Hello all, 21st March is the world poetry day. So I thought that we could use this month to know about different poetry traditions of subcontinent. in stead of engaging in usual Hindu-Muslim, India -Pakistan mud slinging. So what I propose is we take turns to post an english translation of a favorite poem of any subcontinent language along with something about the poet. As I am Bengali I will be posting mostly about Bengali poets, So others please contribute and let us celebrate subcontinent's poetry. In case of Hindi and Urdu. as most probably understand the language you can post the original, but please also post a translation for us who don't understand the language.
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The first poet I would like to introduce is Jibanananda Das. He is possibly the 3d most read poet of Bengali language after Rabindranath Tagore and Qazi Nazrul Islam. He was one of the many poets who ushered in the post-Rabindranath modern era in Bengali language. He lived in the first half of 20th journey, His poetic style is hard to express, but I will say it's one of journey and searching of the civilization as a whole and the individual as well. Below is the translation which I found in the web of his poem '8 bochhor ager ek din'.
Heard they had taken him to the morgue,
last night—in the thick of the night of spring
when the waxing crescent had set
he fancied dying.
The wife slept beside him—the child was there too
there was love, there was hope—
yet, what ghost did he see in the moonlight?
What shook him from his rest?
Or perhaps he hadn’t slept for ages—
Thus lying in the morgue he now sleeps.
Was this his coveted slumber?
Lying on his face, blood and froth
like a plagued rat with a mangled neck
in the dark dungeon now he sleeps;
Never to rise again.
“Never to rise again, never bear
the labor of staying awake
and its recurring ardor”—
And so a silence spoke, creeping up to his window
with the stealth of a camel’s nape
when the moon had died in the amazing dark.
Yet the owl stays up;
The wilted frog begs for a few moments more
sensing the warmth of another impending dawn.
I realize, in the profound unknown of the gregarious darkness
around me hangs the ruthless defiance of a mosquito net;
From the comfort of their colonies mosquitoes stay awake in the murk,
loving the gregarious stream of life.
From its weary blood perch, the housefly again flies towards the sun;
So many times have I seen the flying insects dance
in the golden ripples of sunlight.
The intimate sky—like some pervasive life dominates their hearts;
the trembling dragonfly grappled with death
at the hands of an enfant terrible;
When the moon had waned in the leading dark,
you still walked up to the holy fig with a rope in hand;
knowing only very well, lives of grasshoppers and robins—
never come to terms with that of a man.
Didn’t the holy fig branch protest?
Didn’t the fireflies hobnob with the bunch of tender golden blossoms?
Didn’t the decrepit blind owl come and say:
“Has the haggish moon been swept off by the flooding waters?
Excellent!—
Let us now catch a mouse or two!”
Didn’t the owl come and herald this tumultuous bulletin?
This taste of life—this ripe barley fragrant autumn evening
seemed unbearable to you;
With gore on your lips, lying like a battered rat,
did the morgue—the sultry morgue soothe your heart?
Yet listen to the tale of this dead;
no trace of unrequited love anywhere;
fancies of marital life did leave no dregs of regret;
Rising above the call of the hour
the wife did let him savor
the elixir of thought—and nectar;
Throes of winter did not bring
shivers of slander in his gluttonous life;
Hence in the mortuary here he lies,
lying on his back atop the table.
I know—I still know
A woman’s heart—love—child—house—is not all;
nor wealth, nor deed, nor affluence—
but some endangered wonderment
plays deep inside our inherent blood;
It exhausts us—
tires—tires us;
Inside the morgue that languor isn’t there;
So
there he lies,
lying on his back atop the table.
Yet, each night I see
from its perch on the holy fig tree
the decrepit blind owl rolls its eyes and says:
“Has the haggish moon been swept off by the flooding waters?
Excellent!—
Let us now catch a mouse or two—”
Oh, my profound foremother—excellent, even this day?
I too shall age like you one day—
I’ll sweep the old lady moon across the brackish flood waters;
And we both shall walk away emptying the life’s ample coffers
A Day Eight Years Ago
Heard they had taken him to the morgue,
last night—in the thick of the night of spring
when the waxing crescent had set
he fancied dying.
The wife slept beside him—the child was there too
there was love, there was hope—
yet, what ghost did he see in the moonlight?
What shook him from his rest?
Or perhaps he hadn’t slept for ages—
Thus lying in the morgue he now sleeps.
Was this his coveted slumber?
Lying on his face, blood and froth
like a plagued rat with a mangled neck
in the dark dungeon now he sleeps;
Never to rise again.
