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Sunday, February 12, 2006 

A Livelier Iris Changes

A gaggle of geese. A murder of crows. A pride of lions. A school of fish.

What would be the appropriate collective noun for a bunch of love poems ?
Why, of course, we would call it a wallow of poems.

And in keeping with the compilation spirit of all the records companies, here is a selection : mostly old favourites, one new.

The first is frightfully mushy, but quite appropriately captures our brand of sentimentality.

The second is actually one of my favourite themes: how memory reflects what might have been than what was.

The third is a translation of this song, that has a line oft-misquoted. Ready for a cynical viewpoint based on that out-of-context quote, I was surprised to find hope and optimism in the song. The nuances of language might have been slightly mangled, at least keeps to the spirit, if not the beauty, of the original.

And finally, a ghazal. Technically correct. And with the right amount of loss and ambiguity in it. Some awkwardness with the style and the language, but nevertheless I enjoyed it. Translation in the comments section.

_________________________________________
Forlorn Hope

The joy of solving " The sound of bluebottles in a small wood" (5)
of a delicate nuance of Ghalib understood
of reading about Fink Nottle in Market Snodsbury School
of spewing bad puns and playing the flippant fool
of singing doleful laments with lots of feeling, little tune
composing silly haiku parodies about the moon
of hopelessly mushy movies where love prevails
of banal,pointless, but " From Meeee!!" mails
of lifting spirits from despondency
of saying " Hush,but you still have me"
of wiping off tears yet unshed
and listening to reproofs left unsaid
of conversations spanning days
of wandering in a rosy haze

These were the bonds I devised
to shackle your soul to me
but others offer these, I realized
with more attractive intensity.

I plead "Joy is transient, but if I lend you my sorrow
will you stay here till tomorrow?"

_______________________________________________________________

Дο Свидания

I sip the morning brew,

scan the paper with sleepy eyes.
And suddenly, think of you;
are you sharing this sunrise?

Sometimes I wonder about your life
and how you spent all these years.
Did you play new roles as mother, wife?
Did you hoard some unshed tears ?

Have you approached middle age
plump, matronly, secure and serene?
Or have you ended up in my image;
not sad or happy, not even in-between?

The future of our shared dreams
is now the separate present.
Having pledged lives, how ironic it seems
that your thoughts occupy but a moment.

l want to learn about your life,
to tell you about the roads that I took.
And compare our joys and strife,
to fill the final pages of our book.

Not illusions of buried love
or stirrings of quiescent pain;
the urge to see you now
is just a desire to know you again.

_______________________________________________________


Beyond Love’s Beckoning

Do not ask me, love, the love that once was.

In my world, your light dispelled all gloom
Beside my longing for you, the world’s strife paled
I saw in your face, Spring , in eternal bloom
I sought a world outside your eyes, but failed.

I sought a world outside your eyes, but failed;
I thought the very Fates would bow as you pass.
But it was not so; ‘twas just what my hopes entailed
Do not ask me, love, the love that once was.

Dark and terrible spells of untold ages,
in silk and satiny brocades wrap the carcasses;
of those , dusty and bloodied, earning the market’s wages;
my hapless gaze wanders: the mind, love bypasses.

Oh, but your Beauty remains.

Oh, though your beauty remains
There are sorrows beyond your love’s beckoning
Joyous release, outshining even union’s reckoning.

So,
Do not ask me, love, the love that once was.
Do not ask me, love, the love that once was.


____________________________________________________

Ghazal

Kai din se mere kalam mein, Lafzon ki kami si hai
Shiddat ke neend mein hoon, khoon ki kami si hai.

For some time now, my pen is short of words
I’m in a lethargic sleep, as though with a lack of blood.

Khat unko likh raha hoon, jo woh pehle kabhi theen
Bayabaan waqt-o-doori ki hai, raftaar dheemi si hai

I am writing to her as she once was
The gulf(wilderness, desert) is both time and space, the pace is slow

Kachcha hai dhaaga abhi is rishte ka, par kya karoon
Kheenchna chahta hoon apne paas,kuch nasamjhee si hai.

The thread of this relationship is as yet fragile
But I want to pull (you, her) close, it’s a sort of immaturity.

Unki bas dillagi hai lekin , ussi ko taraste hain
Inkaar ko ikraar samajhte hain, kuch dewangee si hai.

Granted that it is but a pastime for Her, but we crave this
We take refusal for acceptance, tis some kind of madness

Woh kehte hain ki humse dosti hain, magar kya kare
Darr hai unke hijr ka, dil main kuch bechaini si hai.

She says that we are friends, but what do we do ?
We are afraid of missing her, there is a sort of restlessness in the heart

Seenche hain sheroon ko khoon-o-ashq se “Kaafir”
Varna zindagi to teri banjar zameen si hain.

(You have) fertilized these couplets with blood and tears, "Kaafir"
Cos the rest of your life is but a barren land.

(The pic of the ghazal sucks. Lack fo patience for now, will try and make it better later).

:)

"Joy is transient, but if I lend you my sorrow
will you stay here till tomorrow?"

Lovely.

You know which I like best :-). Miss talking to you :-(.

The second poem hit a chord. Well put!

We like! Very much.

we are bowled over yet again. lovely lovely... sigh!

Where did you find it? Interesting read »

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