch darkness
all around the earth
the magnificence of moon
is held hostage in a haze.
The twinkling lampions of hope
are shivering and shuddering
from the fear
of some imminent storm…!
THE WARMTH
From
the debris of ashes
still
sparks and embers
are seen
flying and flickering.
although
overcast sky
is
spreading
wetness all around
through
downpour…!
A LONG LEGEND
With this legend
the legend of tragic events,
many marred graves of lost love,
and
umpteen incident of scarifies and suicides,
for immortal affinity of adoration,
are closely connected
Do you have a time to hear it?
It is a long legend………….
In the journey of life,
after the hay-days of youth,
my shapely appearance
and the flesh folded my bonny body,
decayed and dissolved
in such an acid,
which engenders inwardly,
and corrodes within the mass of man clandestinely.
Do you know about unnamed acid?
Astonishingly enough, until now,
no scientist in the world
has been able to give it a name.
Why do you see in my famished and furrowed face?
Every part of my body is pulverizing
in an unbearable persecution and pain
and
I fell myself at this stage of life,
Like a withered tree.
Whose
roots were pecked by wood peckers,
and it were waiting for the whiffs of the wayward wind.
Why do you smirk sarcastically?
It is a long legend…………….
The emotional attachments,
(with which I had intertwined the ends of threads
of thoughts on my own accord and I had
seen the devastations of the puppets of my dreams
in the plays staged in my mind)
today,
are pricking and piercing into my heart
like pointed pegs.
And
I have never thought to yank them out
with invisible tweezers of imagination.
Today,
all agonizing screams are recalled,
which
were sighed beside beloved
and left there as bleak bequeath.
Why do you stare at me with wonder?
It has rendered stitches of my heeled wounds unraveled.
It is a long legend………………..
Before lying on this stretcher of charity hospital,
I had never thought of it
that
my sixty years bachelor old age,
would be
left so stranded and abandoned,
and
it would be brought before the world
as a patient struggling for life.
No matter,
if my all spouses
could not solemnize marriage with me.
I have become tired and exhausted
by dragging my ugly and lonely life
now,
I am bed ridden and wait for some major operation
why do you have started showing the teeth in laughing?
It is a long legend……….
Last night,
I have asked from a handsome nurse,
(who looks to me very sympathetic, kindly and humble)
before she administered injection.
Sister!
Yes……………..?
Sister! Is there any invention of such an instrument
that
could catch ruined reflection in the pupils of eyes,
heart rending scenes,
and
a series of devastating deluge,
which washed away all dreams of desires,
and bring them in full film
that
could be projected on the screen in cinema?
She had gazed at me with gloomy glance
and I had read reply of my question
from her anguished eyes.
Why do you laugh aloud?
It is a long legend……….!
REVOLUTION
Knowing it that
we would be rendered dead
by octopus,
which
would suck even last drop
of blood from our bodies
and
we would be floated away
in the flood of
cruel currents of a sea of the worlds.
Nevertheless,
we keep waging war
with octopus continuous.
We understand that
many of us would sacrifice their lively lives
in this ferociously formidable fight.
Still
we have not let gallantry go
and are combating courageously.
For,
now we do not deem ourselves
feeble and forlorn.
Look there!
our comrades,
fighting and forwarding,
are
coming to our aid from other bank
by
long marching and skipping over
the splashes of ocean.
Lo! The blue water of the sea
has
turned red with bled blood.
THE SENILITY
As the fag-end of evening takes fascinating freshness from flowers,
so has done dotage with me by robbing me of brilliant bloom of my life.
The journey seems to be the same, but the path looks different.
How life has left me in the lurch of loneliness!
It was the time when I would leap frog frequently,
at present even a single stride makes me exhausted .
Now every moment passes by arsoning my ambitions,
I had never suffered such death-throes in life before.
My appearance gives a strange look in a mirror!
Whose wrinkles have wreaked on my shapely complexion?
The calamity of age has squeezed my inner man,
vast vision vanished, only twilight twinkles in eyes.
O, life! What a shape do you have shown to me at this stage,
by snatching scintillating sight, you have torched all treasures!!
NEW YEAR
O sun of new year
I
have passed whole night un-slept,
only to see the scintilla of your sheen,
on the hope
that
it would lift centuries old layers
of grievous gloom and frustrated feelings
from my melancholic mind
and
would grant a scintillating smile of happiness
that would
make my pipe dreams,
of passing pleasant days,
come true!!
AN AURA OF OPTIMISM
When
flower like florid feet,
undeterred by affliction of oozing blood,
advance with a majestic march
on
the thorny thoroughfares to troubles,
then,
an aura of optimism
takes birth in my mind,
now
the dreamed destination is not far away…!
THE CREASE OF CONTRAST
The sky’s two eyes sighted with sunshine
eclipsed so quickly
as you used to disappear
after peeping promptly
from your high hedge.
and my eyes would
franetically follow all corners of the hedge
to behold you.
Even today,
my eyes are twisting in torture
to get glamorous glimpse of you
even in the overcast sky.
And
I think there stands
a distinct difference
in between
sighted eyes of the azure and yours,
through a crease of contrast,
which is that
later or sooner, the sky’s eyes
would emerge from
the horizontal haze with sunshine.
But,
your eyes have sunk
so low that
they have lost sight.
and their shining shafts
are not seen painted
on the cordial canvas of my soul…!
VORTEXES BESIDE BANK
It is not necessary
that
eddies exist only in the centre of river.
If you reflect on it
with an eye of the imagination,
you would witness
whirl-pools beside banks
that
swirl life-boats to sink…!
TERRORISM
In a sewed sack, an abandoned corpse is discovered,
Whose face is devastatingly disfigured and eyes gouged out.
Despite having identity card, his identification is lost,
With ruthless rite, the hirelings have hewed humanity.
The bullets of kilashan koves are penetrated into his mass,
the paper of prescription for treatment is dyed red with blood.
The killers seemed to be sans shame, remorse and ruth,
his body is painted with somber scenes of dreadful death,
yazidism has applied modern method of merciless murders,
through cruel custom of severing parts from body of the victim.
The people are terrorized with shocking shows of savagery,
As if the ferocious fury of pharohism were repeated again.
The terrorists take pleasure in boring holes in bones with drill machines,
but in the society, they are being called civilized and innocent…!
THE CORDIAL CONCERN
When you part from me,
I feel my self forlorn
and
hands of a watch
prick in my eyes
like sharp pointers.
The perfume of your presence,
exiting in my mind,
turns unpleasant odour,
of a burning cloth.
In the state of strain,
I wistfully try to woo you,
with folded hands,
to stay for a few moments.
And
you glance gleefully at me,
with such a nonchalance,
It looks to me
as if
I were the prisoner,
of some central Jail
who were wishing to communicate
a sudden recalled cordial concern,
to his casual caller,
but
the time for talk
had been over.
SAY NOT……………
Say not that
he is roaming around lonely,
he is accompanied by the cries of cruelty victims,
which are patrolling with him permanently
the troops of brave youth
undeterred by terror,
go hand in hand with him
the blockades and roadblocks,
the attacks of brigades with bayonets,
and following war cries
could not daunt valiant warriors,
who
like wayward waves of indus,
causing corrosion in big banks,
wash away the all that stands in the way
with ferocious flesh flood.
The gallows, the noose and draconian laws,
Are used to make him bow.
But
the fearless freedom fighter,
instead of
surrender and submission,
vows to fight
all the night
for,
they who have strong aspirations,
and
whose hearts are lit with liberty,
discern the dazzle of dawn,
and delve deep into the recess of human hearts…!
AS YET………..
You had forsaken me,
as the season changes,
as dewdrops turn into vapor
and
evaporate on the sheen of sun,
after
falling from firmament
upon
rose petals and florid flowers.
And
you had noted a new name
of your fresh friend
on the state of your heart.
But,
The scent of your sweet name,
as yet,
is not erased from
the core of my hurt heart.
IN THE WHIFFS OF WIND
O thief,
Picking one by one,
the rays of the sun of the sooth,
you have kept them
concealed in the pocket
of your black coat,
but
you are oblivious of it
that
in every big and small piece of this planet,
the potters are living in legions
who are engaged in the struggle
to produce unlimited lampions
for the removal of thickened layers of darkness.
O thief,
Will you be able to amputate all hands,
and keep them concealed in
the pocket of your cloak?
Look! Illuminations have driven out,
the darkness far away,
and
there prevails a sheen all around
on every inch of the land
where upon
lights are dancing in delirium
o thief look here!
your coat is caught by fire,
the rays of the sun of the sooth,
kept cancelled in your pocket,
are staging a delightful drama
of your sudden and dreadful death
and
the men in multitudes
are receiving
relish and amusement from it.
The shower of shafts of sheen
and cheerful shouts of the people
are
giving birth to a mirthful moment.
And
Beautiful birds,
In endless flocks
without a whit of fear
of the predators and hunters,
fluttering their feathers,
swinging in the puffs of the air,
are pecking peacefully
in an open atmosphere.
IDENTITY
Yours love,
for me,
is
like
a flurry of fresh air
blown after rain
that
comforted me
in scorching heat of hatred
and
I felt beneath my feet,
the simmering surface the earth,
as a gentle green grass
dr
dipped in dew drops at dawn.
I wish to sacrifice
this life ten times
for your immortal love.
In truth
today,
I have explored
actual avenue
for my aesthetic and emotional
expression in poetry.
A WONDERFUL WORLD
Till when,
the fragrance does not fly from fascinating flowers
the verdure does not vanish from vegetable and trees,
the sheen does not desert the scintillating sun,
the illumination does not let down the magnificent moon
we would continue to pour on hues of hopeful dreams,
on crystal clear and plain papers of human hearts
for emancipation from the yokes of exploitation and inequality
we would continue to paint a scintilla of smile on sad snivel.
And from all nooks and corners of towns and cities
we would put the leviathans of lie to flight
by holding florid flags of truth high and aloft,
we would establish a wonderful world on the earth,
by exorcising demons of despondency from the harrowed heart,
through ignition f lambent lampions of hopes for humanity .
AN ANNOUNCEMENT
If you allow me to talk,
and
confer me with a right
to speak the truth
by unraveling stitches
of my sewed lips.
Then
I would divulge several secrets
before you .
I
also make an announcement
that
now , the walls of the palatial palaces,
have become weak and wane,
which can be collapsed
with a light jolt…………!
yes with a slight swing…!
PRAGMATIC PERCEPTIONS
A thought
devoid of
orientation to action,
is
like a leaf of a shrunk tree,
which is sundered apart from a branch
with a wee whiff of the air.
Lets pledge today
to irrigate the leaves of withered trees
with aim oriented water,
and
strengthen and enliven its roots,
in such a way
that
even several storms join together
to uproot them
but
meet mortifications…!
FLIGHT AND FLUSTER.
Even today,
no fountain flows with perfumed purity,
the sad swans
appear weeping and wailing
on the occupation of cormorants
over the spring.
The worry worn swans
being offended and flustered,
fly high
in the sky,
fall down on the earth
and instantly die.
TRUST
As a proverb goes,
“friends pinpoint merits and demerits “
I had had no belief in this maxim
heard much time ago.
but,
in the long journey of listlessly lorn life
now a worthy way-farer has got together with me
who
laid a book of my drawbacks and credits
open out of my taciturnity
(without hearing a word and asking an account from me)
has
strengthened my conviction in the adage
by
telling an irksome and sore sooth .
AN OBSERVATION
The lizard
can not
scale
the glass wall
and
the mosquitoes
sit on it
unconcerned.
A YEARNING
The stars,
seeing
eye
to
eye
with me,
stand awake.
AN AESTHETIC THOUGHT
A flower
And
The moon
Can be
Aesthetically appreciated
But
It is human countenance,
Which
Can captivate cognition
to court and adore.
AMITY
Let there be
An aura of amity
Though
Lacking ligature of love.
Despite
Groaning under the grindstone
Of grudge,
Let there be
A scintillating smile on lips,
Even though
It may be
an affected ostentation.
LIPS
I would not rather
kiss the lips
which
fasten lipstick of avarice
and
are devoid of
lusciousness of love.
WICKEDNESS
When
you abandon idiom
of the swan
and
speak in
dastardly dialect
of cowardly crow.
Then,
it looks to me
as if
the Himalaya mountain,
had been
metamorphosed
into
the mite of mud,
that gets
dashed into dust
even with
dribbling of the drizzle.
PANGS OF POVERTY
The life that passes in poverty is purely a punishment.
The poor are parading with bare bodies and empty stomachs,
their every minute of mirth is being marred by merciless misery
and development of disease tolls death bell for want of cure.
Without wealth man can not establish identity and individuality,
the rich revel in respect and honour for marvelous miracle of money
and the acumen of the poor is eclipsed in the pall of poverty.
Alas! The virulent values still stand unchanged even in advanced age.
The deprived are drowning in the deluding dike of disaster,
and are shouting for savior to shove them to shore.
They are looking for redeemer to rescue them from river of ruthlessness.
Perhaps, no emancipator is born to steer them safely to the coast.
They are being thrown into a sea of sorrows and suffering
and are leading listless lives without relishing delightful days.
ELEGY OF EARTH
The land,
which was once
an emblem of amity
from whose bosom,
nobody had ever
twisted and torn boughs
bearing freshly florid flowers,
whose
trees and plants
would
sing song of serenity,
with whose
moonlit and starry sky,
people would delight their eyes.
Upon that
lovely land,
today,
we see
savagery dancing denuded
in its nook and corner.
