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 : email@example.com firstname.lastname@example.org 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published 1- Akyoon Aala Chand (1988) 2- Aashora Aahin (1995) 3- Aghya Ojaga ( 2000) 4- Bhago Aaras Aakhsyun (2001) UNPUBLISHED THREE NOVELS. 1- Watt winjiai jaan 2- Dhobi Ghat 3- Musafatoon Yad Joon 50 Short Stories (Published) DRAMAS 1- (INSAF ) DRAMA Series From Sindh TV 2- (Achhi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 … !!