ناليواري شاعر محمد علي پٺاڻ جو انگريزي ۾ ترجمو ٿيل شاعري جو مڪمل مجموعو

'متفرقه سنڌي ڪتاب' فورم ۾ رضوان گل۔ طرفان آندل موضوعَ ‏25 آڪٽوبر 2011۔

  1. رضوان گل۔

    رضوان گل۔
    نئون رڪن

    ‏28 ڊسمبر 2010
    ورتل پسنديدگيون:
    ايوارڊ جون پوائينٽون:
    ناليواري شاعر محمد علي پٺاڻ جو انگريزي ۾ ترجمو ٿيل شاعري جو مڪمل مجموعو

    Fluttering Feelings

    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

    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
    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)
    1- Watt winjiai jaan
    2- Dhobi Ghat
    3- Musafatoon Yad Joon
    50 Short Stories (Published)
    1- (INSAF ) DRAMA Series From Sindh TV
    2- (Achhi Raat Karo Chand) (Drama Series ) From KTN
    3- 20 Solo plays from KTN
    • Weekly Column 1990 to 1993 in Daily Awami Awaz
    • Weekly Column in Daily Kawish, Daily Hilal-e-Pakistan
    • Daily Ibrat and Daily Sindh Sujag

    1- Sindhi Adbi Sangat
    2- Roh Rihan Adbi Sangat
    3- Latif Literary Forum
    4- Arts Council of Pakistan Larkano.
    1- Daat Publication (1978)
    2- Murk Publication (1984)
    3- Naeen Dunya Publication (From 1979)
    4- Monthly Koonj (1995)
    1. Mrs. Dr. Ashraf Abasi (Jekee Halan hekiliyon )
    2. Mr. Sobho Gianchandani (Roshani je raah mein)


    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


    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,
    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.

    H.No: 63/B
    Sachal Sarmat Twonship
    Cell: 0307-3474831


    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
    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
    New ideal statues,
    Holding in one had a hammer
    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
    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
    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
    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.

    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
    taken last puffs
    at a cigarette,
    destroyed his dreams
    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,
    third world countries,
    for keeping this condemnable custom alive,
    relentless struggle continues.
    The rights are being wrested,
    human shaped lice are living on exploitation
    with a pat on their back
    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
    flower like florid feet,
    undeterred by affliction of oozing blood,
    advance with a majestic march
    the thorny thoroughfares to troubles,
    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.



    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.
    you have progressed in invention of
    a myriad of mortal weapons
    short guns,
    T.T pistols,
    Rocket launchers
    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
    when bloom comes in life
    it brings rejuvenation
    infuses a new life
    pruned plants, burnt bushes and
    withered flowers,
    in deserts and wildness,
    like a balmy breeze of spring,
    which bestows beauty on barren land
    excudes and aura of appealing floral fragrance
    produces a state of ecstasy and trance
    in hearts.
    Granted that,
    it might be so.
    I have seen the youth
    whose blooming age
    is akin to
    a skeletal starved man
    portraying a patient
    caught and consumed
    Terminal tuberculosis.

    Voice of Peace

    On the sky
    a flock of pigeons of peace
    is flying un-frightened
    there is no trace
    of predatory hawks.

    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.

    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.


    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.
    you have progressed in invention of
    a myriad of mortal weapons
    short guns,
    T.T pistols,
    Rocket launchers
    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!


    It is presumed
    when bloom comes in life
    it brings rejuvenation
    infuses a new life
    pruned plants, burnt bushes and
    withered flowers,
    in deserts and wilderness,
    like a balmy breeze of spring,
    which bestows beauty on barren land
    excudes an aura of appealing floral fragrance
    produces a state of ecstasy and trance
    in hearts.
    Granted that,
    it might be so.
    I have seen the youth
    whose blooming age
    is akin to
    a skeletal starved man
    portraying a patient
    caught and consumed
    terminal tuberculosis.

    A LIE

    Had there been
    a root
    a lie
    a seedling of truth
    would never
    grown green…!


    In a mortar
    of misery
    it looks as if,
    instead of food grains,
    she were pestling
    persecutions of her life…!


    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.


    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…!


    a stumble,
    a slap
    a curse..!.


    A begging bowl,
    without penny,
    stood filled
    with the shadow
    of the hands
    of passers by,
    who mumbled

    “Please pardon”


    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.


    are constituted
    to uphold
    the scales of justice.

    a goblet of hemlock
    administered to Socrates,
    dealt a death-blow to justice.