The fire has gutted gardens
into ashes
and rendered
bevies of
beautiful butterflies
sad and stranded
INJUSTICE
In return of
capital crime,
laudation
largess
and
medals.
For
venial offence,
hullabaloo,
hypocritical hue and a cry,
and
highlighted headlines
in the papers.
and
award of
life sentence,
or
hanging on the gallows.
FADED FLOWERS
From
green bough
of her life,
the time
has
taken the bird of bloom to flight
And
she,
as usual
stands
at the doorstep of her house,
with all embellishments,
but
the onlookers
have
abandoned her street to frequent.
Yet,
she does not discern
that
bumblebees
neither buzz
nor hover over
the faded flowers.
DETAINED DREAMS
From centuries we are garroted with yoke of slavery,
from centuries afflictions are inflicted on our listless lives.
For ages phantom of fear is striking our heavy hearts,
for ages our dreams are detained in the bowers of brains,
Like Sisyphus we are thrown into abyss of agonies,
as if we were sentenced to lift an avalanche to the peak.
Our mouths are muffed to convey our concerns with confidants.
in our eyes tears are chocked and feelings fettered.
We find no friend who may hearken harrowed screams.
it looks as if molten lead were poured into our ears.
No door of justice and fair-play is seen open anywhere,
and sighted souls are seen blinking at blindly.
Our annals of agonies are horrible and horrific,
and our history of every man is very terrible and terrific.
LEBNON
Hurt heart asked me to lie asleep
wearing a cover of quietness,
because whatever is happening
and
whatever i have seen with sane sensation and open eyes,
is
a sorrowful scene.
It is such a terrible torture
Which has sent
several surges of terror
in the veins of my boiled blood.
Low lying lanes of the city
are flooded with blood
and their surface littered with
several severed heads, bodies
and other organs parted into pieces.
Battered books,
perished pens,
are so sinking and floating
as if
the wrecks of broken boats
were delving and ferrying in the oceans.
predators and villains of the world,
hooligans and hoodlums,
being intoxicated in inebriation of enjoyment
sensing and laughing
are traveling on highways
towards their homes.
And
I
a silent citizen of the city
living between
beaten path and roads,
am thinking of slumber.
After a thorough thought,
I have clung to a conviction
that
hence forth
I would not lean on a pillow for pleasure
and I have torn off the rug of reticence
Because
in such appalling abattoirs,
like inarticulate animals,
it does not behoove well to remain reticent
and it is derogatory to be slaughtered silently.
KIDNAPPING
O, Momal !
in
this era of kilashankoves,
the axes of your enchanting eyes,
have become blunt.
Countless cracks have occurred
in your magical mansion
The sweet streams
of yours scintillating smiles
are gone dry.
Your beautiful beddings
and cosy pillows
stand abandoned.
Your pleasing plaits
instead of aromatic oil,
filled with sandy rays,
have become disheveled.
Your Rano
from your balmy bosom,
in the last hour of night,
has been kidnapped
by dacoits.
After some days,
they have dispatched a chit
demanding Rs.20 lacs
as ransom money
for the release of him.
The red charmers of your magic power,
do not comply with your command,
at this tumultuous time.
The fame of your bewitching beauty,
like a leaf withered and dropped in autumn,
has been flown away,
by
the violent winds of time
In the state of stress,
sitting on the earth,
you are engrossed in a thought
and feel confused,
how to raise Rs.20lacs
to get Rano released?
The threats given in the chit,
to kill your Rano,
in case of failure to pay price,
are striking on soft and sophisticated glass
of your mortified mind,
like sledge hammers.
It is uncertain,
whether your Rano would return
or he would be killed cruelly!!
AN IMPLORATION
O beloved !
I beseech you
to stay for a while
and have a sitting for some time
I have not yet
confided my cordial
communion with you.
I have not yet
beheld you brimfully.
If you ask me truth
I
would say so
that
when you are out of sight,
all illuminations
lit in my cordial castle,
stand extinguished.
Without you,
there is no music, nor melody,
nor winsomely warbling voice,
there is listless lull all around.
I feel myself shadowed by
the serpents of separation
and
my night after night
passes nightmarish !!
A SQUAWK
The dunes of desert are helpless
and
it is not in their reach to receive rain.
There was a twinkling ray of hope
in the eyes
that
all ponds and lakes would be filled
with rain water
All bare dunes
would wear garment of greenery
Folks would attune lyrics
whit the rhythm of Humarcho.
But
no cloud has appeared on the sky
wearing dress of downpour.
many years have passed,
the bellies of hunger hit are
receded into the ribs.
Famished folks lifting luggage on heads
are quitting hearths.
The cattle is dying for want of fodder.
The people are dying of starvation.
There are bellows all around
There are screams all around!!
Note: “Humarcho” is a folk song sung in chorus on the occasion of the rainfall as an expression of joy and jubilation.
I PUT BRANDS ON……!
When
the law enforcing executioners,
with abuse of authority,
trample upon
the powerless people,
then
pulsation of my perturbed heart speeds up.
In veins blood blazes with fire.
Notwithstanding
my being powerless,
I ignite an oven of thoughts,
to fight against the unjust.
and
with several red rods of words,
I mark brands on the executioners.
The stigmas put on them
are so ineffaceable
that
they would remain
indelibly alive
along with their names,
even after their death,
till
the mother earth
keeps her existence.
AND I GO ALL ALONE
It is a long journey
and
I go all alone
the evening appears upset
and the winds show weary look.
My mind is torn with turmoil,
but still silence is fastened on lips.
I found no friend to direct me to destination.
Though many wayfarers passed by me
neither I greeted nor shook hands with them.
It was my sin, and it was my crime.
My ego has burdened me with overwhelming onus,
so my heart is sunk in sorrows and eyes are wet.
Alas! beloved bestows not solace and sympathy,
I wipe tears from wet eyes
and
view wilderness all around.
There is no shadowy tree,
nor winsome verdure
and
nor any oasis of human scent.
I am roving for a roost to rest
Where to knit a nest with reels of dreams?
The evening is tilting towards twilight
and the dusk is spreading its shroud
all-around.
It is a long journey
and
I go all alone…………!
AVANT- GARDE IDEALS
From my eyes,
the tears that had been shed
on the eve of your isolation,
now they seem to have lost
their individuality
in the ocean of obliteration.
And
I would search your countenance,
like lunatics,
in the looks of every person
as if it had an inebriating effect of whisky.
It was merely a mirage of mind.
At present
your visage has been missing in
a flock of the faces.
It is surprising that
I have stopped even searching your looks
in any appearance
It is because,
I have saved my feeble physique
from flustering beneath the mighty mountains
of idle agonies.
Now
in place of weeping and screams,
my mind has explored
innovative ideologies.
LIFE AND DEATH
Water of Indus flows
like a louse takes pace
There is neither rise nor fall in it
till
the extent of sight of eyes ends.
There is no vibration in its waves.
it stands stationary and uniform in its flow level,
as if
it were frustrated
and
dismal and dejected
like
a grief ridden
convict of capital punishment
waiting for his turn
to go on the gallows.
But
this vehement wind
has hurled a stone
in the death like dormant bilge water
which
has aroused astonishing animation and motion
in listless life.
There is a sizzling sound around .
Water is widening its wings of expansion
and
There is a reverberation and roar.
It seems that
outwardly withered trees would get life
by wearing green garments
and sprouting offshoots around.
And
the wind like a naughty girl,
playfully teases trees
by
embracing, rocking
and
blowing its branches.
LET’S INAUGURATE…………!
Why do we experience agonies inarticulately?
Why do we suffer sorrows embroilingly?
Why do we take sighs, with bated breath?
Why do our dreams dash unrealized?
In order
to cast off this cruel custom
of old era
let’s inaugurate such a love,
which emboldens us
to finish fortress of fear and fright.
It is irony with us
that
in our gardens
the saplings of fragrant and florid flowers
witness withering weather of autumn,
which makes them fade away
un-flourished and un-flowered.
There is no one who could defend us.
There is no one who could console us.
For fighting against foes
of flowers and fragrance
let’s inaugurate such a love
which emboldens us
to finish fortress of fear and fright.
In order
to establish an ideal world
in which
all subtle sentiments of human beings
enjoy azure like open expanse
on whose horizon
shining sun and magnificent moon may rise,
whose
avenues be free from hindrance and haze,
and
there be heard lilting lyrics
of music and melody all around
Let’s inaugurate such a love…………!
O MURKY MOON…...!
So
deep darkness persists
in
the recesses of my heart,
I discern not such an ebony pall
prevailing on the earth.
Your dimly dazzle
can not doff the dusk of despair
from my heavy heart.
O murky moon!
get away from my eyes.
Feeble fluorescence of your face,
has
deepened darkness of dejection
How to follow swirls
which had flown covers,
from the graves of reminiscences?
There dwells dusk alt around.
Today
I wish
in place of you
there had risen
the sweltering sun
riving bosom
of nasty night of despondency,
which could
remove pitch gloom
from my melancholic mind.
And
could take shattered sheets of thoughts,
back from twirls of tornadoes of time,
flown from crypts of commemoration.
Today
I wish
there may rise
such a scintillating sun
which
may enliven
shrunken sapling
of hope,
withered in my heart
to flourish and flower.
O murky moon…….!
TRICES OF TRANSFIXION
In the fragile frame of my mind,
from decades,
while fitting every new mirror of the face
it looks
as if
the sightless inner eyes
were bestowed with
benign brilliance,
from the reflections of the mirror,
in whose floodlight,
limitless unanimated bodies of dead ants
and black ants of disappointments and deprivation,
(which were pounded in abandoned courtyards from centuries)
get up with glitter and glaze.
thereafter
from
umpteen unknown apertures,
countless sightless
ants of aspirations
pressing their eyes wake up with a jerk.
And
move towards stench emitting corpses,
and start pushing the heavy dead bodies.
And
I being amused from the scenario,
start watering immobile emotional sapling
of jasmine, rose and florid flowers,
withered in inner gardens,
taking delirious delight from it.
But
all of a sudden
on the thoroughfares of magnificent minutes,
the onslaught of murderous moments hurled.
And the mirror gets cracked and splintered
and falls from the grasp of frame.
There prevails darkness and dusk all around.
The witches launch human hunt .
the ants and black ants
quitting carcasses at different places,
get lost in unknown apertures.
And
in the mass of my mind
the smithereens of imperfect images
of the un-matching mirror,
are pricking for centuries.
And
I am flustering and swinging on
the transfixion of trices.
OBLATION FOR SPOUSE
How long,
binding buntings on trees,
you would be watching the way of seafarer?
Your boatman,
is gone far off in the sea.
Your screams and sobs,
are not audible to him.
And
perhaps, from him
all odes of affection
crooned by you
have been obliterated.
He recalls not
your comforting confabs
and hearty hugs at dawn.
All other sailors,
skipping over the splashes of the ocean,
have returned back
and
are hobnobbing with their wives.
They say,
your hubby
would not return this year
It is not in your power
to make your cries heard overseas.
You are poor and powerless,
better be so
not to have nostalgia for him.
In fact,
he is spellbound by
the glitter and glamour
of other land than mother land
and
he has surrendered himself
before bewitching beauty
of luring ladies.
Your hovel is unfurnished
and it is devoid of coverlet too.
Your worries in winter appear interminable,
Even then,
you keep buntings purchasing
on continuous credit,
to bind them around trees,
as a token of lovelorn longing
for the return of him.
The dusk is dawned.
The birds are returning
to their roosts.
Look!
The sun also swimming on the surges of sea.
like the canoe of your consort,
is going to set.
And
it is unwise and futile
to get grieved
on hearing hiss-hiss of buntings
blown by the whiffs
of the wintry wind.
O, mad maid !
you naïve know not
that
in other land,
he is merry making
with fairy like females.
He has been enamored and infatuated
by
their formidable fascination
and
in captivation of their charms,
he has forgotten you and himself.
This year,
you will face frostily cold in your humble hovel
and
coal of coins would not burn in your hearth.
Be wise!
how long,
binding buntings around trees,
you would wistfully
be watching his ways?
THE ACCUSED
It was the day
for
appearance in the court.
The prisoner perceived,
perhaps the ruling
would be
pronounced in his favour.
The rogue rascal
and murderer headman,
of the village,
would be held culprit
and
all accusations
foisted on him,
would serve as a noose
around the neck
of headman.
But,
when the accused
appeared
before the court
all invented evidences
adduced against him
were treated true.
The cooked up case
cunningly concocted
by the police,
for financial considerations,
stood against him as fortress of injustice.
at that moment,
he cried and complained,
which went
unheeded and unheard.
And,
grey haired judge,
lowering his head,
silently signed
detention documents.
REFLECTIONS OF RUINS
Ridding on the horseback of ideal perceptions,
holding reins of cognition,
I am roving in the ruins of history.
The remains of razed structures
littered in distant and different directions,
display devastation of various epochs.
And
these collapsed and abandoned buildings,
are such a festering wound
of my mind,
which is not healing
and is still bleeding.
Many surgeons and specialists
are vouchsafing with their expert opinions
that,
I should lead a tightlipped life,
as a jackal lives in a lair,
otherwise,
this injury
would be incised with umpteen tongs
and
it would turn incisive and cancerous.
The breaths you are taking freely,
would be snatched from you
by wild wolves and hound dogs
of the land,
in such savage and ferocious fashion
that
every part of your body
would be shuddering, shivering and flustering
even after interment in the grave.
Enemies opined,
damn this desire.
Why are you concerned about them?
It is not in your power
to have these erased structures
reconstructed and restored
in original form.
