chnage final

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Anonymous Poems

My poems are anonymous, anonymous them all.

From within they come, sometimes.

Pain and separation, catalysts of creation,

Keep them fresh I must.

Catalysts of creation, pain and separation

In them alone do I trust.

Keep it alive, deep within, that pain,

And drop by drop, let it drip and stain

The life. Drop by drop, from raw laceration

Of wounded separation,

And word by word on page let it fall.

Let poetry live, at least sometimes.

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Potpourri

Look a little southward, facing the suns,                                                                                                                    When northward blaze the morning burning pyres.                                                                                                     Ghats of Kashi, all a crescent that runs                                                                                                                          Miles with majestic mirror-river that never tires.
My river’s angry today, or call it restless.
Its foaming, rolling waves make swishing sounds.
Its former flow has changed, with broken bounds,
My river stays the same, or little less, night and day.
Black is the colour of darkness they say.
Black is the colour, definitely, quite true.
Black, the colour of darkness, night and day.
Black it is black of un-fixed hue.
A curse is a curse that burns the blood and flows;                                                                                                    Liquid venom in veins: murdering, butchering, scalding, stops.                                                                              For lost is that fear – a servant attentive.
For lost is that fear above head always hovering.
So, lost is the fear of not ever returning
Heart, once hardened, its terror drained.

Nazeer Banarsi’s Poems

Banaras Kaba-e-Hindostan hai

 Muhabbat ik muquammal dastaan hai

Ab apna apna andaaze bayaan hai

Jise kehti hai duniya Kashi nagari

Wo apni hi buton ka astan hai.

 

Barabar bantti rahti hai jeevan

Ajab Ganga ke behne ka sama hai

Badi unchain se aayi hai Ganga

Bulandi mein ye dharti, asman hai.

 

Kisis se bhi nahin hai choot isko

Achooti shaan se Ganga rawan hai

Jataon se chali kab aur ab tak

Jatadhari har ek mauje rawan hai.

 

Isi ki god mein palti hain kaumein

Ye ma hai aur sab kaumon ki ma hai

Na samjho isko maujon ki rawani

Ye lehrata hua ek karvan hai.

 

Hai ik ik ghat jaise anjumistan

Jidhar dekho hujume mahvashan hai

Yahn hai sulah nakusho ajan mein

Yahan azaad nakusho ajaan hai.

 

Khada hai aise masjid ka minara

Khuda jaise buton ka pasban hai

Ise keh sakte hain hum puri duniya

Ki sare desh ka insan yahann hai.

 

Mila hai swarg se danda yahan ka

Jise kehte hain mukti, wo yahan hai

Sunata hun tumhein Ghalib ka misra

Khayal unka hai banda tarjuman hai.

Kaha hai kis aquidat se Asad ne

Banaras Kaba-e-Hindostan hai.

My Translation:

They tell the tale in their own ways,

The tale of love is complete in itself.

The city this world calls Kashi

Shelters its own idols in itself.

 

What a sight the flowing Ganga is!

Comes she from her abode high,

She gives life to all, ever, equally.

In stature here thus the earth is sky.

 

Does not shy away from any one, Ganga

Flows on with grace unreachable still.

Left she the locks back there then;

Her waves ride Shiva’s locks still.

 

Men of creeds all live in her lap,

She, the mother, is mother to all.

Think her not a mere flow of waves

She’s a caravan with its rise and fall.

 

Each ghat as if is garden of stars

Wherever go the eyes, see beauty

They both are free here, where

Temple bell lives with ajaan gladly.

 

Minarets stand tall in mosques as if,

God mine, over idols stands guard.

Peoples of world whole are here

The whole world can it be called.

 

This land has a link with heaven

What people call moksha, is here.

Quote I aloud Ghalib’s line now,

Thought’s his, I, a translator mere.

Banaras is the Kaaba of India,

Proudly roared the Lion and clear.

 

 

No, I’m not a Poet

No, I’m not a poet.                                                                                                                                             My language turns poetic                                                                                                                           when I write of Kashi.

Prose fails when emotions mingle with thoughts;                                                                         with thoughts emotions,                                                                                                                       burst open floodgates of mind-reservoir.
Ideas take shape to flow on pages.

Make pools of lines that sometimes                                                                                                reflect ideas in shape.
I know it’s madness to live in past:                                                                                                         times and places.                                                                                                                                               I know I’m mad.

I live at only one time in past                                                                                                                 that happens only at one place.
Into the present it oozes                                                                                                                 dissolves the sense of present places and times.

Day dream I would,                                                                                                                                         had I the courage to follow my heart                                                                                                         in dreams of day.

There was a time                                                                                                                                         when I, the king                                                                                                                                             sat planning tomorrows                                                                                                                   rewriting yesterdays.

And then,                                                                                                                                                            it happened: change.                                                                                                                                     Things were never the same again.

Modified from my poem published at http://www.the-criterion.com

The Criterion: An International Journal in English ISSN: 0976-8165

The Past Revisits

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The cold, wettish evening breeze, and cottony clouds over the sky, and hidden sun somewhere behind; the feel on skin, the empty time: they all are old, none unmet, new. The solitude and semblant peace, neither new, old friends new met. New is the spot where sit I now, where evening breeze caresses cold and glad my skin with memories old. Of a river, its banks, another breeze, gigantic shapes looming ochre at back.

My house extended, home to peace, Of peace in melancholy dipped and coated twice , or once at least, with slight, thin layered solitude. A time all empty, ready for all sensations, thoughts: good, bad, new, old. A sleight of hand, a trick designed to please, surprise, shock, memory plays, and wisps of olden tinges float; heralded not yet come in sight, with them at heels comes happiness of emptiness and knowledge sad that unsubstantial things of old, with time they gain in  size and force.  Old slaves new tyrants, changed in shape. Cold wettish evening breeze brings back.

 

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Snippets

DSC04060

Who lives in the present?

Who has time to turn

Pages of tomes of history?

Turning back?

Far better is to jump

Headlong into the fast flowing

Silver life-river,

Beckoning with shimmering bands,

Flowing in cold fluid veins

Glowing warm force of life-

Happiness forms the drops.

Happy flows the river.

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Sandstone, massive pillared

Buttressed sides of tall

Walls of palaces grand,

Decking the ghatscape crescent;

Arc that runs yet stays

Runs along the river; stays

Fixed forever.

Happiness fills the grains –

Waves that glow in the sun,

Glow like the river in front,

Kissed by the rising sun.

Stone carved delicately,

Fragile, glass like flow

The liquid curves

On poetry petrified.

 

 

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A Kasi Poem(?)

Bansfatak

The street-river falls from its origin

at the central plateau of Kasi:

the Gyaan Vaapi-Adi Vishweshwar Axis.

Its wetness,

and the relative emptiness,

can be attributed

to a heavy rainfall

(I’m not sure, as I was not there).

The street that appears to be ending

at some point

near the perspectival centre of the image

actually does not.

It turns and goes on

and down

to Chowk.

[It’s a plagiarized- from-prose, experimental poem]

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