“Never to rise again, never bear
the labor of staying awake
and its recurring ardor”—
And so a silence spoke, creeping up to his window
with the stealth of a camel’s nape
when the moon had died in the amazing dark.
Yet the owl stays up;
The wilted frog begs for a few moments more
sensing the warmth of another impending dawn.
I realize, in the profound unknown of the gregarious darkness
around me hangs the ruthless defiance of a mosquito net;
From the comfort of their colonies mosquitoes stay awake in the murk,
loving the gregarious stream of life.
From its weary blood perch, the housefly again flies towards the sun;
So many times have I seen the flying insects dance
in the golden ripples of sunlight.
The intimate sky—like some pervasive life dominates their hearts;
the trembling dragonfly grappled with death
at the hands of an enfant terrible;
When the moon had waned in the leading dark,
you still walked up to the holy fig with a rope in hand;
knowing only very well, lives of grasshoppers and robins—
never come to terms with that of a man.
Didn’t the holy fig branch protest?
Didn’t the fireflies hobnob with the bunch of tender golden blossoms?
Didn’t the decrepit blind owl come and say:
“Has the haggish moon been swept off by the flooding waters?
Excellent!—
Let us now catch a mouse or two!”
Didn’t the owl come and herald this tumultuous bulletin?
This taste of life—this ripe barley fragrant autumn evening
seemed unbearable to you;
With gore on your lips, lying like a battered rat,
did the morgue—the sultry morgue soothe your heart?
Yet listen to the tale of this dead;
no trace of unrequited love anywhere;
fancies of marital life did leave no dregs of regret;
Rising above the call of the hour
the wife did let him savor
the elixir of thought—and nectar;
Throes of winter did not bring
shivers of slander in his gluttonous life;
Hence in the mortuary here he lies,
lying on his back atop the table.
I know—I still know
A woman’s heart—love—child—house—is not all;
nor wealth, nor deed, nor affluence—
but some endangered wonderment
plays deep inside our inherent blood;
It exhausts us—
tires—tires us;
Inside the morgue that languor isn’t there;
So
there he lies,
lying on his back atop the table.
Yet, each night I see
from its perch on the holy fig tree
the decrepit blind owl rolls its eyes and says:
“Has the haggish moon been swept off by the flooding waters?
Excellent!—
Let us now catch a mouse or two—”
Oh, my profound foremother—excellent, even this day?
I too shall age like you one day—
I’ll sweep the old lady moon across the brackish flood waters;
And we both shall walk away emptying the life’s ample coffers
It is nice to read a post which encourages many of us to learn something new. I certainly did not know anything about Jibanananda Das until this post. He seems an interesting figure and one who achieved more recognition after his death than during his life.
The poem cited itself, “A Day Eight Years Ago,” is quite bleak. Driven by the a sense of the meaningless of life, the protagonist commits suicide. The following lines speak of a life that had become unendurable:
“This taste of life—this ripe barley fragrant autumn evening
seemed unbearable to you.”
“I know—I still know
A woman’s heart—love—child—house—is not all;
nor wealth, nor deed, nor affluence—
but some endangered wonderment
plays deep inside our inherent blood;
It exhausts us—
tires—tires us”
These lines made me think of the work of the cultural anthropologist, Ernest Becker, in his book, The Denial of Death. We are unique amongst species in our self-awareness, but this comes, Becker argued, at the cost of knowing our mortality. Unlike animals, humans appear to be unique in being conscious that existence without purpose is meaningless.
Becker argued that in order to protect ourselves from the terror of death, we have created protective shields - “hero systems” - that take us as individuals beyond ourselves; systems in other words that enables us to transcend life and indeed death itself, to become part of some higher reality.
But for some, the pain of a sense of meaningless of life cannot be overcome and this is what I think when I read Das’s poem. Indeed in the poem, Das contrasts life in the animal world and in some ways the life of animals - denuded of self-consciousness - seems easier compared with the existential anxiety that comes from our self-awareness.
In his book, Becker has a quote from another poet, Omar Khayyam (1048 - 1131):
I drink not from mere joy in wine nor to scoff at faith—
no, only to forget myself for a moment, that only do
I want of intoxication, that alone.
Hey, nice to hear from a fellow fan of poetry. Please also post some of your favorite poems from subcontinent authors. In general we don't know much about the vast literary traditions of sub continent due to so many languages. It will be nice to get a taste of other language's poetry.
DeadlyVenom
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I saw this thread last night and I enjoyed the OP.
I only really have read Iqbal and some sufi poems like Bulleh Shah so it will be great to learn about others.
The translation of this is accurate but it doesn't do any justice to the rhythm or cadence of the original Punjabi. From Bulleh Shah
Waikh bandya!