Beloved bade,
“quit concerns about skeletons
of the departed ones”
Nothing lies in lamentation
of the dead.
The remains and skeletons
are an enigma of death.
And
my soft sentiments
and flowers of feelings
are anxious to be garlands
of your nimble neck.
we are living legends
and romantic roles of
the novel of life.
Let’s enjoy nectar from
flowers of blooming age,
like butterflies.
Or else,
the heydays of life
would pass
un-enjoyed and un-accomplished.
I
told them openly and aloud
that
in these eroded edifices,
and in the bones of the departed souls,
I have seen
such brilliant beams of light,
which are making
all blood stained portraits of history
transparently clear .
And,
the very same limpid lamps,
are guiding my distraught horses of sentiments,
like leading lights,
to tread on the track
directed to destination of life.
TO A TYRANT
When
you were
at the pinnacle of power
and were
reveling in ruthless rule,
then
like a mad dog
you had
wounded every individual.
Upon
perceptions of the people
you had
imposed your ideas.
Whoever had
defied your dictates,
you had
got his throat throttled
and
thrown on thoroughfare.
At that time,
you had
not thought this
that
one day
people would
cast off your cruel concepts
and set them ablaze
like
a cover of your corpse
And
the mighty mountains
of your might
would be
smashed into smithereens,
because
all dictators
are destined to die
in
a formidable fashion.
VILE WORLD
In present age,
a bray of an ass
reaches out to the seventh heaven,
but,
a scream of an anguished man
stands strangled
in his throat!
LET’S LOCATE….!
From the eyes of pen
blood tears are percolating.
Its tongue is torn into pieces.
The one piece of it
is transfixed on the cross,
the second piece of it
is entangled on the minaret of mosque
and
the third piece of it
is tangled atop the temple.
Let’s locate,
the judge and justice,
who,
in the given situation,
have gone into exile
in the wilderness…….!
TIME IS LIKE A RIVER
Time is going ahead
like a flow of river.
If it could have been reversed,
we had found our selves
5000 years back to
an enlightened age of Moen-jo-Daro
in which
luminous learning was at its apex,
civilization was at its acme
and
there were neither mortal munitions,
nor armors harmful to humanity…!
DISGUST
Even today,
the fire of worthless values,
is burning adobes of love,
is humiliating humanity
and
the world is looking at our
mustaches,
turbans
axes
and
kilashankoves
with high hatred …!
with discernible disgust !
IGNORANCE
The goats
do not know
that
their grazer
is a butcher …!
TO MOHTARMA BENAZIR BHUTTO SHAHEED-E-AWAM!
If you were alive !
You would have,
soulfully smiled,
and
floridly flushed,
on people’s sweeping success,
and
sitting smilingly on the chair,
would have held in hands,
the reigns of rule,
and
on fulfillment of promise
of food, attire and abode,
the miserable masses,
would have realized,
their long-cherished delightful dream.
If you were alive !
You would have,
broken bayoneted-guns,
and
eliminated harrowing
harassment and horror.
If you were alive !
The pounded peace,
and
confined courts,
would have found freedom,
with agile instance
of your astute authority.
If you were alive … !!
If you were alive … !!
Fluttering Feelings
(Poetry)
Poet
Muhammad Ali Pathan
Translated by:
Jam Jamali
Bhittai Publishers Larkano
All Rights are reserved with the publishers
Title of Book : Fluttering Feelings (Poetry)
Poet : Mohammad Ali Pathan
Translator : Jam Jamali
Publication : July 2011
Edition : 1st (Copies 2000)
Composed by : Zakria Bugti
Asad Sangi
E-Book Setting: Rizwan Gul
Title Designer: Kaptan Abro
Back title photography: Talib Hussain Chano
Layout : Ali Dino Shar
Publisher : Bhittai Publishers Larkana.
H#,913/1, Dari Muhalla,
Near Khizra Masjid Larkana
Email : pathanmuhammadali@yahoo.co.uk
jamjamali@yahoo.com
Cell : 00 92 300 3414407
00 92 307 3474831
Price : PKR-200 U$ 10, GBP 6, € 8.
Biodata of Poet
Name: Mohammad Ali Pathan
Father's Name: Habibullah Pathan
Date of Birth: 03-04-1962
Profession: Assistant Professor
(Govt. Degree College Larkana)
Phone: 0744043887
Cell: 0300-3414407
Address: H#,913/1, Dari Muhalla,
Near Khizra Masjid Larkana
Beginning of Literary Career From 1974-75
BOOKS
4 Books of poetry have been published
1- Akyoon Aala Chand (1988)
2- Aashora Aahin (1995)
3- Aghya Ojaga ( 2000)
4- Bhago Aaras Aakhsyun (2001)
UNPUBLISHED THREE NOVELS.
1- Watt winjiai jaan
2- Dhobi Ghat
3- Musafatoon Yad Joon
50 Short Stories (Published)
DRAMAS
1- (INSAF ) DRAMA Series From Sindh TV
2- (Achhi Raat Karo Chand) (Drama Series ) From KTN
3- 20 Solo plays from KTN
COLUMN
• Weekly Column 1990 to 1993 in Daily Awami Awaz
• Weekly Column in Daily Kawish, Daily Hilal-e-Pakistan
• Daily Ibrat and Daily Sindh Sujag
MEMBER
1- Sindhi Adbi Sangat
2- Roh Rihan Adbi Sangat
3- Latif Literary Forum
4- Arts Council of Pakistan Larkano.
EDITOR
1- Daat Publication (1978)
2- Murk Publication (1984)
3- Naeen Dunya Publication (From 1979)
4- Monthly Koonj (1995)
COMPILER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHIES
1. Mrs. Dr. Ashraf Abasi (Jekee Halan hekiliyon )
2. Mr. Sobho Gianchandani (Roshani je raah mein)
Dedication:
Dedicated to
my loving father,
Mr. Habibullah Pathan,
who brought me up by hammering iron
on the anvil and fighting furnace fire,
bore burns of embers and sparks.
Mohammad Ali Pathan
Mohammad Ali Pathan is the one and unique voice of sindhi poetry as always, I mean voice in the wilderness of sindh and Sindhi Poetry.
Hassan Mujtaba
Mohammad Ali Pathan is one of those young Sindhi Poets who have won critics’ recognition of their talent. In his four anthologies – Akhiyoon Aala Chand, Aashura Aahin, Aghia Oajaga and Bhago Aaras Akhriyan – he has portrayed various aspects of society, with focus on miserable condition of the common man.
What makes his poetry different from others’, are his way of expression and skilful use of language.
His verses touch the chords of readers’ hearts, leaving an indelible impression on their minds. With the help of words, he dexterously paints a picture of the downtrodden.
He realistically portrays the Sindhi Society, focusing on ravages of drought, police atrocities, kidnapping of people by bandits and the curse of honour and ethnic killings. Amid the gathering gloom, Pathan instead of being pessimist, kindles hope that there will be light at the end of the tunnel. His message of love and universal brotherhood is appealing. For fighting for rights of people, he believes that pen is mightier than sword.
Anwar Abro
RANDOM THOUGHTS OF
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Life is a whirlwind and man is a straw. It carries man to different directions, when the wind veers it by patent force of the nature. I still cherish in my memory, simple thoughts of my village elders who had forbidden me to seek admission to secondary school to learn English. For them, English was a language of infidels. It was their sheer naivety, because they had dubbed me a simpleton soul. I am really so. It was my farsighted father who affectionately encouraged me to carry on my studies after passing fifth standard in Sindhi. In secondary school, I would read booklets of English grammar in the evening in village while grazing goats in fertile field of pea plants. Thus I learned the smattering of English. After Matriculation, I started spending more time in social works and paid little heed to literature. So, I am a causal reader not a book worm nor a well read man . It is not at all a self under-estimation, but a blunt truth to share with the discerning readers.
When I joined Govt Degree College Larkana, I found my self fortunate enough to be a constant companion of my brotherly friends (late) Prof: Razak Mahar and Prof: Mohammad Ali Pathan. It was their cordial company that ignited a spark of aspiration in me for literature and I started evincing interest in it. I composed a poem in English entitled “A call to world conscience” on the plight of the people of Palestine. It availed space in Mag the weekly “a periodical in English of Jang group of publications”. When I showed it to (late) Razak Mahar, he kissed me jubilantly and took me to renowned Professor of English, Mohammad Ali Kazi better known as M.A Kazi. He read it and felicitated me with friendly frankness. Publication of my poem in Mag the weekly, aroused an aura of aspiration in Pathan also to get his poetry translated into English. It was brother (late) Razak Mahar, who convinced Mohammad Ali Pathan to get his poetry translated by me. He commanded me to take this challenging task. I complied with late brother’s command, but I landed my self in the quagmire of confusion, because it was a technical work which required skill, competence, expertise and command over both the languages to transfer the same sense, soul and sensitivity from one language to the other.
When I read poetry of pathan, I found it worthy of translation because it embodied a universal message said in Sindhi.Hence, it needed a vent to reach the whole humanity. The poetry carries a message of human brotherhood, altruism, sympathy and empathy. It is like a clarion call for revolution against injustice, aggression and dictatorship. It also enlivens the readers with aesthetically spun anecdotes of elegance and enrapturing romance. Some of his poems transcend time and space and embrace eternity of thoughts. He has composed poems in all genres of poetry. But I have translated mostly his blank verses, because I felt myself unable to do justice with his poems patterned on the principles of prosody, and it was very difficult for me to maintain metrical and rhythmical requirements of such poems. It is no exaggeration to assert that Pathan’s blank verses are powerful, potential and imbued with meaningful messages. The blank verse genre of poetry is highly appreciated by scholars and erstwhile critics of this aesthetic form of literature.
For example, Poet Laureate Robert Frost was once caustic critic on blank verse and had cynically said so:
“Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down”.
On second thought, he commended blank verse form of poetry in these words:
“Free verse is the triumph of mind over meter”.
The poetry of Prof. Pathan, is really the triumph of mind over meter. Let’s have a look it this thought-provoking poetry that is transcendental in scope and stands at the acme of imagination, when he empathizes the interminable agonies endured by the aggrieved man of modern age. The poet feels angst of it and upbraids soulless society in these terms.
Vile World
In present age,
a bray of an ass
reaches out to the seventh heaven,
but,
a scream of an anguished man
stands strangled
in his throat!
However, I have no right to be judgmental and apologist for canvassing any one to conform to my views, rather it is up to the sweet will of learned readers, who are the best judges, to weigh the worth of the verses in their own scales of understanding.
I am not at all unmindful of this fact that this tough task was not done single handedly. There were certain hallowed hands and hearts that always graciously guided, kindly corrected my major and laughable mistakes with playful puns that bore no tinge of cynical smirk nor a sly simper to dishearten and discourage, it was their enlightened encouragement which let me go ahead to complete this uphill task.
I expansively acknowledge a great debt of gratitude of learned professor of English, Mohammad Ali Kazi better known as M.A Kazi, a silent scholar, and his competent companions, who constituted a galaxy of stellar scholars, Prof. Saeed Ahmed Soomro, Prof. Mukhtiar Ali Abbassi, Prof. Umeed Ali Saimto and Prof. Zulifqar Tunio, who enabled me with inspirational encouragement to complete this work agilely.
I am indebted to Ms. Tahmeena Khalid, editor, Mag the weekly, who boosted my morale through publication of translation of some of the verses.
I feel myself under a heavy debt of gratitude of the legends of larkana, late Anwar Peerzado, comrade Sobho Gianchandani and Mr. Anwar Abro for their admiring appreciation.
It is also a matter of honour for me to express my inner acknowledgements of Dr. S.M Moin Qureshi a renowned scholar, for his scholarly guidance and affectionate encouragement.
I am beholden to my learned friends Prof. Ali Dino Shar, Prof. Mukhtiar Samo, Dr, Moula Bux Kalhoro, Agha Noor Mohammad Pathan Resident Director, Pakistan Academy of Letters Karachi and Mr Khuram Khiraam Siddiqui Editor (English) Publications of Pakistan Academy of Letters (PAL) for their cordial commendation and encouraging enlivenment of my spirit to pursue this labour of love.
Last but not the least, I am grateful to all of my friends and critics who criticized constructively on my humble work for my improvement and introspection.
JAM JAMALI
H.No: 63/B
Sachal Sarmat Twonship
Larkana
Cell: 0307-3474831
POETRY WITH A PURPOSE
The fluttering feelings of Mohammad Ali Pathan attired in free verse have come to fore as a poetry that depicts the picture of life thriving in his part of the world. Mohammad Ali Pathan’s part of the world is teeming with people who keep on wading by centuries through uneven sandy, stony and thorny paths with vivid hope in their hearts to see the light at the end of the tunnel but mostly they fall prey to the hounds of unjust and unfair society before making it happen. Hence, this poetry to me is indeed a conglomeration of human feelings of agony, anguish, deprivation, affection, adoration, hatred, hope and disgust. The titles of most of his poems suggest so as they read like: poverty, hunger, privation, alarm, empty bowl, prime of poor, a jolt to justice, lost hope, the persecuted progenies, towards frustrated youth, helplessness, two corpses etc.
Mohammad Ali Pathan is downrightly blunt in choice of theme for his poems. The themes for his poems are drawn from the life and the longing for peace, prosperity, justice and freedom. He has written only on what he has either observed or experienced himself. Neither has he built castles in the air nor he day dreams. He does not write only for scoring the numbers and making quite a name to satiate the urge for cheap fame but he writes with a purpose. His down to earth approach towards the issues of life discussed in poetry establishes him as a poet of people and that of soil. He truly comes to the image of Pablo Neruda’s poet whose description he gives as follows, “a poet’s task must be a personal effort for the benefit of all. The closest thing to poetry is a loaf of bread or a ceramic dish or a piece of wood lovingly carved even if by clumsy hand.”
