I sit and I cry,
till the tears stop falling and the ones on me are dry.
I close my eyes and fall into the soothing dark,
yet struggle with it when my senses are back.
Its the only friend I ever had, my only confidant,
yet I am scared to confess my sins anymore,
despite the closeness, we have grown too distant.
I still feed myself to you, hoping to be consumed like this,
the darkness, however, only grows even more.
What ecstasy the end would bring me!
but the road to my destruction is hard, so long.
I walk still, into the smoke, into further darkness.
As the black engulfs me with its tight arms, I finally let go.
I have reached my end, with even nothing to give me solace,
with my eyes closed, I stop breathing, and we finally become one.
Wrote this as a part of an online contest a while back, though might just share it here as well...
Ref: www.jaunted.com
An early morning, after a night which went on for too long,
As we look at our cups of coffee,
Always looking down, eyes never meeting,
Despite the morning chill.
We wait together, fingers lost in motion,
We look around, but never at each other.
I ask if you are hungry,
You look at the plum blossoms and nod absently.
Our fingers brush briefly, and tingle our senses,
But we never acknowledge the touch, and continue in our voids.
The food gets cold, the Paris chill strong,
But we never eat, just wait, wait for the time to heal.
I hear voices around, but they mean nothing to me,
But I keep hearing, hearing the unknown.
My questions remain unanswered, my feelings lost,
I wait for you to talk, to help me understand,
But you remain silent, lost in your thoughts.
Its time to leave our transit point,
But our life remains still.
We leave the coffee table alone, leaving everything intact.
We move, but do not move,
Just two souls,
Lost in our own worlds.
p.s. the image is actually London Tube, but somehow conveys the emotions expressed...
I feel the cold,
And I feel it alone,
The winter fog surrounds me, covers me almost,
Looking around into the sheet of whiteness,
I try to escape, yet she stops me,
The blankness.
It wasn't this cold yesterday,
Or the day before.
But today, I feel the chill,
Like an overdue cold long night,
Unsurprisingly violent, yet so very still.
They say its the cold outside,
Something else, I hear within,
Unwilling to accept the truth,
Continue to struggle, I continue the fight,
Seeking the elusive warmth,
I find it all gone, just the cold inside.
Alone on a deserted road, she cried that night,
As no cars drove past, and not even a bird took flight,
Already run over, over and over again,
Chances were little, of survival in sight.
She was clinging on, pushing herself on to the dark, rough gravel,
In the hope that someone will come, show mercy,
Unlike the day before, someone will help.
But that looked unlikely,
She was far from all life she had known,
Things were never so rough, she never so alone.
Lying naked, and completely forlorn,
She heard the faint noise of a grumpy motor,
Her eyes lit up, her hopes soared,
But the motor was in a hurry, for home was far.
Thump!
'Ah! Another dog on the road!', thought he,
And wistfully drove away...
Some moments forgotten, some remembered yet again,
Some words unsaid, a few desires unfulfilled,
Longing for that moment, the one frozen forever.
Thus, dreams are made...
They are not real, or so they say,
But sometimes they are as real as life itself,
Often even more,
For we chose them to be the life we want.
Oh! I behold the dead remnants of my past,
While they struggle to sway away.
I dream to keep the memories alive,
While my present insists that I give them away.
They are my dreams, the beautiful beautiful dreams of my imaginations,
But maybe its time to say goodbye,
For the beautiful new life to come my way...
The song long lost, the song never heard again,
The song which bound us together, and the song that tore us apart.
The song of agony, of pain, of death,
It is the song about love, the song of our love.
None weeps for it anymore, but the song itself,
As it flows out of the cup of our palms.
We let it all drain, as the tears in our eyes dry up,
And our love song drowns within itself, not yet dead, not even alive.
I try and look for it, but it's all gone now,
But I remember it within, afraid to sing out loud.
I look at it in my hands, and see nothing anymore there,
Its all gone away, the song of our love.