    The truth
    needs not
    a stay of evidence.

    A lie
    infamy and odium
    the span of centuries
    it is greeted with stumbles and spurns
    of the feet of all
    everywhere in the world.

    On the sky
    a flock of pigeons of peace
    is flying unfrightenedly
    there is no trace
    of predatory hawks.

    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.
    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.


    A butcher
    a knife on
    a whetstone.

    An animal
    counting its
    last moments of life
    with bated breath.


    taken last puffs
    at a cigarette,
    destroyed his dreams


    Some spiders
    behind a web
    spun around room,
    are laughing loudly
    their formidable faces
    are giving an ugly look,
    like those of
    court historians,
    of yore.
    Watching with still eyes,
    I feel provoked
    my eyelids begin to shiver.
    my poise gets perturbed
    my fortitude frustrated
    so much that
    I stand up
    take match-box in my hands
    to fumigate four corners of room
    to exterminate spiders
    staring through a web.


    Begetting a baby through test tube
    a big breakthrough of man
    a progress of his progeny.

    Invention of hydrogen bombs
    a new stride of man
    annihilation of whole humanity.


    The naked sword,
    which is in your hands,
    I understand,
    would sever my head.
    the head
    that stands straight
    and above the collar of my shirt,
    will not bow.
    I know that
    umpteen invented bombs
    in the world,
    might turn mountains into smithereens,
    their heads held aloft
    could not be buckled.


    Unlike you,
    I do not want
    to affix an autumnal scene
    my face.
    inspite of
    fostering fathomless ocean of frustrations
    in my bosom,
    wallowing in a wilderness of worries,
    toe to the hair of head,
    simmering and smoldering,
    I am not wonted to weeping.
    Because blubbering
    a pointer to pessimistic perceptions
    in order to win victories,
    there must be
    a smile on the face,
    even though,
    it may be
    simply a simulation.


    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
    my eyes.


    The caravans
    ruined races
    are roaming along,
    with a caravan of ruination
    of my life.
    Heads are capped
    partly burned
    troubled principles.

    How heavy are
    the avalanches
    anguish !


    Dead souls
    do not kindle candles of cognitions.
    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…!


    Following your desertion darling,
    I land myself
    an obliterated and obscure past,
    in which
    I had experienced anguishes smilingly
    on the hope of your love,
    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
    deem myself like a solitary survived soldier
    of virulent war,
    with weary eyes,
    looks hither and thither.


    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.
    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.
    in the seething silence,
    they who are thinking,
    they who are struggling
    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
    popular enlightenment and emancipation.
    What a hunt for the pioneers of peace,
    prosperity and renaissance.


    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
    new ideal statues,
    holding in one hand a hammer
    in an other hand a chisel.
    I do not have lost a hope.
    I am not tired of a struggle…!


    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
    astonishingly ask,
    What do you search for?
    The hatchet!
    What kind of hatchet?
    That what was blunted and corrupted,
    handle was broken
    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.
    it was sold with scrap-iron to a vendor,

    a long time ago,
    in the days of your imprisonment,
    we had been left without provisions
    to extinguish inferno of hunger
    the shopkeeper had refused
    to supply victuals
    on credit.
    I become a bit berserk and hysterical
    begin blurting
    my avowed enemy has bought a shot-gun.


    When you
    look yourself into the mirror,
    you feel exaltation
    of overwhelming ego.
    when you appear before
    some mighty man,
    you suffer from
    an obsession of inferiority.
    Why it happens so?


    On the arid land
    of Ethiopia,
    the people of
    famine famished faces,
    bony bodies
    ugly appearances,
    the youth, the old
    women and men,
    boys and girls
    are excruciated
    a barbarian bite of hunger
    ( our sisters and brothers ).

    They are making muffled protests
    with suppressed cries
    are being persistently pushed
    towards the pit of poverty
    to die of hunger.
    their domesticated dogs
    ( whose real masters they are )
    caught by cupidity and avarice,
    negating all norms of humanity or fidelity
    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
    my days passed unenjoyed.
    Spell of spring too
    bade me bye-bye
    without bestowing a bit
    of mirthful moment.
    I am living
    in an autumny season
    before my eyes
    an interminably horrible haze.
    Your visit was also
    swift and flying
    a quick current of ocean
    streams back from
    centuries thirsty land
    leaving its thirst unquenched.