Mohammad Ali Pathan indeed is a prominent poet of Sindhi language. He has four books of Sindhi poetry to his credit, but his prominence with Sindhi readers is not solely due to his poetry, he is equally celebrated playwright and prolific prose writer also. His columns in newspapers, essays in literary magazines, short stories published in periodicals and plays staged and telecast every now and then are much appreciated by the men of letters in Sindh. However, he is yet to be recognized by the readers of English as this is his first book of poetry which has been rendered from Sindhi into English by Jam Jamali an all times fellow of the poet of Fluttering feelings. I hope the readers of this poetry will not differ me in my conviction that Mohammad Ali is a poet of his own right. Though this book contains only free verse but he has composed his thoughts in the all genres of Sindhi poetry which range from Ghazal , Wai, Geet to quadruplets known in Sindhi as cho sita. Reading a poetry with elegance and ease is indeed a skill and those of the readers who have got one they with the thorough study of the four Sindhi poetry books of Mohammad Ali will surely be made to believe that his feelings are not only fluttering but they are powerful and spontaneous which take the readers to trip around the hard realities of existence and at the same time introduce them with the subtleties of romantic life. This quality of the poetry bestows it immortality, hence it continues playing its role as a mouth piece of people’s tacit wishes and depicting a picture of their innumerable miseries through all times. This kind of the poetry establishes its strong bond with man and his world.
“William Wordsworth in his discourse on poetry says, “Poetry is the spontaneous outflow of powerful feelings and emotions”. You will find the same spontaneity and strong outburst of feelings and emotions in the poems of Mohammad Ali when situation and time require so. He does not compromise with circumstances but speaks truth aloud. He even never hides his wailings on the politically motivated acts of terrorism in the country as well. He, in his one poem ‘Terrorism’ that is included in this book, clandestinely has made reference to Karachi the mega city of Sindh without naming it, where very gruesome acts of terrorism were perpetuated a decade or two now. The mode of terminating the opponents and the innocent people adopted by the terrorists was very tormenting and shocking. The targeted people were killed ruthlessly, their body parts were severed and then the dead bodies were put into a sack and thrown at isolated place. The killing in this manner of guiltless common people in Karachi is still carried on unabated; the blood continues colouring the roads of homeland red. The court historian of the day may compromise and avoid from identifying the murderers but Mohammad Ali Pathan yells on inhuman act and tells the truth. He laments that despite their ghastly deeds the murderers are dubbed as civilized and innocent souls in the society. The poem is indeed a cry in wilderness which is not normally heard by the inept and spineless rulers of third world countries like ours but he does not refrain rather continues doing his part of revolutionary role. He says:
In a sewed sack, an abandoned corpse is discovered,
Whose face is devastatingly disfigured and eyes gouged out,
Despite having identity card, his identification is lost,
With ruthless rite, the hirelings have hewed humanity.
Bullets of kilashakives are penetrated into his mass,
The paper of prescription for treatment is dyed red with blood.
The killers seemed to be sans shame, remorse and ruth,
His body is painted with somber scenes of dreadful death,
Yeazidism has applied modern method of merciless murders,
Through cruel custom of severing parts from body of the victim,
the people are terrorized with shocking show of savagery,
as if the ferocious fury of pharohism were repeated again.
The terrorist take pleasure in boring holes in bones with drill machines
But in the society, they are being called civilized and innocent.
He shows his disdain against Court Historians whom he castigates in his following poem.
Some spiders
Behind a web
Spun around room,
are laughing loudly,
and their formidable faces
are giving an ugly look,
like those of
court historians of yore
watching with still eyes
Abruptly
I feel provoked and my eyelids begin to shiver,
Then my poise gets perturbed so much so that
I stand up and
Take match-box in my hands
to fumigate four corners of room
to exterminate spiders
Staring through web.
The precarious conditions prevailing here have robbed us all of our sense of security, confidence and protection to our basic human rights. There looms large an all time unforeseen fear in our minds which keeps haunting and turning the image of world bleak and sketchy for us. We lose the hope and harp in darkness. The very situation is painted in the poem “infinite Apprehension”:
There prevails a pitch darkness
All around the earth.
The magnificence of moon
Is held hostage in a haze.
The twinkling lampions of hope
Are shivering and shuddering from the fear
Of some imminent storm.
In the words of Murial Rukeyser “ A poem is not its words or images, any more than a symphony is its notes or a river is its drops of water. Poetry depends on the moving relations within itself. It is an art that lives in time, expressing and evoking the moving relation between the individual consciousness and the world. The work that a poem does is a transfer of human energy, and I think human energy may be defined as consciousness, the capacity to make change in existing conditions.” Mohammad Ali seems never faltering despite all negative odds. He fully knows that the man who holds pen in his hand can do both; write “Death” and thus set the way for doom and destruction for the progeny or write “Life” and that way encourage them to proceed forward and work for changing the destiny in their favour. His poem “New Sculpture” is real the work of courage in the face of difficulties. It reads:
In the showcase of mind
all preserved portraits,
With the whirl of time,
seem to have been
broken, cracked, and collapsed.
Even then,
I a engrossed in
Sculpturing
New ideal statues,
Holding in one had a hammer
And
In an other hand a chisel.
I do not have lost hope.
I am not tired of struggle
A word poet is derived from Greek language word “poetes” that means “maker” or “creator”. Ezra Pound remarked that poets are making it new and in the process invigorating language and perception. The Sindhi poetry of Mohammad Ali Pathan is hailed on both of the counts; it is there to play its share of the role in augmenting the language as well as providing the thoughtful reading and listening so as to help the readers/listeners become perceptive about the intricacies of the life. The English translation of his poetry titled fluttering feelings will surely be gauged by its readers for extent of its communicativeness and effectiveness. As for the revitalizing perception is concerned the credit for it goes to Mohammad Ali as he is the creator and maker of the ideas which is the stuff of this poetry and Jam Jamali will be applauded for his humble contribution to the language because he has translated this poetry from Sindhi to English. No doubt Jam Jamali is just like a pay master of the English words. I have found him commanding the words in his own convenience and the words obediently following his command.
The fluttering feelings are not only about social inequity, atrocities, and injustice but it is also about finer side of the life of creator of this poetry. Despite all absurdities that he has been meted out, which have added bitterness in his disposition, he has never been aloof and oblivious of his love. He refuses to come to terms with physical absence of his beloved, but he always finds him with himself in his imagination.
“ No matter,
You are thousand miles far from me.
May you live a lively life!
You are as near to me,
Not apart,
as tears
keep existence
in
my eyes.
Besides, some other poems like “A Sob”, “Infidelity” are testimony to his delicate romantic pursuits.
Following your desertion darling,
Today I land myself in an obliterated and obscure past,
In which
I had experienced anguishes smilingly on the hope of your love
And
Even tortures and taunts were welcomed as Pharisee friends.
And now,
At this crossroad of listless life,
I feel myself confused and confounded
Upset and dumbfounded like a panicked family
Affected by severe seismic jolt
And
Deem myself like a solitary survived soldier of virulent war,
Who with weary eyes
Looks hither and thither,
Mohammad Ali’s life style is not unknown to his close friends. I am one of those who have been in bond of friendship with him since my early years of the life. We all friends come from humble origin and have undergone all the vagaries time and tasted the bitterness of the poverty. The stories of our delight and miseries are alike. The poem “Colourful cloth” is one telling the tale of childhood deprivation of one of us. This poem is indeed an FIR on our unfair, adamant and selfish social fabric. The other poems in this book encompass in them every phenomenon of the real world of the poet in which he lives. “The scene of Sindh”, “Save thirsty Thar” and “Moenjodaro” are the poems that present the picture of gloom and obscurity which have visited these places and posed them an impending destruction due to the apathy of the authorities that be. The poem “Epilepsy” is very different kind of attempt at soothing the pain by crying and complaining against an excruciating act attributed to none other than Nature.
There is a mob of men standing in a circle,
Around an object of spectacle,
A wise man and well dressed with florid face,
is lying on a lump of rubbish.
Goggling eyes in grave trouble
And shivering his legs and arms
Is doing a dance of death
Blood is oozing in thin line from an injury
Inflicted on his face while falling
In the state of unconsciousness.
It is pointing a portrait of his past present helplessness
A cry comes from the crowd
“He suffers from epilepsy, Make him smell a shoe”
A shoe relived from the foot of some one was brought
Tight to his nose.
His legs and arms have slowly begun to stop and his gawped eyes
Coming in consciousness and normalcy shed torrential tears
And become low in humiliation.
And I clench my fists in annoyance
At this offensive incident of the nature!
The poetry of Mohammad Ali in this book is like a running commentary on the human life of people of his land. However some poems also remind us that he is also not oblivious to the miseries being faced by the people of countries inflicted by the man-made disastrous. The living example of it is Ethiopia. The poem “Apathy” is like a page from contemporary history of injustice and indiscrimination imposed upon its people.
Almost all poems in this collection the poetry are worth noting here but it suits to leave it upon the readers to dive deep into the sea of thoughts confined into the verses and bring back with them what they choose themselves.
However, this is labour of love done by both Mohammad Ali and Jam Jamali, it is hoped that it will serve its purpose.
MUKHTIAR SAMO
Knowledge Centre Larkana
Thought-Provoking Poetry
Somerset Maugham was an eminent British prose writer known particularly for his short stories and novels. However, he acknowledged the importance of poetry in these memorable words, “The crown of literature is poetry. It is its end and aim. It is the sublime activity of the human mind. It is the achievement of beauty and delicacy. The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes,” (Saturday Review, 1957).
The success of a poem is determined not by how much the poet felt in writing it, but how much the reader feels in reading it. Viewed from this angle, the poems included in this collection are ‘successful’ for they touch the heart-strings of the reader and transport him to a world of stark realities. Prominent Sindhi writer and poet, Muhammad Ali Pathan, has battled against the vicissitudes of life. He has weathered the doom, gloom and squalor around and he sincerely desires the deteriorating socio-economico-political conditions to ameliorate. His poetry is not whimsical, but a moving portrayal of things as they are happening before our own naked eyes. One is bound to be swayed by the emotional force of these poems and the altruistic message they convey with remarkable candour and conviction.
Voltaire so very aptly maintained, “One merit of poetry few people will deny: it says more and in fewer words than prose.” Going through these poems, I got more and more convinced with the rectitude of this well though-out observation. I am inclined to add that the ‘fewer words’ of this poetry create sustained and instilling effects. As a model, I allude to his poem entitled “A Lost Hope” in which M.A. Pathan gives a heart-warming account of how a hope turns into despair:
A Lost Hope
Having
taken last puffs
at a cigarette,
he
destroyed his dreams
in
ashtray.
In “The Scene of Sindh,” he has painted a dismal picture of abject poverty and remorseless blood-letting which have rendered the people as creatures of a lesser god. Whereas the subjects of these poems are well-versed, the approach of the poet is pragmatic. Whatever rolls out of his pen is written in a rational manner. He has dwelt on topical issues like injustice, avarice, economic disparity, apathy, helplessness of the poor and the down-trodden, lack of basic amenities, forced marriages, short-sightedness, class prejudices, plight of the toiling masses, kidnapping for ransom, gun-running, etc.
Like a concerned ‘international citizen,’ Pathan is not oblivious to challenges faced by mankind globally. Hence, we find poems on such nagging problems like terrorism, quest for peace, atrocities of big powers, protection of environment, amassing of weapons, Lebanon, Ethiopia, mutual co-existence and the like.
In ‘A Louse’ the poet mentions of a reprehensible custom prevailing in the ancient city of Helsingborg (Sweden). According to it, the contestants for the throne lay their hair around a table. Then, a blood thirsty louse was let loose to land on any of the bare heads and suck blood from it. The ‘lucky’ man thus justified his candidature by exhibiting that once he ascended the throne, he would prove a louse for the people. After narrating the heinous custom, the poet draws this hair-raising conclusion which is nothing but a fact of life:
Even today,
in
third world countries,
for keeping this condemnable custom alive,
relentless struggle continues.
The rights are being wrested,
and
human shaped lice are living on exploitation
with a pat on their back
by
some world power brokers.
Yet, what is more significant about this poetry is that despite being bitter and brusque, the poet sees light at the other end of the tunnel when he says:
An Aura
When
flower like florid feet,
undeterred by affliction of oozing blood,
advance with a majestic march
on
the thorny thoroughfares to troubles,
then,
an aura of optimism
takes birth in my mind
that now
the dreamed destination is not far away!
Last, but not the least, the poems embodied in this collection are the English rendition of the Sindhi version. The skilful translation has been done by Mr. Jam Jamali, an outstanding poet of English. The translation is so fluent and eloquent that, for once, the poems seem to be the original works. Robert Frost held, “Poetry is that which is lost in translation.” This translation leads us to believe that there are some exceptions also.
All in all, this is a phenomenal effort on the part of Mr. M.A. Pathan. A renowned Chinese scholar, Ba Jin, is reported to have said, “All truly, sincere and honest writers open their hearts to their readers and thus their works survive from generation to generation.” Mr. Pathan has really opened his heart to us. He deserves kudos for his thought-provoking poetry.
Dr.S.M.Moin Qureshi
M.A. (Pol. Sc.), M.A. (Jour.),
LL.B., FBIM (London), Ph.D.