Asmaanan te ud’day panchi.
waikh te sehi ki karday ne.
na o karday rizq zakheera.
na o bhookay marday ne.
kadi kissay ne pankh pakheero.
phukay marday waikhey ne.
banday hi karday rizq zakheera.
banday hi phukkay marday ne.
Translation:
See, O Humans!!
The birds flying high in the skies
Just see what they do
Neither do they hoard their food
Nor do they starving die
Has anyone ever seen
Birds dying of hunger?
It’s humans who hoard
And humans who of hunger die.
I only really have read Iqbal and some sufi poems like Bulleh Shah so it will be great to learn about others.
The translation of this is accurate but it doesn't do any justice to the rhythm or cadence of the original Punjabi. From Bulleh Shah
Waikh bandya!
Asmaanan te ud’day panchi.
waikh te sehi ki karday ne.
na o karday rizq zakheera.
na o bhookay marday ne.
kadi kissay ne pankh pakheero.
phukay marday waikhey ne.
banday hi karday rizq zakheera.
banday hi phukkay marday ne.
Translation:
See, O Humans!!
The birds flying high in the skies
Just see what they do
Neither do they hoard their food
Nor do they starving die
Has anyone ever seen
Birds dying of hunger?
It’s humans who hoard
And humans who of hunger die.
Kazi Nazrul Islam is probably Bengal's most loved poet. He was known as the 'rebel' poet for his unorthodox and fiery poetic style, yet he was equally proficient in writing devotional songs. The following is the translation of his most popular poem 'Bidrohi' or 'Rebel' from which he got his nick name.
proclaim: I raise my head high!
Before me bows down the Himalayan peaks!
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: rending through the sky,
surpassing the moon, the sun,
the planets, the stars,
piercing through the earth,
the heavens, the cosmos
and the Almighty's throne,
have I risen, the eternal wonder
of the Creator of the universe.
The furious Shiva shines on my forehead
like a royal medallion of victory!
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: My head is ever held high!
I'm ever indomitable, arrogant and cruel,
I'm the Dance-king of the Day of the Doom,
I'm the cyclone, the destruction!
I'm the great terror, I'm the curse of the world.
I'm unstoppable,
I smash everything into pieces!
I'm unruly and lawless.
I crush under my feet
all the bonds, rules and disciplines!
I don't obey any laws.
I sink cargo-laden boats I'm the torpedo,
I'm the dreadful floating mine.
I'm the destructive Dhurjati,
the sudden tempest of the summer.
I'm the Rebel, the Rebel son
of the Creator of the universe!
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: My head is ever held high!
I'm the tempest, I'm the cyclone,
I destroy everything I find in my path.
I'm the dance-loving rhythm,
I dance to my own beats.
I'm the delight of a life of freedom.
I'm Hambeer, Chhayanat, Hindol.
I move like a flash of lightning
with turns and twists.
I swing, I leap and frolic!
I do whatever my heart desires.
I embrace my enemy and wrestle with death.
I'm untamed, I'm the tempest!
I'm pestilence, dread to the earth,
I'm the terminator of all reigns of terror,
I'm ever full of burning restlessness.
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: My head is ever held high!
I'm ever uncontrollable, irrepressible.
My cup of elixir is always full.
I'm the sacrificial fire,
I'm Yamadagni, the keeper
of the sacrificial fire.
I'm the sacrifice, I'm the priest,
I'm the fire itself.
I'm creation, I'm destruction,
I'm habitation, I'm the cremation ground.
I'm the end, the end of night.
I'm the son of Indrani,
with the moon in my hand and the sun on my forehead.
In one hand I hold the bamboo flute,
in the other, a trumpet of war.
I'm Shiva's blued-hued throat
from drinking poison from the ocean of pain.
I'm Byomkesh, the Ganges flows freely
through my matted locks.
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: My head is ever held high!
I'm the ascetic, the minstrel,
I'm the prince, my royal garb embarasses
even the most ostentatious.
I'm Bedouin, I'm Chenghis,
I salute none but myself!
I'm thunder,
I'm the OM sound of Ishan's horn.
I'm the mighty call of Israfil's trumpet.
I'm Pinakapani's hourglass drum, trident,
the sceptre of the Lord of Justice.
I'm the Chakra and the Great Conch,
I'm the primordial sound of the Gong!
I'm the furious Durbasa, the disciple
of Vishwamitra.
I'm the fury of fire, to burn this earth to ashes.
I'm the ecstatic laughter, terrifying the creation.
I'm the eclipse of the twelve suns
on the Day of the Doom.