As I open my eyes, I feel the dark blood smudged vaguely over my face,
I wash it off, but the color stays.
If burns often, and often caresses me,
Sometimes wonderful like a friend, often treacherous like a fiend.
I do not wish the demons go away, they give me the strength to sustain,
Almost like the sea of joy, they wash me ashore, only to take me back within.
And I do not struggle, only wait with a dead, dull anticipation,
A lost battle, a hope long lost.
No one sees the blood on me, on my ugly wrinkled hands, in my hair, all over me,
And I continue to be invisible.
Savouring the bitterness within, and not-so-surprisingly enjoying it too,
I exist still, invisible to past, present and unknown to the future.
I hold my own hand, and guide myself,
Into the promised land, into nothingness.
Iqbal, also fondly known as Allama Iqbal especially in Pakistan, also happens to be one of my favorite Urdu poets. I wonder if that might count as an anti-national sentiment for some of my brethren. Perhaps even for some of us who think that peace is the only way forward with our neighbors.
A quick glance at his life. He was born in Sialkot, in Punjab (Punjab, Pakistan) in a very modern Kashmiri family, about eight years after the birth of Gandhi in Porbandar (Gujarat, India). Many aspects of his life are perhaps worth discussing here, but what interests me the most are his political leanings and of course his poetry.
Iqbal was always in favor of the revival of the Islamic polity and was critical of the INC for being pro-Hindus during the freedom struggle. He was the first to propagate the idea of a separate state of Pakistan (pretty much the Pakistan as it stands today) way back in 1930 at the Allahabad session of the Muslim League. In fact, Jinnah warmed up to the idea of Pakistan much later in 1940.
Iqbal also wrote the famous poem 'Saare Jahan se Accha'; something that is sung regularly in Indian schools even today. But most of his other works is generally forgotten here. My favourite Iqbal poem is the evergreen 'Khudi ko Kar Buland Itna'. Its just exceptional. The 'Junoon' version of the poem became very popular again in the 1990s in Pakistan as well as India. Most of his work is in Persian (which, unfortunately, I don't understand) and Urdu (which I can understand fairly well, if not completely).
There is no dearth of information on Iqbal on the net, and one can find most of his poems too. Its just great to read him, even if you may not completely agree with what he writes about. There are many poems on conversations with god; though largely Islamic in nature, they are still an interesting read.
Iqbal died in the year 1938 at Lahore. In Pakistan he is still often revered as the "ideological founder of the state'.
Following is a beautiful ghazal by him.
Gulzaar-e-Hast-o-Bood Na Begaana Waar Dekh!
Gulzaar-e-Hast-o-Bood Na Begaana Waar Dekh!
Hai Dekhne Ki Cheez Ise Bar Bar Dekh!
Do not look at the garden of existence like a stranger!
It is a thing worth looking at, look at it again and again.
Aaya Hai Tu Jahaan Mein Mashaal-e-Sharaar, Dekh.
Dam De Na Jaaye Hasti, Napaayedaar Dekh.
You have come into the world like a spark, beware!
Lest your short span of life may end suddenly, beware.
Maana Ke Tere Deed Ke Qabil Nahin Hain Ham.
Tu Mera Shokh Dekh Mera Intezaar Dekh.
I accept that I am not worthy of Your (God's) Sight.
You should look at my zeal, and look at my perseverance (patience).
Na Aate, Hamein Ismein Takrar Kya Thi?
Magar Waada Karte Huwe Aar Kya Thi?
If you had not come I would have had no occasion for contention?
But what reluctance in making the promise was with me?
Tumhare Payami Ne Sab Raaz Khola;
Khata Ismein Bande Ki Sarkaar Kya Thi?
Your messenger disclosed every secret
O Lord!What fault of Man in this was?
(Allusion to Quran as a source of all knowledge)
Bhari Bazm Mein Apne Aashiq Ko Tadha;
Teri Aankh Masti Mein Hoshiyaar Kya Thi?