Foreword
FLUTTERING FEELINGS
Mohammad Ali Pathan has already made his mark among the post-Shaikh Ayaz generation of young poets. He comes from the downtrodden class, a son of ironsmith. He has made it the hard way to college lectureship in Sindhi.
I remember him the first time we met when he invited me to a Sindhi, Adabi Sangat meeting in the press club, Larkana. After that he has pulled me out of the isolation and brought me to the mainstream of literature and keeps a whip driving me on to a greater effort.
His poetry is very rich in thoughts and its rendering into English by my young friend Mr. Jam Jamali is excellent.
Among the Sindhi poets and writers he needs no introduction but Jam Jamali has made him available to a larger audience through English.
I remember about the year back, Khowaja Saleem Ahmed, an excellent writer in his own right, translated Shaikh Ayaz’s select poems in English.
Shaikh Ayaz of course for long time deserves to have had a larger audience because of his stature and voluminous Sindhi poetry. Shaikh Ayaz would have been the best translator of his own poetry but he never had the time. In his later years, he suffered considerably from bouts of heart trouble and with the help of friends he has left enough for the country, and I hope that some other writers will take up the good work done by Khowaja Saleem Ahmed and bring Shaikh Ayaz to the larger audience of the globe.
Mohammad Ali Pathan has yet to make his way up to the top because the Sindhi world is overcrowded with young promising and budding writers.
Now I shall not stand in the way of the readers and the poet and here is a selection of Pathan’s poetry and you can judge for your self.
O Man!
Since centuries
you have invented
arrows, axes and swords
for your defence.
Now they seem to have been
corrupted with rust and dust.
Today,
you have progressed in invention of
a myriad of mortal weapons
short guns,
T.T pistols,
Rocket launchers
and
Bombs,
only to play game with them
to annihilate the existence
of mankind,
from the planet.
Even then,
you call yourself
cultured and cultivated.
What a wonder!
Prime of the Poor
It is presumed
that
when bloom comes in life
it brings rejuvenation
and
infuses a new life
into
pruned plants, burnt bushes and
withered flowers,
in deserts and wildness,
like a balmy breeze of spring,
which bestows beauty on barren land
and
excudes and aura of appealing floral fragrance
that
produces a state of ecstasy and trance
in hearts.
Granted that,
it might be so.
But
I have seen the youth
whose blooming age
is akin to
a skeletal starved man
portraying a patient
caught and consumed
by
Terminal tuberculosis.
Voice of Peace
On the sky
a flock of pigeons of peace
is flying un-frightened
and
there is no trace
of predatory hawks.
But
What happened suddenly?
an army of predators appeared
on firmament
that pounced on preys
and devoured the doves
whose feathers are only seen
dancing on the direction of the wind.
On the earth,
time is passing speedily
taking into its lap
mortal munitions.
No body knows
when it would un burden ammunition
from its fold
to cause cataclysm
leaving little likelihood of life
on the earth.
Hence
it is apt time
to dispose and diffuse
invented and amassed armaments,
otherwise this winsome world
would become an infernal planet.
No nation would find
safe sanctuary
and island of peace.
The poet shall be happy to get your reactions on his poetry and those of you who are Sindhi will also do service to themselves by reading Sindhi and English versions side by side. The labour of love done by Jam Jamali will be fully rewarded if you take the trouble to let the editor know your reactions to the poetry of Pathan in both versions.
SOBHO GIANCHANDANI,
O MAN!
Since centuries
you have invented
arrows, axes and swords
for your defence.
Now they seem to have been
corrupted with rust and dust.
Today,
you have progressed in invention of
a myriad of mortal weapons
short guns,
T.T pistols,
Rocket launchers
and
Bombs,
only to play game with them
to annihilate the existence
of mankind,
from the planet.
Even then,
you call yourself
cultured and cultivated.
What a wonder!
PRIME OF THE POOR
It is presumed
that
when bloom comes in life
it brings rejuvenation
and
infuses a new life
into
pruned plants, burnt bushes and
withered flowers,
in deserts and wilderness,
like a balmy breeze of spring,
which bestows beauty on barren land
and
excudes an aura of appealing floral fragrance
that
produces a state of ecstasy and trance
in hearts.
Granted that,
it might be so.
But
I have seen the youth
whose blooming age
is akin to
a skeletal starved man
portraying a patient
caught and consumed
by
terminal tuberculosis.
A LIE
Had there been
a root
to
a lie
then,
a seedling of truth
would never
have
grown green…!
POVERTY
In a mortar
of misery
it looks as if,
instead of food grains,
she were pestling
persecutions of her life…!
THE MYOPIA
The persons
Who have
a myopic sight,
are unable to transcend
the narrowness of vision,
and the width of their world
is confined nigh to their noses.
HUNGER
A starved child
seeing a dog,
eating some thing,
on a heap of filth,
feebly screamed and
said to his mother.
O mother! Snatch it for me
to eat…!
THE PRIVATION
Poverty
is
spittle,
a stumble,
a slap
and
a curse..!.
EMPTY BOWL
A begging bowl,
without penny,
stood filled
with the shadow
of the hands
of passers by,
who mumbled
“Please pardon”
THE REFLECTIONS
When
mirrors
begin to speak,
then masked faces,
with all their turpitudes,
stand exposed.
But again
they get lost
in quest of
other masks
to camouflage
their cunningness.
A JOLT TO JUSTICE
Courts
are constituted
to uphold
the scales of justice.
But
a goblet of hemlock
administered to Socrates,
dealt a death-blow to justice.
The truth
needs not
a stay of evidence.
A lie
encounters
infamy and odium
even-after
the span of centuries
and
it is greeted with stumbles and spurns
of the feet of all
everywhere in the world.
VOICE OF PEACE
On the sky
a flock of pigeons of peace
is flying unfrightenedly
and
there is no trace
of predatory hawks.
But
What happened suddenly?
An army of predators appeared
on firmament
that pounced on preys
and devoured the doves
whose feathers are only seen
dancing on the direction of the wind.
On the earth,
time is passing speedily
taking into its lap
mortal munitions.
No body knows
when it would un burden ammunition
from its fold
to cause cataclysm
leaving little likelihood of life
on the earth.
Hence
it is apt time
to dispose and diffuse
invented and amassed armaments,
otherwise this winsome world
would become an infernal planet.
No nation would find
safe sanctuary
and island of peace.
ABATTOIR
A butcher
is
sharpening
a knife on
a whetstone.
An animal
is
counting its
last moments of life
with bated breath.
A LOST HOPE
Having
taken last puffs
at a cigarette,
he
destroyed his dreams
in
ashtray
SPIDERS / COURT HISTORIANS
Some spiders
behind a web
spun around room,
are laughing loudly
and
their formidable faces
are giving an ugly look,
like those of
court historians,
of yore.
Watching with still eyes,
abruptly
I feel provoked
and
my eyelids begin to shiver.
Then,
my poise gets perturbed
and
my fortitude frustrated
so much that
I stand up
and
take match-box in my hands
to fumigate four corners of room
to exterminate spiders
staring through a web.
A NEW STEP
Begetting a baby through test tube
is
a big breakthrough of man
towards
a progress of his progeny.
Invention of hydrogen bombs
is
a new stride of man
towards
annihilation of whole humanity.
VALOUR
The naked sword,
which is in your hands,
I understand,
would sever my head.
But
the head
that stands straight
and above the collar of my shirt,
will not bow.
Because,
I know that
umpteen invented bombs
in the world,
might turn mountains into smithereens,
yet
their heads held aloft
could not be buckled.
A SMILE
Unlike you,
I do not want
to affix an autumnal scene
on
my face.
I,
inspite of
fostering fathomless ocean of frustrations
in my bosom,
and
wallowing in a wilderness of worries,
from
toe to the hair of head,
simmering and smoldering,
I am not wonted to weeping.
Because blubbering
is
a pointer to pessimistic perceptions
and
in order to win victories,
there must be
a smile on the face,
even though,
it may be
simply a simulation.
TEARS AND YOU
No matter,
you are thousand miles far from me.
May you live a lively life!
you are as near to me,
not apart,
as tears
keep existence
in
my eyes.
THE PERSECUTED PROGENIES
The caravans
of
ruined races
are roaming along,
with a caravan of ruination
of my life.
Heads are capped
with
partly burned
turbans
of
troubled principles.
How heavy are
the avalanches
of
anguish !
TOWARDS FRUSTRATED YOUTH
Dead souls
do not kindle candles of cognitions.
And,
they who are
devoid of discernment and spirit,
do not get guidance
to pass through a thorny thoroughfare.
They only effuse
decomposition and darkness
in the jail of graves…!
INFIDELITY
Following your desertion darling,
today
I land myself
in
an obliterated and obscure past,
in which
I had experienced anguishes smilingly
on the hope of your love,
and
even tortures and taunts
were welcomed as pharisee friends.
And now,
at this crossroad of listless life,
I feel myself
confused and confounded
upset and dumbfounded
like a panicked family
affected by severe seismic jolt
and
deem myself like a solitary survived soldier
of virulent war,
who
with weary eyes,
looks hither and thither.
ENEMY OF ENLIGHTENMENT
Where land was not watered for centuries,
where flowers had not blossomed,
where the earth was completely covered,
repressive rine and glacial gloom.
Behold! there has risen the sun.
Look! There are rays of the sunshine.
All visions stranded in eyes in pitch darkness
came true.
There came glow of gladness on faces,
success smiled on humanity.
Cities were established
greenaries grew around.
But,
o beloved!
Upon my motherland,
prevails a pitchy pall of long night
like a layer of fastened frost,
that does not melt.
The sun does not rise.
The day does not break.
From the clay of kindness
a plant of polarity is produced.
All people fear from one another.
Terror terrifies,
it gnashes teeth.
There is mirage and illusion around.
There is silence and stillness around.
And
in the seething silence,
they who are thinking,
they who are struggling
that
there must be a day,
there must be an end to a night,
they are being followed by
some caravans of killers,
carrying kilashankovs,
with a myopic mission,
to track talented trail blazers
of
popular enlightenment and emancipation.
What a hunt for the pioneers of peace,
prosperity and renaissance.
NEW SCULPTURES
In the showcase of mind,
all preserved portraits,
with the whirl of time,
seem to have been
broken, cracked and collapsed.
Even then,
I am engrossed in
sculpturing
new ideal statues,
holding in one hand a hammer
and
in an other hand a chisel.
I do not have lost a hope.
I am not tired of a struggle…!
HELPLESSNESS
People say,
my enemy has bought a shot-gun.
I start searching for
my rust-ridden and obtuse edged axe,
in the nook and corner of my home.
My wife and children
observe appearance of anguish on my face
and
astonishingly ask,
What do you search for?
The hatchet!
What kind of hatchet?
That what was blunted and corrupted,
whose
handle was broken
and
that which had not seen hands of
blacksmith for years
to repair its dents and sharpen its edge.
Yes, the very same axe
(a bequest bequeathed by my elders)
where is it ?
Now, I would get it repaired, whetted
and provided with a new handle.
But,
it was sold with scrap-iron to a vendor,
a long time ago,
in the days of your imprisonment,
when
we had been left without provisions
to extinguish inferno of hunger
and
the shopkeeper had refused
to supply victuals
on credit.
I become a bit berserk and hysterical
and
begin blurting
my avowed enemy has bought a shot-gun.
A QUEER QUESTION
When you
look yourself into the mirror,
you feel exaltation
of overwhelming ego.
But
when you appear before
some mighty man,
you suffer from
an obsession of inferiority.
Why it happens so?
APATHY
On the arid land
of Ethiopia,
the people of
famine famished faces,
bony bodies
ugly appearances,
all
the youth, the old
women and men,
boys and girls
are excruciated
by
a barbarian bite of hunger
( our sisters and brothers ).
They are making muffled protests
with suppressed cries
and
are being persistently pushed
towards the pit of poverty
to die of hunger.
And,
their domesticated dogs
( whose real masters they are )
caught by cupidity and avarice,
negating all norms of humanity or fidelity
and
scaling all walls of venerated values,
have rallied round
the cool crumbs of bones and bodies
to hound.
What a duplicitous role
are playing
these devoted dogs!
A SOB
Festivals were celebrated
and
my days passed unenjoyed.
Spell of spring too
bade me bye-bye
without bestowing a bit
of mirthful moment.
Now
I am living
in an autumny season
and
before my eyes
is
an interminably horrible haze.
Your visit was also
swift and flying
like
a quick current of ocean
that
streams back from
centuries thirsty land
leaving its thirst unquenched.
SAVE THIRSTY THAR
Marvi’s motherland (Thar),
suffers from
drought and dearth.
Marvi’s kinsfolk
are looking to sky for the rain.
It is not known
where,
clouds, favourite friends of Bhittai,
have taken flight
on the wings of the wind?
Folks are facing famine.
Death has become
cheaper than food grains and water.
Ponds and lakes, instead of water, dust fly,
misery makes blood of the masses dry.
Leaving homes with cattle in long rows,
caravans of the hunger and thirst hit narrate woes.
Many people have vowed not to leave native land,
with a feeling of fidelity to die on silvery sand.
From the famished faces of people
a blush of buoyancy and vivacity
is vanishing.
A cry comes from
the wilderness.
Protect poetic legacy of Latif !
Save thirsty Thar.
CATARACTS
Blights by birth,
darkness,
disease and accidents.
All aspects of life
seem to be cracked and broken
by
conspiracies of fate.
Every hope is
hurled with stones.
Every wish is crying
on the crucifix.
Bated breath,
crippled concepts,
open eyes
and
dim sight.
Cataracts is moving fast
to terminate twilight of life.