Sometimes calm, sometimes wild,
I'm the youth of new blood
I humble even the fate's pride!
I'm the violent gust of a wind storm,
the roar of the ocean.
I'm bright, effulgent.
I'm the murmur of over-flowing water,
Hindol dance of rolling waves!
I'm the unbridled hair of a maiden,
the fire in her eyes.
I'm the budding romance of a girl of sixteen
I'm the state of bliss!
I'm the madness of the recluse,
I'm the sigh of grief of a widow,
I'm the anguish of the dejected,
I'm the suffering of the homeless,
I'm the pain of the humiliated,
I'm the afflicted heart of the lovesick.
I'm the trembling passion of the first kiss,
the fleeting glance of the secret lover.
I'm the love of a restless girl,
the jingling music of her bangles!
I'm the eternal child, the eternal adolescent,
I'm the bashfulness of a village girl's budding youth.
I'm the northern breeze, the southern breeze,
the callous eastwind.
I'm the minstrel's song,
the music of his flute and lyre.
I'm the unquenched summer thirst,
the scorching rays of the sun.
I'm the softly flowing desert spring
and the green oasis!
In ecstatic joy, in madness,
I've suddenly realized myself
all the barriers have crumbled away!
I'm the rise, I'm the fall,
I'm the consciousness in the unconscious mind.
I'm the flag of triumph at the gate
of the universe
the triumph of humanity!
Like a tempest
I traverse the heaven and earth
riding Uchchaishraba and the mighty Borrak.
I'm the burning volcano in the bosom of the earth,
the wildest commotion of the subterranean ocean of fire.
I ride on lightning
and panic the world with earthquakes!
I clasp the hood of the Snake-king
and the fiery wing of the angel Gabriel.
I'm the child-divine restless and defiant.
With my teeth I tear apart
the skirt of Mother Earth!
I'm Orpheus' flute.
I calm the restless ocean
and bring lethean sleep to the fevered world
with a kiss of my melody.
I'm the flute in the hands of Shyam.
When I fly into a rage and traverse the vast sky,
the fires of Seven Hells and the hell of hells, Habia,
tremble in fear and die.
I'm the messenger of revolt
across the earth and the sky.
I'm the mighty flood.
Sometimes I bring blessings to the earth,
at other times, cause colossal damage.
I wrestle away the maidens two
from Vishnu's bosom!
I'm injustice, I'm a meteor, I'm Saturn,
I'm a blazing comet, a venomous cobra!
I'm the headless Chandi,
I'm the warlord Ranada.
Sitting amidst the fire of hell
I smile like an innocent flower!
I'm made of clay, I'm the embodiment of the Soul.
I'm imperishable, inexhaustible, immortal.
I intimidate the humans, demons and gods.
I'm ever-unconquerable.
I'm the God of gods, the supreme humanity,
traversing the heaven and earth!
I'm mad, I'm mad!
I have realized myself,
all the barriers have crumbled away!!
I'm Parashuram's merciless axe.
I'll rid the world of all the war mongers*
and bring peace.
I'm the plough on Balaram's shoulders.
I'll uproot this subjugated world
in the joy of recreating it.
Weary of battles, I, the Great Rebel,
shall rest in peace only when
the anguished cry of the oppressed
shall no longer reverberate in the sky and the air,
and the tyrant's bloody sword
will no longer rattle in battlefields.
Only then shall I, the Rebel,
rest in peace.
I'm the Rebel Bhrigu,
I'll stamp my footprints on the chest of god
sleeping away indifferently, whimsically,
while the creation is suffering.
I'm the Rebel Bhrigu,
I'll stamp my footprints
I'll tear apart the chest of the whimsical god!
I'm the eternal Rebel,
I have risen beyond this world, alone,
with my head ever held high!
The Rebel
Proclaim, Hero,proclaim: I raise my head high!
Before me bows down the Himalayan peaks!
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: rending through the sky,
surpassing the moon, the sun,
the planets, the stars,
piercing through the earth,
the heavens, the cosmos
and the Almighty's throne,
have I risen, the eternal wonder
of the Creator of the universe.
The furious Shiva shines on my forehead
like a royal medallion of victory!
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: My head is ever held high!
I'm ever indomitable, arrogant and cruel,
I'm the Dance-king of the Day of the Doom,
I'm the cyclone, the destruction!
I'm the great terror, I'm the curse of the world.
I'm unstoppable,
I smash everything into pieces!
I'm unruly and lawless.
I crush under my feet
all the bonds, rules and disciplines!
I don't obey any laws.
I sink cargo-laden boats I'm the torpedo,
I'm the dreadful floating mine.