You recognized Your Lover in the full assembly.
How alert Your eye in the middle of the ecstasy was!
Ta'mmul To Tha Unke Aane Mein, Qasid!
Magar Ye Bata Tarz-e-Inkaar Kya Thi?
True! Reluctant was he to come, O messenger!
But tell me what the manner of denial was?
Kheenche Khud ba Khud Jaanib-e-Toor, Moosa;
Kashish Teri Aye Shokh-e-Deedar Kya Thi?
Moses was effortlessly attracted to Toor!
How strong, O Zeal your attraction was!?
Kahin Zikr Rehta Hai Iqbal Tera!
Fasoon Tha Koi, Teri Guftaar Kya Thi!
Your fame continues somewhere, O Iqbal!
Some magic, not your speech it was!
It was cool and it was dark.
After a long tiring day,
It was time to enjoy the walk, the sea, the breeze.
The sea hitting dark rocks, and a lot of happiness around me.
And I was happy too, and almost content...
The wine finished slowly,
I saw the sun set and darkness set in.
The salty sea breeze, keeping me awake for a long night ahead,
I could hear stories, and I could even see some of them.
The walk to the cafe, the numerous coffees to keep myself awake,
With a pen constantly filling pages and a companion almost sleeping,
I was happy, and I was content.
Not thinking about the next day, I wished the night to just go on.
The nap in the park bench, the long walk back to where we started,
Getting lost again and again and still finding our way,
Reaching hours in advance,
And again sitting again with a sleepy companion.
I looked at her and yes I was happy,
There was nothing like being there...at that moment.
Sitting on the floor, quietly leaning against the wall,
Watching the world pass by, while I waited for the sun to finally rise.
She swayed like a princess, a swan,
on a road so filthy, you could hardly even walk.
Her anklets had a rhythm,
a music so soft, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.
There was little I could see on her face from far,
but her deep old sorrowful eyes, smudged with kohl, worn out with age.
I couldn't help but imagine the life she must've led!
No one looked her away, their attention only on the tea in her hand.
The dark brown concoction to relieve them of their stupor,
on a dark, gloomy, moisture laden Ahmedabad monsoon afternoon.
Her eyes looked away too,
or maybe it was only in my imagination.
She hurried back as the drizzle started,
I still stared at her, she never looked my way.
Her eyes looked afar,
maybe at her own past, maybe the future - the few years left
I could sense her presence, long after she had left.
The constant noise at the workshop,
adding to the music in my thoughts.
My trance broken suddenly,
by a dark, almost surreal rain.
Not something one desires, not something one aches for,
Its an infection that you get, and live with it forever...
Like a deep pond, so deep you could almost drown,
But somehow you don't.
Dense like a forest, but you don't get lost.
You are almost saved, but only almost...
It drenches you, but doesn't always soak you wet.
And its the dryness that torments you.
But you keep coming back for more, keep asking for more.
Isn't that senseless? But sense is the first thing you lose...
I was waiting yesterday in Mocha for some friends and Cheese cake (Orange Cheese cake to be precise, I wasn't given a choice)....
Wrote this wonderful piece of poetry there...
Waiting for the cheese cake now,
After the waiting for others failed.
Failed to materalise, failed to realise!
Am waiting on cold solid steel, white on the surface, dark to the core,
Unlike the failure...dark on the outside, soft on the core!
So how would this cheese cake be?
Sweet? Sure...tasty? hopefully.
Like a woman...very soft and desirable!
Unlike the 'very soft' Octopus,
And the 'very desirable' Steel.
It would hopefully be like a woman...both...
No coffee, no whisky!
But there was rum last night,
And also some floating around before it all wore off!
Sadly not much though...and not for long...
A desirable hangover...
Well, my cheese cake came (though the friends never did) before I could finish this poem. It was, at best, extremely disappointing! Looked extremely soft and absolutely desirable...pretty much like a woman, though not really!
Maybe a wonderfully cooked and beautifully garnished 'