कुछ न किसी से बोलेंगे

कुछ न किसी से बोलेंगे
तन्हाई में रो लेंगे

हम बेरहबरों का क्या
साथ किसी के हो लेंगे

ख़ुद तो हुए रुसवा लेकिन
तेरे भेद न खोलेंगे

जीवन ज़हर भरा साग़र
कब तक अमृत घोलेंगे

नींद तो क्या आयेगी "फ़राज़"
मौत आई तो सो लेंगे

---अहमद फ़राज़

A poem by Noon Meem Rashid

ज़िंदगी से डरते हो!
ज़िंदगी तो तुम भी हो ज़िंदगी तो हम भी हैं!
ज़िंदगी से डरते हो?
आदमी से डरते हो
आदमी तो तुम भी हो आदमी तो हम भी हैं
आदमी ज़बाँ भी है आदमी बयाँ भी है
उस से तुम नहीं डरते!
हर्फ़ और मअनी के रिश्ता-हा-ए-आहन से आदमी है वाबस्ता
आदमी के दामन से ज़िंदगी है वाबस्ता
उस से तुम नहीं डरते
''अन-कही'' से डरते हो
जो अभी नहीं आई उस घड़ी से डरते हो
उस घड़ी की आमद की आगही से डरते हो
पहले भी तो गुज़रे हैं
दौर ना-रसाई के ''बे-रिया'' ख़ुदाई के
फिर भी ये समझते हो हेच आरज़ू-मंदी
ये शब-ए-ज़बाँ-बंदी है रह-ए-ख़ुदा-वंदी
तुम मगर ये क्या जानो
लब अगर नहीं हिलते हाथ जाग उठते हैं
हाथ जाग उठते हैं राह का निशाँ बन कर
नूर की ज़बाँ बन कर
हाथ बोल उठते हैं सुब्ह की अज़ाँ बन कर
रौशनी से डरते हो
रौशनी तो तुम भी हो रौशनी तो हम भी हैं
रौशनी से डरते हो
शहर की फ़सीलों पर
देव का जो साया था पाक हो गया आख़िर
रात का लिबादा भी
चाक हो गया आख़िर ख़ाक हो गया आख़िर
इज़्दिहाम-ए-इंसाँ से फ़र्द की नवा आई
ज़ात की सदा आई
राह-ए-शौक़ में जैसे राह-रौ का ख़ूँ लपके
इक नया जुनूँ लपके
आदमी छलक उट्ठे
आदमी हँसे देखो शहर फिर बसे देखो
तुम अभी से डरते हो?
हाँ अभी तो तुम भी हो
हाँ अभी तो हम भी हैं
तुम अभी से डरते हो

English Translation

And you are afraid of life?
But, you too are life
We too are life

And you are afraid of humanity?
But, you too are human
We too are human

Man is word, and
Man is meaning
To the iron bond
Uniting word and meaning
Man is connected
Life itself is tied to his sleeves

Of this, being unaware, you are not afraid.

Afraid of the unsaid
Afraid of the moment that has not yet arrived
Afraid of even the awareness of the coming of that moment

We have seen the consequences
Before
Of remaining aloof
Of a seemingly guileless divinity
And yet you believe
That to desire is worthless
That this night of silenced tongues
Is the noble path to salvation

How will you know though
That if those lips don’t move
One's arms begin to stir
One's hands begin to call
As the shining lights in the night
As the voice of heavens
Like the voice from the temple at dawn

But you are afraid of Light?
Remember, you too are a light
We too are a light

What was earlier only a shadow of the prophets
It finally became holy
A new light, a new wind, a new message was in the air

As in the journey of love
The traveler’s blood soars
A new passion leaps
Man is consumed with it
And he laughs, look!
The city is reborn in love

You are alive, and so are we.
Still you are afraid?

---Noon Meem Rashid

Unadikum ( I Call on You )

I call on you
I clasp your hands
I kiss the ground under your feet
And I say: I offer my life for yours
I give you the light of my eyes
as a present
and the warmth of my heart
The tragedy I live
is but my share of your tragedies
I call on you
I clasp your hands
I was not humiliated in my homeland
Nor was I diminished
I stood up to my oppressors
orphaned, nude, and barefoot
I carried my blood in my palm
I never lowered my flags
I guarded the green grass
over my ancestor’s graves
I call on you
I clasp your hands

---Tawfiq Zayyad (1929-1994)

The Will of Life

“If, one day, a people desires to live, then fate will answer their call.

And their night will then begin to fade, and their chains break and fall.

For he who is not embraced by a passion for life will dissipate into thin air,

At least that is what all creation has told me, and what its hidden spirits declare…”

---Abu al-Qasim al-Shabi. Translated by Elliott Colla.

######################################################

If the people will to live
Providence is destined to favourably respond
And night is destined to fold
And the chains are certain to be broken

And he who has not embraced the love of life
Will evaporate in its atmosphere and disappear.

--- Abu al-Qasim al-Shabi. Translated by As’ad Abu Khalil.

I am the People

I am the people, marching, and I know my way
My struggle is my weapon, my determination my friend
I fight the nights and with my hopes’ eyes
I determine where true morning lies
I am the people, marching, and I know my way

I am the people. My hand lights life
Makes deserts green, devastates tyrants
Raising truths, banners on guns
My history becomes my lighthouse and comrade
I am the people, marching, and I know my way

No matter how many prisons they build
Mo matter how much their dogs try to betray
My day will break and my fire will destroy
Seas of dogs and prisons out of my way

I am the people and the sun is a rose in my sleeve
The day’s fire horses galloping in my blood
My children will defeat every oppressor
Who can stand in my way?

I am the people, marching, and I know my way.