I'm the destructive Dhurjati,
the sudden tempest of the summer.
I'm the Rebel, the Rebel son
of the Creator of the universe!
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: My head is ever held high!
I'm the tempest, I'm the cyclone,
I destroy everything I find in my path.
I'm the dance-loving rhythm,
I dance to my own beats.
I'm the delight of a life of freedom.
I'm Hambeer, Chhayanat, Hindol.
I move like a flash of lightning
with turns and twists.
I swing, I leap and frolic!
I do whatever my heart desires.
I embrace my enemy and wrestle with death.
I'm untamed, I'm the tempest!
I'm pestilence, dread to the earth,
I'm the terminator of all reigns of terror,
I'm ever full of burning restlessness.
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: My head is ever held high!
I'm ever uncontrollable, irrepressible.
My cup of elixir is always full.
I'm the sacrificial fire,
I'm Yamadagni, the keeper
of the sacrificial fire.
I'm the sacrifice, I'm the priest,
I'm the fire itself.
I'm creation, I'm destruction,
I'm habitation, I'm the cremation ground.
I'm the end, the end of night.
I'm the son of Indrani,
with the moon in my hand and the sun on my forehead.
In one hand I hold the bamboo flute,
in the other, a trumpet of war.
I'm Shiva's blued-hued throat
from drinking poison from the ocean of pain.
I'm Byomkesh, the Ganges flows freely
through my matted locks.
Proclaim, Hero,
proclaim: My head is ever held high!
I'm the ascetic, the minstrel,
I'm the prince, my royal garb embarasses
even the most ostentatious.
I'm Bedouin, I'm Chenghis,
I salute none but myself!
I'm thunder,
I'm the OM sound of Ishan's horn.
I'm the mighty call of Israfil's trumpet.
I'm Pinakapani's hourglass drum, trident,
the sceptre of the Lord of Justice.
I'm the Chakra and the Great Conch,
I'm the primordial sound of the Gong!
I'm the furious Durbasa, the disciple
of Vishwamitra.
I'm the fury of fire, to burn this earth to ashes.
I'm the ecstatic laughter, terrifying the creation.
I'm the eclipse of the twelve suns
on the Day of the Doom.
Sometimes calm, sometimes wild,
I'm the youth of new blood
I humble even the fate's pride!
I'm the violent gust of a wind storm,
the roar of the ocean.
I'm bright, effulgent.
I'm the murmur of over-flowing water,
Hindol dance of rolling waves!
I'm the unbridled hair of a maiden,
the fire in her eyes.
I'm the budding romance of a girl of sixteen
I'm the state of bliss!
I'm the madness of the recluse,
I'm the sigh of grief of a widow,
I'm the anguish of the dejected,
I'm the suffering of the homeless,
I'm the pain of the humiliated,
I'm the afflicted heart of the lovesick.
I'm the trembling passion of the first kiss,
the fleeting glance of the secret lover.
I'm the love of a restless girl,
the jingling music of her bangles!
I'm the eternal child, the eternal adolescent,
I'm the bashfulness of a village girl's budding youth.
I'm the northern breeze, the southern breeze,
the callous eastwind.
I'm the minstrel's song,
the music of his flute and lyre.
I'm the unquenched summer thirst,
the scorching rays of the sun.
I'm the softly flowing desert spring
and the green oasis!
In ecstatic joy, in madness,
I've suddenly realized myself
all the barriers have crumbled away!
I'm the rise, I'm the fall,
I'm the consciousness in the unconscious mind.
I'm the flag of triumph at the gate
of the universe
the triumph of humanity!
Like a tempest
I traverse the heaven and earth
riding Uchchaishraba and the mighty Borrak.
I'm the burning volcano in the bosom of the earth,
the wildest commotion of the subterranean ocean of fire.
I ride on lightning
and panic the world with earthquakes!
I clasp the hood of the Snake-king
and the fiery wing of the angel Gabriel.
I'm the child-divine restless and defiant.
With my teeth I tear apart
the skirt of Mother Earth!
I'm Orpheus' flute.
I calm the restless ocean
and bring lethean sleep to the fevered world
with a kiss of my melody.
I'm the flute in the hands of Shyam.
When I fly into a rage and traverse the vast sky,
the fires of Seven Hells and the hell of hells, Habia,
tremble in fear and die.
I'm the messenger of revolt
across the earth and the sky.
I'm the mighty flood.
Sometimes I bring blessings to the earth,
at other times, cause colossal damage.
I wrestle away the maidens two
from Vishnu's bosom!
I'm injustice, I'm a meteor, I'm Saturn,
I'm a blazing comet, a venomous cobra!
I'm the headless Chandi,
I'm the warlord Ranada.
Sitting amidst the fire of hell
I smile like an innocent flower!
I'm made of clay, I'm the embodiment of the Soul.
I'm imperishable, inexhaustible, immortal.
I intimidate the humans, demons and gods.
I'm ever-unconquerable.
I'm the God of gods, the supreme humanity,
traversing the heaven and earth!
I'm mad, I'm mad!
I have realized myself,
all the barriers have crumbled away!!
I'm Parashuram's merciless axe.
I'll rid the world of all the war mongers*
and bring peace.
I'm the plough on Balaram's shoulders.
I'll uproot this subjugated world
in the joy of recreating it.
Weary of battles, I, the Great Rebel,
shall rest in peace only when
the anguished cry of the oppressed
shall no longer reverberate in the sky and the air,
and the tyrant's bloody sword
will no longer rattle in battlefields.
Only then shall I, the Rebel,
rest in peace.
I'm the Rebel Bhrigu,
I'll stamp my footprints on the chest of god
sleeping away indifferently, whimsically,
while the creation is suffering.
I'm the Rebel Bhrigu,
I'll stamp my footprints
I'll tear apart the chest of the whimsical god!
I'm the eternal Rebel,
I have risen beyond this world, alone,
with my head ever held high!
Can you post some of your favorite poems of Iqbal?
Yeah, you are right, it's always challenge to find good translations, specially for poetry, as many of the intricacies often lie in the flow of the language itself.
RidiculousMan
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- Aug 6, 2023
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- 6,900
jahāñ talak bhī ye sahrā dikhā.ī detā hai
mirī tarah se akelā dikhā.ī detā hai
na itnī tez chale sar-phirī havā se kaho
shajar pe ek hī pattā dikhā.ī detā hai
ye ek abr kā TukḌā kahāñ kahāñ barse
tamām dasht hī pyāsā dikhā.ī detā hai
burā na māniye logoñ kī aib-jūī kā
unheñ to din kā bhī saayā dikhā.ī detā hai
vahīñ pahuñch ke girā.eñge bādbāñ ab to
vo duur koī jazīra dikhā.ī detā hai
vo alvidā.a kā manzar vo bhīgtī palkeñ
pas-e-ġhubār bhī kyā kyā dikhā.ī detā hai
mirī nigāh se chhup kar kahāñ rahegā koī
ki ab to sañg bhī shīsha dikhā.ī detā hai
simaT ke rah ga.e āḳhir pahāḌ se qad bhī
zamīñ se har koī ūñchā dikhā.ī detā hai
khilī hai dil meñ kisī ke badan kī dhuup 'shakeb'
har ek phuul sunahrā dikhā.ī detā hai
English:
Wherever this desert is visible,
It appears as lonely as I feel.
Do not let the restless wind blow too fast,
For only a single leaf on the tree is visible.
Wherever a cloud's fragment falls,
The entire desert appears thirsty.
Do not mind the people's faultfinding,
For even the shadow of the day is visible to them.
Now, when we reach there, we will lower the sails,
In the distance, an island appears visible.
The scene of farewell, the moist eyelashes,
Even through the dust, everything seems visible.
No one can hide from my gaze,
For now, even a stone appears like glass.
In the end, even the mountain's height seems to shrink,
From the ground, everyone seems elevated.
In my heart, the sunlight of someone’s body shines, Shakeb
Every flower appears golden.
----
A Ghazal by Shakeb Jalali
mirī tarah se akelā dikhā.ī detā hai
na itnī tez chale sar-phirī havā se kaho
shajar pe ek hī pattā dikhā.ī detā hai
ye ek abr kā TukḌā kahāñ kahāñ barse
tamām dasht hī pyāsā dikhā.ī detā hai
burā na māniye logoñ kī aib-jūī kā
unheñ to din kā bhī saayā dikhā.ī detā hai
vahīñ pahuñch ke girā.eñge bādbāñ ab to
vo duur koī jazīra dikhā.ī detā hai
vo alvidā.a kā manzar vo bhīgtī palkeñ
pas-e-ġhubār bhī kyā kyā dikhā.ī detā hai
mirī nigāh se chhup kar kahāñ rahegā koī
ki ab to sañg bhī shīsha dikhā.ī detā hai
simaT ke rah ga.e āḳhir pahāḌ se qad bhī
zamīñ se har koī ūñchā dikhā.ī detā hai
khilī hai dil meñ kisī ke badan kī dhuup 'shakeb'
har ek phuul sunahrā dikhā.ī detā hai
English:
Wherever this desert is visible,
It appears as lonely as I feel.