Last breaths and ordeal of death.
An irresistible torrent of tears
percolating from pores of eyes
over unrealized dreams.
Helplessness.
Recommendations for care
and
death throes!
A WONDER
Rubicund luscious lips,
left little open,
like pomegranate parts.
Big black eyes
brimmed with romance.
Florid face,
reflecting a blush of enigmatic smile
and
a marvallous mole chiseled on a left cheek.
Wrists and arms,
covered with thinly golden hairs,
with bangs of bangles,
singing some lasting lyrics
are
moving towards
sturdy chest of her chum.
Heaving hugely heart warming sighs
were relaying a message
as if earthen jars of love
were getting backed in
an aflame oven of amour
to paint them fast.
Suddenly,
from
the breast of fragile and old earth
erupted
a veneered volcano of ruthless rites
gushing
vindictive values and cruel customs,
which took lives
of a pair of paramours,
on the eve of
twilight of the sun,
setting in mighty mountain,
of 20th century,
leaving a legend of love
for
man
of 21st century
a marvelous myth…!
ROMANCE
You are
tired of
carrying the cross
of your life.
And,
I
sprinkling petrol
on my crucifix,
with a match have ignited a ferocious fire,
upon which
I am warming my hands
and
without any moan and groan,
I am perceiving
an easy approach
to pursue my will.
Look! You have seen only one aspect
of life
and
an other side of it
has not been explored
by
latent pigment of your imagination.
In truth,
your
tasting trauma
is
an aftermath of
your being besieged by
baseness
and
your being
miles away
from
aim oriented existence.
It is verily an unwise and futile living
and
in real sense,
for
leading purposeful life
one
has to cast off
the yoke
from
one’s neck
like
the wayward winds
that
wend their ways
towards
undetermined destinations,
and
uncharted directions.
Verily,
it is an ethos of survival
and
it is a romance of life…!
DEVASTATIONS
In presence of your hubby and my wife,
if,
incidentally,
our hands get dyed red
with henna of love
and
become clasped with one another
as an emblem of close cordiality.
This proximity
between you and me
would engender such an interminable series of calamities
as a confluence of
positive and negative live wires
of electricity
causes ignition of agglomeration of embers
that wreaks
dreadful disasters.
Better be so,
neither you dream of me at nights,
nor I should commune with you in dreams….!
DISTANT DESTINATIONS
The inn
wears strange look of gloom.
Laughters of the topers
are troubled.
Goblets of wine,
get filled, collided, emptied,
refilled and gulped in throats.
Eyes become brimmed with tears.
Glances get stranded in the
coffins of clouds.
Everyone is wistfully waiting.
Everyone is vexatiously upset.
It looks that
fire has caught the tavern unawares.
The glasses are broken with big bang.
From entry door,
a storm of black smoke
enters striding
with full fun and frolic.
Drunkards disappoint death
by singing
lyrics of life aloud
and
bravely bid bye-bye
to the bar
before
pursuing their pursuits
and
treading on tracks
directed to
different distant destinations…!
DIFFERENCE
On
left axis of the planet,
lights are lit
that
shed luster on life
and
right wing of the world
is
still
in the grip of gloom and doom
of
customary classifications
like
extinguished ashes
kept in cold storage.
In one part of planet,
human history
is
adding lustrous leaves
with the annals of enlightenment
like
shining sun
that
showers
shafts of sheen.
And
in other side,
there are
swarms of ants
walking on the surface
and
voracious vultures
are landing on the earth…!
ARID EYES
Empty stomach,
carrying
in hands a blank bottle
for medicinal mixture
and
a six days born baby
having
pale and feeble face,
caught in an acute cough
is
clung to the chest
of
the mortified mother.
But
a mother
who is
experiencing pangs of poverty
and
is devastated by diseases,
bears no ounce
of lactation
to breast-feed
her beloved baby.
Her eyes are only flooded with tears,
that are
spilling over
corroded countenance
of the kid.
The child
turns his face
from the bosom of
stranded mother
and
is protesting against hunger
with weeping and whine.
Distraught mother,
gets hysterical
to see no comrade,
to comfort her in the hour of agony
in the vast world.
Pretty time passes
yet
no doctor appears.
The sun
is
speedily releasing its rays
to shed sheen
towards the sky.
All of a sudden,
eyes of the child
are firmly fixed
on an RCC ceiling
of a charitable hospital.
Arid eyes,
of latently lamenting
and mourning mother
are giving a look of
sandy drought-hit desert
and are
witnessing silently
her dying sweet son
as if
he were
an alien child…!
HURT HEART
Why do you
pierce pins
of your
caustic comments
in my
sensitive heart?
My heart
is
already injured.
In what
abscesses of it,
would you
prick pins?
The state of
this lacerated heart
is akin to
the blood stained heart,
of a wayfarer,
lying dead by the side of the hill,
which was gnawed
by
the mountain mice…!
LIGHTNING
Some times,
so happens
that
when,
a mighty man,
out of arrogance,
un provocatively and aggressively
attacks on
a meek man,
the aggrieved one,
instead of
whines and whimpers,
gains grit
and
fights ferociously
with
formidable foe,
like
the lightening lightning
that
incinerates
all trees and animated things
to ashes
and
reduces standing structures
to a rubble
where upon
it descends
with thunder and wrath…!
A TRAGEDY
It becomes a great tragedy
of man,
when,
he throws his torn books of shattered dreams
into the lap of someone
as
to beg bounty of solace and sympathy.
and
develops a desire to see his globules of grief
percolating from the eyes of somebody.
if I can not reciprocate return
of your lively love,
in a welcome way,
for some reasons,
then
why I should try
to print a perplexed portrait
of my first and last
unattained amour
on a crystal glass
of your heart?
A YEARNING
The signals in the world
are standing with lowered heads
and
rail tracks are running.
The pointers on a watch
are swirling so swiftly
as muzzles of the mortars
move in bloody battlefield.
Still no train arrives
people are perturbed and harrowed.
Every prospective passenger
yearns for reaching
his destination
somehow.
But
the train had been
stopped to ply for long time,
about which
people are aware
that it is not to come.
Even then,
the men making mobs
are
waiting wistfully
for it arrival
to leave for
their desired destinations.
HAUNTED BY THE HEARTHS
I have climbed to
the crest of hamalya.
But
I am being haunted by hearths
living at low
who are
weak and worries-worn,
splashed in perspiration,
(whose bodies are beset
by bacteria of different disease).
I think of a rupture
with these reeky relations,
but I can not relinquish them.
I am entangled in
a labyrinth of relationship
that has forced me
to climb down from the pinnacle of hamalya.
A RUFFLE
O suhni of today
come on,
gutting comfortable
bridal bed sheet of Dum
unruly ripples of river
and my cordial cries,
call you with up braidings,
for causing delay
in holding communion with
your beloved.
Yesterday,
you,
relying on earthen jar
being undeterred by horror and terror,
quitting cosy bridal bed sheet
while calling out sahar sahar,
and
causing fear among
brutal beasts
lying in ambush around Indus
had
rendered affinity of adoration
immortal
by
offering your self
to strong streams of ruffled river.
Today,
despite
having
availability of backed jars,
you do not muster courage
to leave luring bridal bedding of dum
it is sad and surprising.
On the other bank
your Mehaar
is
wistfully waiting for a warm welcome
and
is making rounds around
like
a violent whirlwind.
and
undulations of Indus
are anxious to embrace
an everlasting perfumed present
of your beautiful body.
Notes:
1. Suhni is a key character(Herione) of suhni mehhar folklore in sindhi literature.
2. Dum is an unfavorite husband of suhni.
3. While “Mehaar” is a beloved of suhni and “Sahar” is his appellation of affection as used in poetry of Shah Abdul Latif Bhitai
TWO CORPSES
On
two bed sheets of double bed,
she and I
with swellen faces beneath coverlets
are lying like perturbed patients.
our tongues are branded.
Our eyes are stitched.
Nevertheless,
chunking of chains rings in our minds,
she has ceased sobbing since long
and
upon my laughter
is
clamped deathlike lull.
Now
we both are
fastening Portraits of dead dreams
in moth-eaten albums
of our minds
she
who bed-ridden in hospital,
instead of
lying asleep on bridal bed sheet,
for taking an over dose of pills,
was welded into wedlock.
and
in her state of unconsciousness
“yes” was obtained by her kins
with manipulated “nod” of her head.
I was sitting
in the flock of friends
with down-head and seething silence
and
with latent lamentation.
whose marriage was solemnized?
Of two corpses.
There was stench and reek around.
now
between the double bed
even the mirrors of afflictions
have become dimly dark.
TOWARDS YOU
I shed tears,
on the piteous plight
of
mine and me like miserable-men,
marred by merciless misery,
and
you get annoyed and boring.
As an emblem of dislike and disdain
you leave me in lurch
by taking pretty paces on wide ways
holding in hands a border of
your beautiful silky Sari.
O unruly ripple!
Wading through a sea of the city.
With appealing antics,
my implorations can not stop you,
nor the arms of this barren beach
could hold you in a hug.
Only
floating ferries
could kiss and touch you.
A DUSTBIN
Having composed the last lyric
attributing it to your name,
which contains
a tall tale of grueling grief
gifted by you,
has been thrown with force,
like a fused bulb,
at your doorstep.
Would that
your feet too fester
and
abscesses in them agonize you
before meeting me.
and
you come out from home,
to collect smithereens of smashed glass,
with your soft hands,
to throw them into dustbin
with a feeling of regret
for Your ruthless rudeness.
MOEN-JO-DARO
The sun deity
behind stupa of Moen Jo Daro
jumped into some deeply dark ditch.
the surges of unbounded Indus,
flowing for centuries at the distance of 2 kms,
became so sad and upset
as if the blighted bride.
were in bereavement and bewilderment
at a sudden suicidal death
of her groom.
in the nuptials night,
without having communion with him
far a few moments of mirth.
The ferment of feelings,
like that of bereaved bride
at her marital misery and mortification,
not only glowed in grief
in the eyes of Indus,
but I also felt agony
of scorching sand of sorrows
in my agitated eyes.
I had seen sometime ago,
the civilization of sindh,
standing aloft for five thousand years,
on centuries old saline soil.
Warm winds of time,
strong storms and ferocious floods
could not eliminate its existence.
But,
the very same civilization
was so washed away,
in nefarious night of negligence,
by inundation of indifference
that
there did not seem
even the semblance of broken brick
at the moment,
various violent whirls occurred,
which took away
big banks of the dust in clouds.
In pitch darkness
towards unknown places.
INFINITE APPREHENSIONS
There prevails a pitch darkness
all around the earth
the magnificence of moon
is held hostage in a haze.
The twinkling lampions of hope
are shivering and shuddering
from the fear
of some imminent storm…!
THE WARMTH
From
the debris of ashes
still
sparks and embers
are seen
flying and flickering.
although
overcast sky
is
spreading
wetness all around
through
downpour…!
A LONG LEGEND
With this legend
the legend of tragic events,
many marred graves of lost love,
and
umpteen incident of scarifies and suicides,
for immortal affinity of adoration,
are closely connected
Do you have a time to hear it?
It is a long legend………….
In the journey of life,
after the hay-days of youth,
my shapely appearance
and the flesh folded my bonny body,
decayed and dissolved
in such an acid,
which engenders inwardly,
and corrodes within the mass of man clandestinely.
Do you know about unnamed acid?
Astonishingly enough, until now,
no scientist in the world
has been able to give it a name.
Why do you see in my famished and furrowed face?
Every part of my body is pulverizing
in an unbearable persecution and pain
and
I fell myself at this stage of life,
Like a withered tree.
Whose
roots were pecked by wood peckers,
and it were waiting for the whiffs of the wayward wind.
Why do you smirk sarcastically?
It is a long legend…………….
The emotional attachments,
(with which I had intertwined the ends of threads
of thoughts on my own accord and I had
seen the devastations of the puppets of my dreams
in the plays staged in my mind)
today,
are pricking and piercing into my heart
like pointed pegs.
And
I have never thought to yank them out
with invisible tweezers of imagination.
Today,
all agonizing screams are recalled,
which
were sighed beside beloved
and left there as bleak bequeath.
Why do you stare at me with wonder?
It has rendered stitches of my heeled wounds unraveled.
It is a long legend………………..
Before lying on this stretcher of charity hospital,
I had never thought of it
that
my sixty years bachelor old age,
would be
left so stranded and abandoned,
and
it would be brought before the world
as a patient struggling for life.
No matter,
if my all spouses
could not solemnize marriage with me.
I have become tired and exhausted
by dragging my ugly and lonely life
now,
I am bed ridden and wait for some major operation
why do you have started showing the teeth in laughing?
It is a long legend……….
Last night,
I have asked from a handsome nurse,
(who looks to me very sympathetic, kindly and humble)
before she administered injection.
Sister!
Yes……………..?
Sister! Is there any invention of such an instrument
that
could catch ruined reflection in the pupils of eyes,
heart rending scenes,
and
a series of devastating deluge,
which washed away all dreams of desires,
and bring them in full film
that
could be projected on the screen in cinema?
She had gazed at me with gloomy glance
and I had read reply of my question
from her anguished eyes.
Why do you laugh aloud?
It is a long legend……….!
REVOLUTION
Knowing it that
we would be rendered dead
by octopus,
which
would suck even last drop
of blood from our bodies
and
we would be floated away
in the flood of
cruel currents of a sea of the worlds.
Nevertheless,
we keep waging war
with octopus continuous.
We understand that
many of us would sacrifice their lively lives
in this ferociously formidable fight.