---Ahmed Fouad Nigm

The Dragon

A dictator, hiding behind a nihilist's mask,
has killed and killed and killed,
pillaged and wasted,
but is afraid, he claims,
to kill a sparrow.
His smiling picture is everywhere:
in the coffeehouse, in the brothel,
in the nightclub, and the marketplace.
Satan used to be an original,
now he is just the dictator's shadow.
The dictator has banned the solar calendar,
abolished Neruda, Marquez, and Amado,
abolished the Constitution;
he's given his name to all the squares, the open spaces,
the rivers,
and all the jails in his blighted homeland.
He's burned the last soothsayer
who failed to kneel before the idol.
He's doled out death as a gift or a pledge.
His watchdogs have corrupted the land,
stolen the people's food,
raped the Muses,
raped the widows of the men who died under torture,
raped the daughters and widows of his soldiers
who lost the war,
from which, like rabbits in clover fields,
they had run away,
leaving behind corpses of workers and peasants,
writers and artists,
twenty-year-old children,
carpenters and ironsmiths,
hungry and burned under the autumn sky,
all forcibly led to slaughter,
killed by invaders, alien and homegrown.
The dictator hides his disgraced face in the mud.
Now he is having a taste of his own medicine,
and the pillars of deception have collapsed,
his picture is now underfoot,
trampled by history's worn shoes.
The deposed dictator is executed in exile,
another monster is crowned in the hapless homeland.
The hourglass restarts,
counting the breaths of the new dictator,
lurking everywhere,
in the coffeehouse, the brothel,
in the nightclub, and the marketplace.


2
From the Caribbean to China's Great Wall,
the dictator-dragon is being cloned.
When will you do it, St George?


---"The Dragon", by the Iraqi poet Abd al-Wahhab Al-Bayyati (1926-1999) was originally published in 1996. The translation appearing on this page is by Farouk Abdel Wahab, Najat Rahman, and Carolina Hotchandani. It is from the volume Iraqi Poetry Today (ISBN 095338246X) (c) 2003, edited by Saadi Simawe.

To the Tyrants of the World

You, the unfair tyrants…

You the lovers of the darkness…

You the enemies of life…

You’ve made fun of innocent people’s wounds; and your palm covered with their blood

You kept walking while you were deforming the charm of existence and growing seeds of sadness in their land

Wait, don’t let the spring, the clearness of the sky and the shine of the morning light fool you…

Because the darkness, the thunder rumble and the blowing of the wind are coming toward you from the horizon

Beware because there is a fire underneath the ash

Who grows thorns will reap wounds

You’ve taken off heads of people and the flowers of hope; and watered the cure of the sand with blood and tears until it was drunk

The blood’s river will sweep you away and you will be burned by the fiery storm.

---Aboul-Qacem Echebbi .
"To the Tyrants of the World" was recited on the streets during the protests in Tunisia, and in streets of Cairo and Alexandria.

Young Poets

Write as you will
In whatever style you like
Too much blood has run under the bridge
To go on believing
That only one road is right.

In poetry everything is permitted.

With only this condition of course,
You have to improve the blank page.

-- Nicanor Parra

(trans. by Miller Williams)

In Praise of My Sister

My sister doesn't write poems,
and it's unlikely that she'll suddenly start writing poems.
She takes after her mother, who didn't write poems,
and also her father, who likewise didn't write poems.
I feel safe beneath my sister's roof:
my sister's husband would rather die than write poems.
And, even though this is starting to sound as
repetitive as Peter Piper,
the truth is, none of my relatives write poems.

My sister's desk drawers don't hold old poems,
and her handbag doesn't hold new ones.
When my sister asks me over for lunch,
I know she doesn't want to read me her poems.
Her soups are delicious without ulterior motives.
Her coffee doesn't spill on manuscripts.

There are many families in which nobody writes poems,
but once it starts up it's hard to quarantine.
Sometimes poetry cascades down through the generations,
creating fatal whirlpools where family love may founder.

My sister has tackled oral prose with some success,
but her entire written opus consists of postcards from vacations
whose text is only the same promise every year:
when she gets back, she'll have
so much
much
much to tell.

--- Wislawa Szymborska

कर्मवीर

देख कर बाधा विविध, बहु विघ्न घबराते नहीं
रह भरोसे भाग के दुख भोग पछताते नहीं
काम कितना ही कठिन हो किन्तु उबताते नहीं
भीड़ में चंचल बने जो वीर दिखलाते नहीं
हो गये एक आन में उनके बुरे दिन भी भले
सब जगह सब काल में वे ही मिले फूले फले ।

आज करना है जिसे करते उसे हैं आज ही
सोचते कहते हैं जो कुछ कर दिखाते हैं वही
मानते जो भी हैं सुनते हैं सदा सबकी कही
जो मदद करते हैं अपनी इस जगत में आप ही
भूल कर वे दूसरों का मुँह कभी तकते नहीं
कौन ऐसा काम है वे कर जिसे सकते नहीं ।

जो कभी अपने समय को यों बिताते हैं नहीं
काम करने की जगह बातें बनाते हैं नहीं
आज कल करते हुये जो दिन गंवाते हैं नहीं
यत्न करने से कभी जो जी चुराते हैं नहीं
बात है वह कौन जो होती नहीं उनके लिये
वे नमूना आप बन जाते हैं औरों के लिये ।

व्योम को छूते हुये दुर्गम पहाड़ों के शिखर
वे घने जंगल जहां रहता है तम आठों पहर
गर्जते जल-राशि की उठती हुयी ऊँची लहर
आग की भयदायिनी फैली दिशाओं में लपट
ये कंपा सकती कभी जिसके कलेजे को नहीं
भूलकर भी वह नहीं नाकाम रहता है कहीं ।

---अयोध्या सिंह उपाध्याय ‘हरिऔध’