Do not let the restless wind blow too fast,
For only a single leaf on the tree is visible.
Wherever a cloud's fragment falls,
The entire desert appears thirsty.
Do not mind the people's faultfinding,
For even the shadow of the day is visible to them.
Now, when we reach there, we will lower the sails,
In the distance, an island appears visible.
The scene of farewell, the moist eyelashes,
Even through the dust, everything seems visible.
No one can hide from my gaze,
For now, even a stone appears like glass.
In the end, even the mountain's height seems to shrink,
From the ground, everyone seems elevated.
In my heart, the sunlight of someone’s body shines, Shakeb
Every flower appears golden.
----
A Ghazal by Shakeb Jalali
Kianig89
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We need Mirza Ghalib and Mir Taqi Meer poetry to start things
Hey man, post your favorites. We need contribution from different people
This is a translation of the poem from Bang-e-Dara written by Iqbal in which laments lack of amity between Muslims and Hindus
Consumed with grief I am, I get relief in no way
O circumambient waters of the Ganges drown me
Our land foments excessive mutual enmity
What unity ! Our closeness harbors separation
Enmity instead of sincerity is outrageous
Enmity among the same barn’s grains is outrageous
If the brotherly breeze has not entered in a garden
No pleasure can be derived from songs in that garden
Though I exceedingly love the real closeness
I am upset by the mixing of waves and the shore
The miraculous poet is like the grain from the barn
The grain has no existence if there is no barn
How can beauty unveil itself if no one is anxious for sight
Lighting of the candle is meaningless if there is no assembly
Why does the taste for speech not change to silence
Why does this brilliance not appear out from my mirror
Alas! My tongue poured its speech down
When war’s fire had burnt the garden down
Consumed with grief I am, I get relief in no way
O circumambient waters of the Ganges drown me
Our land foments excessive mutual enmity
What unity ! Our closeness harbors separation
Enmity instead of sincerity is outrageous
Enmity among the same barn’s grains is outrageous
If the brotherly breeze has not entered in a garden
No pleasure can be derived from songs in that garden
Though I exceedingly love the real closeness
I am upset by the mixing of waves and the shore
The miraculous poet is like the grain from the barn
The grain has no existence if there is no barn
How can beauty unveil itself if no one is anxious for sight
Lighting of the candle is meaningless if there is no assembly
Why does the taste for speech not change to silence
Why does this brilliance not appear out from my mirror
Alas! My tongue poured its speech down
When war’s fire had burnt the garden down
Kianig89
T20I Star
- Joined
- Oct 30, 2012
- Runs
- 31,750
Mir 's
ishq ik 'mīr' bhārī patthar hai
kab ye tujh nā-tavāñ se uThtā hai
ko.ii tum saa bhii kaash tum ko mile
mudda.aa ham ko intiqaam se hai
For Mir (1723-1810), I think of the lines that evoke existential anguish and give us all moment to pause:
kahen kya jo pooche koi ham se ‘mir’
jahan mein tum aaye the kya kar chale
What can I ever utter if someone should ask:
On earth you came and what did you do?
I also think of a more biting and humorous couplet. In classical Urdu poetry, the Shaikh normally represents a narrow-minded orthodox figure. Mir writes:
haj se koi aadmi ho to saara aalam haj hi kare
makke se aaye shaikh ji lekin vo to vohi hain khar ke khar
If pilgrimage made a man a man, the whole world would perform Haj
But Shaikh ji has just returned from Makkah and is still what he was: an ass.
***
Ghalib (1767-1869) was the great maverick who lived in a time when his world was being turned upside down. He possessed a famously sharp wit. When admonished by a man for drinking wine and told that the prayers of the wine-drinker will not be heard, Ghalib replied, that if he had wine, what does he need to pray for.
One of my favourite couplets is the following. On one hand to be human (aadmi) is a mere noun, as something that simply exists and is descended from Adam, but on the other to be ‘really’ human (insaan) is to seek to reach high ethical standards, something that requires effort to realise and is a matter of choice, action and struggle. While insaan is a noun as well in Urdu, here it takes on the connotations of a verb:
bas ki dushvar hai har kaam ka asan hona
aadmi ko bhi muyassar nahiin insaan hona
Alas, not all things in life are easy
Even man struggles to be human
(Translation taken from Ayesha Jalal)
Ghalib’s humanism also comes through with the following couplet where he indicates that a Hindu priest who has remained steadfast to his faith is worthy of a burial in an Islamic holy site:
wafadari bashrat-i-astwari asal iman hai
maray buthkhana mein to kaaba mein gharo Brahman ko
One must be constant to the end; this is the essence of the faith
The priest dies in his temple—let the Kaba be his burial-place
(Translation taken from Ralph Russell)
***
Iqbal (1877-1938) was the poet who sought to transform a sense of Muslim despair into a feeling of springtime. There was a heavy emphasis on action in his poetry. The onus was on individual Muslims to change their circumstances rather than to wait passively for fate or leaders to change. As he said one poem, the revolution of time is eternal, no one had seen yesterday or tomorrow and today was the only time that is yours. In short: seize the moment.