    Marvi’s motherland (Thar),
    suffers from
    drought and dearth.
    Marvi’s kinsfolk
    are looking to sky for the rain.
    It is not known
    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.


    Blights by birth,
    disease and accidents.
    All aspects of life
    seem to be cracked and broken
    conspiracies of fate.
    Every hope is
    hurled with stones.
    Every wish is crying
    on the crucifix.
    Bated breath,
    crippled concepts,
    open eyes
    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.
    Recommendations for care
    death throes!


    Rubicund luscious lips,
    left little open,
    like pomegranate parts.
    Big black eyes
    brimmed with romance.
    Florid face,
    reflecting a blush of enigmatic smile
    a marvallous mole chiseled on a left cheek.
    Wrists and arms,
    covered with thinly golden hairs,
    with bangs of bangles,
    singing some lasting lyrics
    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.
    the breast of fragile and old earth
    a veneered volcano of ruthless rites
    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
    of 21st century
    a marvelous myth…!


    You are
    tired of
    carrying the cross
    of your life.
    sprinkling petrol
    on my crucifix,
    with a match have ignited a ferocious fire,
    upon which
    I am warming my hands
    without any moan and groan,
    I am perceiving
    an easy approach
    to pursue my will.
    Look! You have seen only one aspect
    of life
    an other side of it
    has not been explored
    latent pigment of your imagination.
    In truth,
    tasting trauma
    an aftermath of
    your being besieged by
    your being
    miles away
    aim oriented existence.
    It is verily an unwise and futile living
    in real sense,
    leading purposeful life
    has to cast off
    the yoke
    one’s neck
    the wayward winds
    wend their ways
    undetermined destinations,
    uncharted directions.
    it is an ethos of survival
    it is a romance of life…!


    In presence of your hubby and my wife,
    our hands get dyed red
    with henna of love
    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….!


    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
    bravely bid bye-bye
    to the bar
    pursuing their pursuits
    treading on tracks
    directed to
    different distant destinations…!


    left axis of the planet,
    lights are lit
    shed luster on life
    right wing of the world
    in the grip of gloom and doom
    customary classifications
    extinguished ashes
    kept in cold storage.
    In one part of planet,
    human history
    adding lustrous leaves
    with the annals of enlightenment
    shining sun
    shafts of sheen.
    in other side,
    there are
    swarms of ants
    walking on the surface
    voracious vultures
    are landing on the earth…!


    Empty stomach,
    in hands a blank bottle
    for medicinal mixture
    a six days born baby
    pale and feeble face,
    caught in an acute cough
    clung to the chest
    the mortified mother.
    a mother
    who is
    experiencing pangs of poverty
    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
    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

    no doctor appears.
    The sun
    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…!


    Why do you
    pierce pins
    of your
    caustic comments
    in my
    sensitive heart?
    My heart
    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
    the mountain mice…!


    Some times,
    so happens
    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
    fights ferociously
    formidable foe,
    the lightening lightning
    all trees and animated things
    to ashes
    reduces standing structures
    to a rubble
    where upon
    it descends
    with thunder and wrath…!


    It becomes a great tragedy
    of man,
    he throws his torn books of shattered dreams
    into the lap of someone
    to beg bounty of solace and sympathy.
    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,
    why I should try
    to print a perplexed portrait
    of my first and last
    unattained amour
    on a crystal glass
    of your heart?


    The signals in the world
    are standing with lowered heads
    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
    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
    waiting wistfully
    for it arrival
    to leave for
    their desired destinations.


    I have climbed to
    the crest of hamalya.
    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.


    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.
    relying on earthen jar
    being undeterred by horror and terror,
    quitting cosy bridal bed sheet
    while calling out sahar sahar,
    causing fear among
    brutal beasts
    lying in ambush around Indus
    rendered affinity of adoration
    offering your self
    to strong streams of ruffled river.
    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
    wistfully waiting for a warm welcome
    is making rounds around
    a violent whirlwind.
    undulations of Indus
    are anxious to embrace
    an everlasting perfumed present
    of your beautiful body.

    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 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.
    chunking of chains rings in our minds,
    she has ceased sobbing since long
    upon my laughter
    clamped deathlike lull.
    we both are
    fastening Portraits of dead dreams
    in moth-eaten albums
    of our minds
    who bed-ridden in hospital,
    instead of
    lying asleep on bridal bed sheet,
    for taking an over dose of pills,
    was welded into wedlock.
    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
    with latent lamentation.
    whose marriage was solemnized?
    Of two corpses.
    There was stench and reek around.
    between the double bed
    even the mirrors of afflictions
    have become dimly dark.


    I shed tears,
    on the piteous plight
    mine and me like miserable-men,
    marred by merciless misery,
    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.
    floating ferries
    could kiss and touch you.


    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
    abscesses in them agonize you
    before meeting me.
    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.


    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.

    the very same civilization
    was so washed away,
    in nefarious night of negligence,
    by inundation of indifference
    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.


    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 debris of ashes
    sparks and embers
    are seen
    flying and flickering.
    overcast sky
    wetness all around


    With this legend
    the legend of tragic events,
    many marred graves of lost love,
    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
    I fell myself at this stage of life,
    Like a withered tree.
    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)
    are pricking and piercing into my heart
    like pointed pegs.
    I have never thought to yank them out
    with invisible tweezers of imagination.
    all agonizing screams are recalled,
    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
    my sixty years bachelor old age,
    would be
    left so stranded and abandoned,
    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
    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! Is there any invention of such an instrument
    could catch ruined reflection in the pupils of eyes,
    heart rending scenes,
    a series of devastating deluge,
    which washed away all dreams of desires,
    and bring them in full film

    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……….!


    Knowing it that
    we would be rendered dead
    by octopus,
    would suck even last drop
    of blood from our bodies
    we would be floated away
    in the flood of
    cruel currents of a sea of the worlds.
    we keep waging war
    with octopus continuous.
    We understand that
    many of us would sacrifice their lively lives
    in this ferociously formidable fight.
    we have not let gallantry go
    and are combating courageously.
    now we do not deem ourselves
    feeble and forlorn.
    Look there!
    our comrades,
    fighting and forwarding,
    coming to our aid from other bank
    long marching and skipping over
    the splashes of ocean.
    Lo! The blue water of the sea
    turned red with bled blood.


    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!!


    O sun of new year
    have passed whole night un-slept,
    only to see the scintilla of your sheen,
    on the hope
    it would lift centuries old layers
    of grievous gloom and frustrated feelings
    from my melancholic mind
    would grant a scintillating smile of happiness
    that would
    make my pipe dreams,
    of passing pleasant days,
    come true!!


    flower like florid feet,
    undeterred by affliction of oozing blood,
    advance with a majestic march
    the thorny thoroughfares to troubles,
    an aura of optimism
    takes birth in my mind,
    the dreamed destination is not far away…!


    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.
    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.
    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…!


    It is not necessary
    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
    swirl life-boats to sink…!


    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…!


    When you part from me,
    I feel my self forlorn
    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.
    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,
    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,
    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.
    the fearless freedom fighter,
    instead of
    surrender and submission,
    vows to fight
    all the night
    they who have strong aspirations,
    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
    evaporate on the sheen of sun,
    falling from firmament
    rose petals and florid flowers.
    you had noted a new name
    of your fresh friend
    on the state of your heart.
    The scent of your sweet name,
    as yet,
    is not erased from
    the core of my hurt heart.


    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,
    you are oblivious of it
    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,
    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
    the men in multitudes
    are receiving
    relish and amusement from it.
    The shower of shafts of sheen
    and cheerful shouts of the people
    giving birth to a mirthful moment.
    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.


    Yours love,
    for me,
    a flurry of fresh air
    blown after rain
    comforted me
    in scorching heat of hatred
    I felt beneath my feet,
    the simmering surface the earth,
    as a gentle green grass
    dipped in dew drops at dawn.
    I wish to sacrifice
    this life ten times
    for your immortal love.
    In truth
    I have explored
    actual avenue
    for my aesthetic and emotional
    expression in poetry.


    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 .


    If you allow me to talk,
    confer me with a right
    to speak the truth
    by unraveling stitches
    of my sewed lips.
    I would divulge several secrets
    before you .
    also make an announcement
    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…!


    A thought
    devoid of
    orientation to action,
    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,
    strengthen and enliven its roots,
    in such a way
    even several storms join together
    to uproot them
    meet mortifications…!


    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.