Still
we have not let gallantry go
and are combating courageously.
For,
now we do not deem ourselves
feeble and forlorn.
Look there!
our comrades,
fighting and forwarding,
are
coming to our aid from other bank
by
long marching and skipping over
the splashes of ocean.
Lo! The blue water of the sea
has
turned red with bled blood.
THE SENILITY
As the fag-end of evening takes fascinating freshness from flowers,
so has done dotage with me by robbing me of brilliant bloom of my life.
The journey seems to be the same, but the path looks different.
How life has left me in the lurch of loneliness!
It was the time when I would leap frog frequently,
at present even a single stride makes me exhausted .
Now every moment passes by arsoning my ambitions,
I had never suffered such death-throes in life before.
My appearance gives a strange look in a mirror!
Whose wrinkles have wreaked on my shapely complexion?
The calamity of age has squeezed my inner man,
vast vision vanished, only twilight twinkles in eyes.
O, life! What a shape do you have shown to me at this stage,
by snatching scintillating sight, you have torched all treasures!!
NEW YEAR
O sun of new year
I
have passed whole night un-slept,
only to see the scintilla of your sheen,
on the hope
that
it would lift centuries old layers
of grievous gloom and frustrated feelings
from my melancholic mind
and
would grant a scintillating smile of happiness
that would
make my pipe dreams,
of passing pleasant days,
come true!!
AN AURA OF OPTIMISM
When
flower like florid feet,
undeterred by affliction of oozing blood,
advance with a majestic march
on
the thorny thoroughfares to troubles,
then,
an aura of optimism
takes birth in my mind,
now
the dreamed destination is not far away…!
THE CREASE OF CONTRAST
The sky’s two eyes sighted with sunshine
eclipsed so quickly
as you used to disappear
after peeping promptly
from your high hedge.
and my eyes would
franetically follow all corners of the hedge
to behold you.
Even today,
my eyes are twisting in torture
to get glamorous glimpse of you
even in the overcast sky.
And
I think there stands
a distinct difference
in between
sighted eyes of the azure and yours,
through a crease of contrast,
which is that
later or sooner, the sky’s eyes
would emerge from
the horizontal haze with sunshine.
But,
your eyes have sunk
so low that
they have lost sight.
and their shining shafts
are not seen painted
on the cordial canvas of my soul…!
VORTEXES BESIDE BANK
It is not necessary
that
eddies exist only in the centre of river.
If you reflect on it
with an eye of the imagination,
you would witness
whirl-pools beside banks
that
swirl life-boats to sink…!
TERRORISM
In a sewed sack, an abandoned corpse is discovered,
Whose face is devastatingly disfigured and eyes gouged out.
Despite having identity card, his identification is lost,
With ruthless rite, the hirelings have hewed humanity.
The bullets of kilashan koves are penetrated into his mass,
the paper of prescription for treatment is dyed red with blood.
The killers seemed to be sans shame, remorse and ruth,
his body is painted with somber scenes of dreadful death,
yazidism has applied modern method of merciless murders,
through cruel custom of severing parts from body of the victim.
The people are terrorized with shocking shows of savagery,
As if the ferocious fury of pharohism were repeated again.
The terrorists take pleasure in boring holes in bones with drill machines,
but in the society, they are being called civilized and innocent…!
THE CORDIAL CONCERN
When you part from me,
I feel my self forlorn
and
hands of a watch
prick in my eyes
like sharp pointers.
The perfume of your presence,
exiting in my mind,
turns unpleasant odour,
of a burning cloth.
In the state of strain,
I wistfully try to woo you,
with folded hands,
to stay for a few moments.
And
you glance gleefully at me,
with such a nonchalance,
It looks to me
as if
I were the prisoner,
of some central Jail
who were wishing to communicate
a sudden recalled cordial concern,
to his casual caller,
but
the time for talk
had been over.
SAY NOT……………
Say not that
he is roaming around lonely,
he is accompanied by the cries of cruelty victims,
which are patrolling with him permanently
the troops of brave youth
undeterred by terror,
go hand in hand with him
the blockades and roadblocks,
the attacks of brigades with bayonets,
and following war cries
could not daunt valiant warriors,
who
like wayward waves of indus,
causing corrosion in big banks,
wash away the all that stands in the way
with ferocious flesh flood.
The gallows, the noose and draconian laws,
Are used to make him bow.
But
the fearless freedom fighter,
instead of
surrender and submission,
vows to fight
all the night
for,
they who have strong aspirations,
and
whose hearts are lit with liberty,
discern the dazzle of dawn,
and delve deep into the recess of human hearts…!
AS YET………..
You had forsaken me,
as the season changes,
as dewdrops turn into vapor
and
evaporate on the sheen of sun,
after
falling from firmament
upon
rose petals and florid flowers.
And
you had noted a new name
of your fresh friend
on the state of your heart.
But,
The scent of your sweet name,
as yet,
is not erased from
the core of my hurt heart.
IN THE WHIFFS OF WIND
O thief,
Picking one by one,
the rays of the sun of the sooth,
you have kept them
concealed in the pocket
of your black coat,
but
you are oblivious of it
that
in every big and small piece of this planet,
the potters are living in legions
who are engaged in the struggle
to produce unlimited lampions
for the removal of thickened layers of darkness.
O thief,
Will you be able to amputate all hands,
and keep them concealed in
the pocket of your cloak?
Look! Illuminations have driven out,
the darkness far away,
and
there prevails a sheen all around
on every inch of the land
where upon
lights are dancing in delirium
o thief look here!
your coat is caught by fire,
the rays of the sun of the sooth,
kept cancelled in your pocket,
are staging a delightful drama
of your sudden and dreadful death
and
the men in multitudes
are receiving
relish and amusement from it.
The shower of shafts of sheen
and cheerful shouts of the people
are
giving birth to a mirthful moment.
And
Beautiful birds,
In endless flocks
without a whit of fear
of the predators and hunters,
fluttering their feathers,
swinging in the puffs of the air,
are pecking peacefully
in an open atmosphere.
IDENTITY
Yours love,
for me,
is
like
a flurry of fresh air
blown after rain
that
comforted me
in scorching heat of hatred
and
I felt beneath my feet,
the simmering surface the earth,
as a gentle green grass
dr
dipped in dew drops at dawn.
I wish to sacrifice
this life ten times
for your immortal love.
In truth
today,
I have explored
actual avenue
for my aesthetic and emotional
expression in poetry.
A WONDERFUL WORLD
Till when,
the fragrance does not fly from fascinating flowers
the verdure does not vanish from vegetable and trees,
the sheen does not desert the scintillating sun,
the illumination does not let down the magnificent moon
we would continue to pour on hues of hopeful dreams,
on crystal clear and plain papers of human hearts
for emancipation from the yokes of exploitation and inequality
we would continue to paint a scintilla of smile on sad snivel.
And from all nooks and corners of towns and cities
we would put the leviathans of lie to flight
by holding florid flags of truth high and aloft,
we would establish a wonderful world on the earth,
by exorcising demons of despondency from the harrowed heart,
through ignition f lambent lampions of hopes for humanity .
AN ANNOUNCEMENT
If you allow me to talk,
and
confer me with a right
to speak the truth
by unraveling stitches
of my sewed lips.
Then
I would divulge several secrets
before you .
I
also make an announcement
that
now , the walls of the palatial palaces,
have become weak and wane,
which can be collapsed
with a light jolt…………!
yes with a slight swing…!
PRAGMATIC PERCEPTIONS
A thought
devoid of
orientation to action,
is
like a leaf of a shrunk tree,
which is sundered apart from a branch
with a wee whiff of the air.
Lets pledge today
to irrigate the leaves of withered trees
with aim oriented water,
and
strengthen and enliven its roots,
in such a way
that
even several storms join together
to uproot them
but
meet mortifications…!
FLIGHT AND FLUSTER.
Even today,
no fountain flows with perfumed purity,
the sad swans
appear weeping and wailing
on the occupation of cormorants
over the spring.
The worry worn swans
being offended and flustered,
fly high
in the sky,
fall down on the earth
and instantly die.
TRUST
As a proverb goes,
“friends pinpoint merits and demerits “
I had had no belief in this maxim
heard much time ago.
but,
in the long journey of listlessly lorn life
now a worthy way-farer has got together with me
who
laid a book of my drawbacks and credits
open out of my taciturnity
(without hearing a word and asking an account from me)
has
strengthened my conviction in the adage
by
telling an irksome and sore sooth .
AN OBSERVATION
The lizard
can not
scale
the glass wall
and
the mosquitoes
sit on it
unconcerned.
A YEARNING
The stars,
seeing
eye
to
eye
with me,
stand awake.
AN AESTHETIC THOUGHT
A flower
And
The moon
Can be
Aesthetically appreciated
But
It is human countenance,
Which
Can captivate cognition
to court and adore.
AMITY
Let there be
An aura of amity
Though
Lacking ligature of love.
Despite
Groaning under the grindstone
Of grudge,
Let there be
A scintillating smile on lips,
Even though
It may be
an affected ostentation.
LIPS
I would not rather
kiss the lips
which
fasten lipstick of avarice
and
are devoid of
lusciousness of love.
WICKEDNESS
When
you abandon idiom
of the swan
and
speak in
dastardly dialect
of cowardly crow.
Then,
it looks to me
as if
the Himalaya mountain,
had been
metamorphosed
into
the mite of mud,
that gets
dashed into dust
even with
dribbling of the drizzle.
PANGS OF POVERTY
The life that passes in poverty is purely a punishment.
The poor are parading with bare bodies and empty stomachs,
their every minute of mirth is being marred by merciless misery
and development of disease tolls death bell for want of cure.
Without wealth man can not establish identity and individuality,
the rich revel in respect and honour for marvelous miracle of money
and the acumen of the poor is eclipsed in the pall of poverty.
Alas! The virulent values still stand unchanged even in advanced age.
The deprived are drowning in the deluding dike of disaster,
and are shouting for savior to shove them to shore.
They are looking for redeemer to rescue them from river of ruthlessness.
Perhaps, no emancipator is born to steer them safely to the coast.
They are being thrown into a sea of sorrows and suffering
and are leading listless lives without relishing delightful days.
ELEGY OF EARTH
The land,
which was once
an emblem of amity
from whose bosom,
nobody had ever
twisted and torn boughs
bearing freshly florid flowers,
whose
trees and plants
would
sing song of serenity,
with whose
moonlit and starry sky,
people would delight their eyes.
Upon that
lovely land,
today,
we see
savagery dancing denuded
in its nook and corner.
The fire has gutted gardens
into ashes
and rendered
bevies of
beautiful butterflies
sad and stranded
INJUSTICE
In return of
capital crime,
laudation
largess
and
medals.
For
venial offence,
hullabaloo,
hypocritical hue and a cry,
and
highlighted headlines
in the papers.
and
award of
life sentence,
or
hanging on the gallows.
FADED FLOWERS
From
green bough
of her life,
the time
has
taken the bird of bloom to flight
And
she,
as usual
stands
at the doorstep of her house,
with all embellishments,
but
the onlookers
have
abandoned her street to frequent.
Yet,
she does not discern
that
bumblebees
neither buzz
nor hover over
the faded flowers.
DETAINED DREAMS
From centuries we are garroted with yoke of slavery,
from centuries afflictions are inflicted on our listless lives.
For ages phantom of fear is striking our heavy hearts,
for ages our dreams are detained in the bowers of brains,
Like Sisyphus we are thrown into abyss of agonies,
as if we were sentenced to lift an avalanche to the peak.
Our mouths are muffed to convey our concerns with confidants.
in our eyes tears are chocked and feelings fettered.
We find no friend who may hearken harrowed screams.
it looks as if molten lead were poured into our ears.
No door of justice and fair-play is seen open anywhere,
and sighted souls are seen blinking at blindly.
Our annals of agonies are horrible and horrific,
and our history of every man is very terrible and terrific.
LEBNON
Hurt heart asked me to lie asleep
wearing a cover of quietness,
because whatever is happening
and
whatever i have seen with sane sensation and open eyes,
is
a sorrowful scene.
It is such a terrible torture
Which has sent
several surges of terror
in the veins of my boiled blood.
Low lying lanes of the city
are flooded with blood
and their surface littered with
several severed heads, bodies
and other organs parted into pieces.
Battered books,
perished pens,
are so sinking and floating
as if
the wrecks of broken boats
were delving and ferrying in the oceans.
predators and villains of the world,
hooligans and hoodlums,
being intoxicated in inebriation of enjoyment
sensing and laughing
are traveling on highways
towards their homes.
And
I
a silent citizen of the city
living between
beaten path and roads,
am thinking of slumber.
After a thorough thought,
I have clung to a conviction
that
hence forth
I would not lean on a pillow for pleasure
and I have torn off the rug of reticence
Because
in such appalling abattoirs,
like inarticulate animals,
it does not behoove well to remain reticent
and it is derogatory to be slaughtered silently.
KIDNAPPING
O, Momal !
in
this era of kilashankoves,
the axes of your enchanting eyes,
have become blunt.
Countless cracks have occurred
in your magical mansion
The sweet streams
of yours scintillating smiles
are gone dry.
Your beautiful beddings
and cosy pillows
stand abandoned.
Your pleasing plaits
instead of aromatic oil,
filled with sandy rays,
have become disheveled.
Your Rano
from your balmy bosom,
in the last hour of night,
has been kidnapped
by dacoits.
After some days,
they have dispatched a chit
demanding Rs.20 lacs
as ransom money
for the release of him.
The red charmers of your magic power,
do not comply with your command,
at this tumultuous time.