Iqbal’s relationship with Persian Sufism was complicated. On one hand his poetry clearly had its debts to the Sufi tradition. On the other hand, Iqbal was deeply critical of Persian influenced mysticism for ‘the spirit of Islam…aimed at the conquest of matter’ whereas mysticism too often led to a ‘flight from it’, deadening the zeal for action in this world.
In one poem addressed to the Sufi, he says:
teri nigah mein hai moajizaat ki dunya
meri nigah mein hai haadsaat ki dunya
takhiyulaat ki dunya gariib hai lekin
gariib tar hai hayaat-o-mamaat ki dunya
ajab nahiin ke badal de isse nigah teri
Bulao rahi hai tujhe mumkinaat ki dunya
Your gaze is fixed on a world of miracles
My eyes are on a world of accidents
The world of imaginations is wonderful
More wonderful still is the world of life and death
Your gaze may change the world
But the world of possibilities summons you
kahen kya jo pooche koi ham se ‘mir’
jahan mein tum aaye the kya kar chale
What can I ever utter if someone should ask:
On earth you came and what did you do?
I also think of a more biting and humorous couplet. In classical Urdu poetry, the Shaikh normally represents a narrow-minded orthodox figure. Mir writes:
haj se koi aadmi ho to saara aalam haj hi kare
makke se aaye shaikh ji lekin vo to vohi hain khar ke khar
If pilgrimage made a man a man, the whole world would perform Haj
But Shaikh ji has just returned from Makkah and is still what he was: an ass.
***
Ghalib (1767-1869) was the great maverick who lived in a time when his world was being turned upside down. He possessed a famously sharp wit. When admonished by a man for drinking wine and told that the prayers of the wine-drinker will not be heard, Ghalib replied, that if he had wine, what does he need to pray for.
One of my favourite couplets is the following. On one hand to be human (aadmi) is a mere noun, as something that simply exists and is descended from Adam, but on the other to be ‘really’ human (insaan) is to seek to reach high ethical standards, something that requires effort to realise and is a matter of choice, action and struggle. While insaan is a noun as well in Urdu, here it takes on the connotations of a verb:
bas ki dushvar hai har kaam ka asan hona
aadmi ko bhi muyassar nahiin insaan hona
Alas, not all things in life are easy
Even man struggles to be human
(Translation taken from Ayesha Jalal)
Ghalib’s humanism also comes through with the following couplet where he indicates that a Hindu priest who has remained steadfast to his faith is worthy of a burial in an Islamic holy site:
wafadari bashrat-i-astwari asal iman hai
maray buthkhana mein to kaaba mein gharo Brahman ko
One must be constant to the end; this is the essence of the faith
The priest dies in his temple—let the Kaba be his burial-place
(Translation taken from Ralph Russell)
***
Iqbal (1877-1938) was the poet who sought to transform a sense of Muslim despair into a feeling of springtime. There was a heavy emphasis on action in his poetry. The onus was on individual Muslims to change their circumstances rather than to wait passively for fate or leaders to change. As he said one poem, the revolution of time is eternal, no one had seen yesterday or tomorrow and today was the only time that is yours. In short: seize the moment.
Iqbal’s relationship with Persian Sufism was complicated. On one hand his poetry clearly had its debts to the Sufi tradition. On the other hand, Iqbal was deeply critical of Persian influenced mysticism for ‘the spirit of Islam…aimed at the conquest of matter’ whereas mysticism too often led to a ‘flight from it’, deadening the zeal for action in this world.
In one poem addressed to the Sufi, he says:
teri nigah mein hai moajizaat ki dunya
meri nigah mein hai haadsaat ki dunya
takhiyulaat ki dunya gariib hai lekin
gariib tar hai hayaat-o-mamaat ki dunya
ajab nahiin ke badal de isse nigah teri
Bulao rahi hai tujhe mumkinaat ki dunya
Your gaze is fixed on a world of miracles
My eyes are on a world of accidents
The world of imaginations is wonderful
More wonderful still is the world of life and death
Your gaze may change the world
But the world of possibilities summons you
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