    As a proverb goes,
    “friends pinpoint merits and demerits “
    I had had no belief in this maxim
    heard much time ago.
    in the long journey of listlessly lorn life
    now a worthy way-farer has got together with me
    laid a book of my drawbacks and credits
    open out of my taciturnity
    (without hearing a word and asking an account from me)
    strengthened my conviction in the adage
    telling an irksome and sore sooth .


    The lizard
    can not
    the glass wall
    the mosquitoes
    sit on it


    The stars,
    with me,
    stand awake.


    A flower
    The moon
    Can be
    Aesthetically appreciated
    It is human countenance,
    Can captivate cognition
    to court and adore.


    Let there be
    An aura of amity
    Lacking ligature of love.

    Groaning under the grindstone
    Of grudge,
    Let there be
    A scintillating smile on lips,
    Even though
    It may be
    an affected ostentation.


    I would not rather
    kiss the lips
    fasten lipstick of avarice
    are devoid of
    lusciousness of love.


    you abandon idiom
    of the swan
    speak in
    dastardly dialect
    of cowardly crow.
    it looks to me
    as if
    the Himalaya mountain,
    had been
    the mite of mud,
    that gets
    dashed into dust
    even with
    dribbling of the drizzle.


    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.


    The land,
    which was once
    an emblem of amity
    from whose bosom,
    nobody had ever
    twisted and torn boughs
    bearing freshly florid flowers,
    trees and plants
    sing song of serenity,
    with whose
    moonlit and starry sky,
    people would delight their eyes.
    Upon that
    lovely land,
    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


    In return of
    capital crime,
    venial offence,
    hypocritical hue and a cry,
    highlighted headlines
    in the papers.
    award of
    life sentence,
    hanging on the gallows.


    green bough
    of her life,
    the time
    taken the bird of bloom to flight
    as usual
    at the doorstep of her house,
    with all embellishments,
    the onlookers
    abandoned her street to frequent.
    she does not discern
    neither buzz
    nor hover over
    the faded flowers.


    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.


    Hurt heart asked me to lie asleep
    wearing a cover of quietness,
    because whatever is happening
    whatever i have seen with sane sensation and open eyes,
    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.
    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
    hence forth
    I would not lean on a pillow for pleasure
    and I have torn off the rug of reticence
    in such appalling abattoirs,
    like inarticulate animals,
    it does not behoove well to remain reticent
    and it is derogatory to be slaughtered silently.


    O, Momal !
    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,
    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!!


    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
    would say so
    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
    my night after night
    passes nightmarish !!


    The dunes of desert are helpless
    it is not in their reach to receive rain.
    There was a twinkling ray of hope
    in the eyes
    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.
    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.


    the law enforcing executioners,
    with abuse of authority,
    trample upon
    the powerless people,
    pulsation of my perturbed heart speeds up.
    In veins blood blazes with fire.
    my being powerless,
    I ignite an oven of thoughts,
    to fight against the unjust.
    with several red rods of words,
    I mark brands on the executioners.
    The stigmas put on them
    are so ineffaceable
    they would remain
    indelibly alive
    along with their names,
    even after their death,
    the mother earth
    keeps her existence.


    It is a long journey
    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
    view wilderness all around.
    There is no shadowy tree,
    nor winsome verdure
    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
    It is a long journey
    I go all alone…………!


    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.
    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.
    in place of weeping and screams,
    my mind has explored
    innovative ideologies.


    Water of Indus flows
    like a louse takes pace
    There is neither rise nor fall in it
    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
    dismal and dejected
    a grief ridden
    convict of capital punishment
    waiting for his turn
    to go on the gallows.
    this vehement wind
    has hurled a stone
    in the death like dormant bilge water
    has aroused astonishing animation and motion
    in listless life.
    There is a sizzling sound around .
    Water is widening its wings of expansion
    There is a reverberation and roar.
    It seems that
    outwardly withered trees would get life
    by wearing green garments
    and sprouting offshoots around.
    the wind like a naughty girl,
    playfully teases trees
    embracing, rocking
    blowing its branches.


    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
    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,
    avenues be free from hindrance and haze,
    there be heard lilting lyrics
    of music and melody all around
    Let’s inaugurate such a love…………!

    O MURKY MOON…...!

    deep darkness persists
    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,
    deepened darkness of dejection
    How to follow swirls
    which had flown covers,
    from the graves of reminiscences?
    There dwells dusk alt around.
    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.
    could take shattered sheets of thoughts,
    back from twirls of tornadoes of time,
    flown from crypts of commemoration.
    I wish
    there may rise
    such a scintillating sun
    may enliven
    shrunken sapling
    of hope,
    withered in my heart
    to flourish and flower.
    O murky moon…….!