The fame of your bewitching beauty,
like a leaf withered and dropped in autumn,
has been flown away,
by
the violent winds of time
In the state of stress,
sitting on the earth,
you are engrossed in a thought
and feel confused,
how to raise Rs.20lacs
to get Rano released?
The threats given in the chit,
to kill your Rano,
in case of failure to pay price,
are striking on soft and sophisticated glass
of your mortified mind,
like sledge hammers.
It is uncertain,
whether your Rano would return
or he would be killed cruelly!!
AN IMPLORATION
O beloved !
I beseech you
to stay for a while
and have a sitting for some time
I have not yet
confided my cordial
communion with you.
I have not yet
beheld you brimfully.
If you ask me truth
I
would say so
that
when you are out of sight,
all illuminations
lit in my cordial castle,
stand extinguished.
Without you,
there is no music, nor melody,
nor winsomely warbling voice,
there is listless lull all around.
I feel myself shadowed by
the serpents of separation
and
my night after night
passes nightmarish !!
A SQUAWK
The dunes of desert are helpless
and
it is not in their reach to receive rain.
There was a twinkling ray of hope
in the eyes
that
all ponds and lakes would be filled
with rain water
All bare dunes
would wear garment of greenery
Folks would attune lyrics
whit the rhythm of Humarcho.
But
no cloud has appeared on the sky
wearing dress of downpour.
many years have passed,
the bellies of hunger hit are
receded into the ribs.
Famished folks lifting luggage on heads
are quitting hearths.
The cattle is dying for want of fodder.
The people are dying of starvation.
There are bellows all around
There are screams all around!!
Note: “Humarcho” is a folk song sung in chorus on the occasion of the rainfall as an expression of joy and jubilation.
I PUT BRANDS ON……!
When
the law enforcing executioners,
with abuse of authority,
trample upon
the powerless people,
then
pulsation of my perturbed heart speeds up.
In veins blood blazes with fire.
Notwithstanding
my being powerless,
I ignite an oven of thoughts,
to fight against the unjust.
and
with several red rods of words,
I mark brands on the executioners.
The stigmas put on them
are so ineffaceable
that
they would remain
indelibly alive
along with their names,
even after their death,
till
the mother earth
keeps her existence.
AND I GO ALL ALONE
It is a long journey
and
I go all alone
the evening appears upset
and the winds show weary look.
My mind is torn with turmoil,
but still silence is fastened on lips.
I found no friend to direct me to destination.
Though many wayfarers passed by me
neither I greeted nor shook hands with them.
It was my sin, and it was my crime.
My ego has burdened me with overwhelming onus,
so my heart is sunk in sorrows and eyes are wet.
Alas! beloved bestows not solace and sympathy,
I wipe tears from wet eyes
and
view wilderness all around.
There is no shadowy tree,
nor winsome verdure
and
nor any oasis of human scent.
I am roving for a roost to rest
Where to knit a nest with reels of dreams?
The evening is tilting towards twilight
and the dusk is spreading its shroud
all-around.
It is a long journey
and
I go all alone…………!
AVANT- GARDE IDEALS
From my eyes,
the tears that had been shed
on the eve of your isolation,
now they seem to have lost
their individuality
in the ocean of obliteration.
And
I would search your countenance,
like lunatics,
in the looks of every person
as if it had an inebriating effect of whisky.
It was merely a mirage of mind.
At present
your visage has been missing in
a flock of the faces.
It is surprising that
I have stopped even searching your looks
in any appearance
It is because,
I have saved my feeble physique
from flustering beneath the mighty mountains
of idle agonies.
Now
in place of weeping and screams,
my mind has explored
innovative ideologies.
LIFE AND DEATH
Water of Indus flows
like a louse takes pace
There is neither rise nor fall in it
till
the extent of sight of eyes ends.
There is no vibration in its waves.
it stands stationary and uniform in its flow level,
as if
it were frustrated
and
dismal and dejected
like
a grief ridden
convict of capital punishment
waiting for his turn
to go on the gallows.
But
this vehement wind
has hurled a stone
in the death like dormant bilge water
which
has aroused astonishing animation and motion
in listless life.
There is a sizzling sound around .
Water is widening its wings of expansion
and
There is a reverberation and roar.
It seems that
outwardly withered trees would get life
by wearing green garments
and sprouting offshoots around.
And
the wind like a naughty girl,
playfully teases trees
by
embracing, rocking
and
blowing its branches.
LET’S INAUGURATE…………!
Why do we experience agonies inarticulately?
Why do we suffer sorrows embroilingly?
Why do we take sighs, with bated breath?
Why do our dreams dash unrealized?
In order
to cast off this cruel custom
of old era
let’s inaugurate such a love,
which emboldens us
to finish fortress of fear and fright.
It is irony with us
that
in our gardens
the saplings of fragrant and florid flowers
witness withering weather of autumn,
which makes them fade away
un-flourished and un-flowered.
There is no one who could defend us.
There is no one who could console us.
For fighting against foes
of flowers and fragrance
let’s inaugurate such a love
which emboldens us
to finish fortress of fear and fright.
In order
to establish an ideal world
in which
all subtle sentiments of human beings
enjoy azure like open expanse
on whose horizon
shining sun and magnificent moon may rise,
whose
avenues be free from hindrance and haze,
and
there be heard lilting lyrics
of music and melody all around
Let’s inaugurate such a love…………!
O MURKY MOON…...!
So
deep darkness persists
in
the recesses of my heart,
I discern not such an ebony pall
prevailing on the earth.
Your dimly dazzle
can not doff the dusk of despair
from my heavy heart.
O murky moon!
get away from my eyes.
Feeble fluorescence of your face,
has
deepened darkness of dejection
How to follow swirls
which had flown covers,
from the graves of reminiscences?
There dwells dusk alt around.
Today
I wish
in place of you
there had risen
the sweltering sun
riving bosom
of nasty night of despondency,
which could
remove pitch gloom
from my melancholic mind.
And
could take shattered sheets of thoughts,
back from twirls of tornadoes of time,
flown from crypts of commemoration.
Today
I wish
there may rise
such a scintillating sun
which
may enliven
shrunken sapling
of hope,
withered in my heart
to flourish and flower.
O murky moon…….!
TRICES OF TRANSFIXION
In the fragile frame of my mind,
from decades,
while fitting every new mirror of the face
it looks
as if
the sightless inner eyes
were bestowed with
benign brilliance,
from the reflections of the mirror,
in whose floodlight,
limitless unanimated bodies of dead ants
and black ants of disappointments and deprivation,
(which were pounded in abandoned courtyards from centuries)
get up with glitter and glaze.
thereafter
from
umpteen unknown apertures,
countless sightless
ants of aspirations
pressing their eyes wake up with a jerk.
And
move towards stench emitting corpses,
and start pushing the heavy dead bodies.
And
I being amused from the scenario,
start watering immobile emotional sapling
of jasmine, rose and florid flowers,
withered in inner gardens,
taking delirious delight from it.
But
all of a sudden
on the thoroughfares of magnificent minutes,
the onslaught of murderous moments hurled.
And the mirror gets cracked and splintered
and falls from the grasp of frame.
There prevails darkness and dusk all around.
The witches launch human hunt .
the ants and black ants
quitting carcasses at different places,
get lost in unknown apertures.
And
in the mass of my mind
the smithereens of imperfect images
of the un-matching mirror,
are pricking for centuries.
And
I am flustering and swinging on
the transfixion of trices.
OBLATION FOR SPOUSE
How long,
binding buntings on trees,
you would be watching the way of seafarer?
Your boatman,
is gone far off in the sea.
Your screams and sobs,
are not audible to him.
And
perhaps, from him
all odes of affection
crooned by you
have been obliterated.
He recalls not
your comforting confabs
and hearty hugs at dawn.
All other sailors,
skipping over the splashes of the ocean,
have returned back
and
are hobnobbing with their wives.
They say,
your hubby
would not return this year
It is not in your power
to make your cries heard overseas.
You are poor and powerless,
better be so
not to have nostalgia for him.
In fact,
he is spellbound by
the glitter and glamour
of other land than mother land
and
he has surrendered himself
before bewitching beauty
of luring ladies.
Your hovel is unfurnished
and it is devoid of coverlet too.
Your worries in winter appear interminable,
Even then,
you keep buntings purchasing
on continuous credit,
to bind them around trees,
as a token of lovelorn longing
for the return of him.
The dusk is dawned.
The birds are returning
to their roosts.
Look!
The sun also swimming on the surges of sea.
like the canoe of your consort,
is going to set.
And
it is unwise and futile
to get grieved
on hearing hiss-hiss of buntings
blown by the whiffs
of the wintry wind.
O, mad maid !
you naïve know not
that
in other land,
he is merry making
with fairy like females.
He has been enamored and infatuated
by
their formidable fascination
and
in captivation of their charms,
he has forgotten you and himself.
This year,
you will face frostily cold in your humble hovel
and
coal of coins would not burn in your hearth.
Be wise!
how long,
binding buntings around trees,
you would wistfully
be watching his ways?
THE ACCUSED
It was the day
for
appearance in the court.
The prisoner perceived,
perhaps the ruling
would be
pronounced in his favour.
The rogue rascal
and murderer headman,
of the village,
would be held culprit
and
all accusations
foisted on him,
would serve as a noose
around the neck
of headman.
But,
when the accused
appeared
before the court
all invented evidences
adduced against him
were treated true.
The cooked up case
cunningly concocted
by the police,
for financial considerations,
stood against him as fortress of injustice.
at that moment,
he cried and complained,
which went
unheeded and unheard.
And,
grey haired judge,
lowering his head,
silently signed
detention documents.
REFLECTIONS OF RUINS
Ridding on the horseback of ideal perceptions,
holding reins of cognition,
I am roving in the ruins of history.
The remains of razed structures
littered in distant and different directions,
display devastation of various epochs.
And
these collapsed and abandoned buildings,
are such a festering wound
of my mind,
which is not healing
and is still bleeding.
Many surgeons and specialists
are vouchsafing with their expert opinions
that,
I should lead a tightlipped life,
as a jackal lives in a lair,
otherwise,
this injury
would be incised with umpteen tongs
and
it would turn incisive and cancerous.
The breaths you are taking freely,
would be snatched from you
by wild wolves and hound dogs
of the land,
in such savage and ferocious fashion
that
every part of your body
would be shuddering, shivering and flustering
even after interment in the grave.
Enemies opined,
damn this desire.
Why are you concerned about them?
It is not in your power
to have these erased structures
reconstructed and restored
in original form.
Beloved bade,
“quit concerns about skeletons
of the departed ones”
Nothing lies in lamentation
of the dead.
The remains and skeletons
are an enigma of death.
And
my soft sentiments
and flowers of feelings
are anxious to be garlands
of your nimble neck.
we are living legends
and romantic roles of
the novel of life.
Let’s enjoy nectar from
flowers of blooming age,
like butterflies.
Or else,
the heydays of life
would pass
un-enjoyed and un-accomplished.
I
told them openly and aloud
that
in these eroded edifices,
and in the bones of the departed souls,
I have seen
such brilliant beams of light,
which are making
all blood stained portraits of history
transparently clear .
And,
the very same limpid lamps,
are guiding my distraught horses of sentiments,
like leading lights,
to tread on the track
directed to destination of life.
TO A TYRANT
When
you were
at the pinnacle of power
and were
reveling in ruthless rule,
then
like a mad dog
you had
wounded every individual.
Upon
perceptions of the people
you had
imposed your ideas.
Whoever had
defied your dictates,
you had
got his throat throttled
and
thrown on thoroughfare.
At that time,
you had
not thought this
that
one day
people would
cast off your cruel concepts
and set them ablaze
like
a cover of your corpse
And
the mighty mountains
of your might
would be
smashed into smithereens,
because
all dictators
are destined to die
in
a formidable fashion.
VILE WORLD
In present age,
a bray of an ass
reaches out to the seventh heaven,
but,
a scream of an anguished man
stands strangled
in his throat!
LET’S LOCATE….!
From the eyes of pen
blood tears are percolating.
Its tongue is torn into pieces.
The one piece of it
is transfixed on the cross,
the second piece of it
is entangled on the minaret of mosque
and
the third piece of it
is tangled atop the temple.
Let’s locate,
the judge and justice,
who,
in the given situation,
have gone into exile
in the wilderness…….!
TIME IS LIKE A RIVER
Time is going ahead
like a flow of river.
If it could have been reversed,
we had found our selves
5000 years back to
an enlightened age of Moen-jo-Daro
in which
luminous learning was at its apex,
civilization was at its acme
and
there were neither mortal munitions,
nor armors harmful to humanity…!
DISGUST
Even today,
the fire of worthless values,
is burning adobes of love,
is humiliating humanity
and
the world is looking at our
mustaches,
turbans
axes
and
kilashankoves
with high hatred …!
with discernible disgust !
IGNORANCE
The goats
do not know
that
their grazer
is a butcher …!
TO MOHTARMA BENAZIR BHUTTO SHAHEED-E-AWAM!
If you were alive !
You would have,
soulfully smiled,
and
floridly flushed,
on people’s sweeping success,
and
sitting smilingly on the chair,
would have held in hands,
the reigns of rule,
and
on fulfillment of promise
of food, attire and abode,
the miserable masses,
would have realized,
their long-cherished delightful dream.
If you were alive !
You would have,
broken bayoneted-guns,
and
eliminated harrowing
harassment and horror.
If you were alive !
The pounded peace,
and
confined courts,
would have found freedom,
with agile instance
of your astute authority.
If you were alive … !!
If you were alive … !!
