La Standard Oil Co

When the drill bored down toward the stony fissures
and plunged its implacable intestine
into the subterranean estates,
and dead years, eyes of the ages,
imprisoned plants’ roots
and scaly systems
became strata of water,
fire shot up through the tubes
transformed into cold liquid,
in the customs house of the heights,
issuing from its world of sinister depth,
it encountered a pale engineer
and a title deed.

However entangled the petroleum’s arteries may be,
however the layers may change their silent site
and move their sovereignty amid the earth’s bowels,
when the fountain gushes its paraffin foliage,
Standard Oil arrived beforehand
with its checks and it guns,
with its governments and its prisoners.

Their obese emperors from New York
are suave smiling assassins
who buy silk, nylon, cigars
petty tyrants and dictators.

They buy countries, people, seas, police, county councils,
distant regions where the poor hoard their corn
like misers their gold:
Standard Oil awakens them,
clothes them in uniforms, designates
which brother is the enemy.
the Paraguayan fights its war,
and the Bolivian wastes away
in the jungle with its machine gun.

A President assassinated for a drop of petroleum,
a million-acre mortgage,
a swift execution on a morning mortal with light, petrified,
a new prison camp for subversives,
in Patagonia, a betrayal, scattered shots
beneath a petroliferous moon,
a subtle change of ministers
in the capital, a whisper
like an oil tide,
and zap, you’ll see
how Standard Oil’s letters shine above the clouds,
above the seas, in your home,
illuminating their dominions.

--- by Pablo Neruda, Canto General, 1940 and Translated by Jack Schmitt

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

---Maya Angelou

एक बूँद

ज्यों निकल कर बादलों की गोद से
थी अभी एक बूँद कुछ आगे बढ़ी
सोचने फिर-फिर यही जी में लगी,
आह ! क्यों घर छोड़कर मैं यों बढ़ी ?

देव मेरे भाग्य में क्या है बढ़ा,
मैं बचूँगी या मिलूँगी धूल में ?
या जलूँगी फिर अंगारे पर किसी,
चू पडूँगी या कमल के फूल में ?

बह गयी उस काल एक ऐसी हवा
वह समुन्दर ओर आई अनमनी
एक सुन्दर सीप का मुँह था खुला
वह उसी में जा पड़ी मोती बनी ।

लोग यों ही हैं झिझकते, सोचते
जबकि उनको छोड़ना पड़ता है घर
किन्तु घर का छोड़ना अक्सर उन्हें
बूँद लौं कुछ और ही देता है कर ।

---अयोध्या सिंह उपाध्याय ‘हरिऔध’

कभी मोम बन के पिघल गया

कभी मोम बन के पिघल गया कभी गिरते गिरते सँभल गया
वो बन के लम्हा गुरेज़ का मेरे पास से निकल गया

उसे रोकता भी तो किस तरह के वो शख़्स इतना अजीब था
कभी तड़प उठा मेरी आह से कभी अश्क़ से न पिघल सका

सरे-राह मिला वो अगर कभी तो नज़र चुरा के गुज़र गया
वो उतर गया मेरी आँख से मेरे दिल से क्यूँ न उतर सका

वो चला गया जहाँ छोड़ के मैं वहाँ से फिर न पलट सका
वो सँभल गया था 'फ़राज़' मगर मैं बिखर के न सिमट सका

---अहमद फ़राज़ 

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.