    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.
    umpteen unknown apertures,
    countless sightless
    ants of aspirations
    pressing their eyes wake up with a jerk.
    move towards stench emitting corpses,
    and start pushing the heavy dead bodies.
    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.
    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.
    in the mass of my mind
    the smithereens of imperfect images
    of the un-matching mirror,
    are pricking for centuries.
    I am flustering and swinging on
    the transfixion of trices.

    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.
    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
    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
    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.
    The sun also swimming on the surges of sea.
    like the canoe of your consort,
    is going to set.
    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
    in other land,
    he is merry making
    with fairy like females.
    He has been enamored and infatuated
    their formidable fascination
    in captivation of their charms,
    he has forgotten you and himself.
    This year,
    you will face frostily cold in your humble hovel
    coal of coins would not burn in your hearth.
    Be wise!
    how long,
    binding buntings around trees,
    you would wistfully
    be watching his ways?


    It was the day
    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
    all accusations
    foisted on him,
    would serve as a noose
    around the neck
    of headman.
    when the accused
    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.
    grey haired judge,
    lowering his head,
    silently signed
    detention documents.


    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.
    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
    I should lead a tightlipped life,
    as a jackal lives in a lair,
    this injury
    would be incised with umpteen tongs
    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
    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.
    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.
    told them openly and aloud
    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 .
    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.


    you were
    at the pinnacle of power
    and were
    reveling in ruthless rule,
    like a mad dog
    you had
    wounded every individual.
    perceptions of the people
    you had
    imposed your ideas.
    Whoever had
    defied your dictates,
    you had
    got his throat throttled
    thrown on thoroughfare.
    At that time,
    you had
    not thought this
    one day
    people would
    cast off your cruel concepts
    and set them ablaze
    a cover of your corpse
    the mighty mountains
    of your might
    would be
    smashed into smithereens,
    all dictators
    are destined to die
    a formidable fashion.


    In present age,
    a bray of an ass
    reaches out to the seventh heaven,
    a scream of an anguished man
    stands strangled
    in his throat!


    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
    the third piece of it
    is tangled atop the temple.
    Let’s locate,
    the judge and justice,
    in the given situation,
    have gone into exile
    in the wilderness…….!


    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
    there were neither mortal munitions,
    nor armors harmful to humanity…!


    Even today,
    the fire of worthless values,
    is burning adobes of love,
    is humiliating humanity
    the world is looking at our
    with high hatred …!
    with discernible disgust !


    The goats
    do not know
    their grazer
    is a butcher …!


    If you were alive !
    You would have,
    soulfully smiled,
    floridly flushed,
    on people’s sweeping success,
    sitting smilingly on the chair,
    would have held in hands,
    the reigns of rule,
    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,
    eliminated harrowing
    harassment and horror.
    If you were alive !
    The pounded peace,
    confined courts,
    would have found freedom,
    with agile instance
    of your astute authority.
    If you were alive … !!
    If you were alive … !!
  2. رحيم بخش

    رحيم بخش ايڊيٽر

    ‏23 جون 2009
    ورتل پسنديدگيون:
    ايوارڊ جون پوائينٽون:
    جواب: ناليواري شاعر محمد علي پٺاڻ جو انگريزي ۾ ترجمو ٿيل شاعري جو مڪمل مجموعو

    سائين اوهان جي مهرباني جو اوهان جناب محمد علي پٺاڻ جي شاعري متعلق ڄاڻ ڏني اگر ان جو مختصر تعارف سنڌي ۾ ڪرايو وڃي ۽ سندس شاعري پڻ سنڌي ۾ هجي ته شيئر ڪئي وڃي ته تمام بهتر ٿيندو۔
  3. جوکيو شفيق احمد

    جوکيو شفيق احمد
    نئون رڪن

    ‏11 جنوري 2010
    ورتل پسنديدگيون:
    ايوارڊ جون پوائينٽون:
    ڪاپي پيسٽ وري ڪري ملائي لکيو وڃي ته ڀلو ۽ احسان به ٿيندو۔ پڙهڻ ۾ سولائي ٿيندي۔ لکت ۾ ڊيگهه ٿيل آهي۔

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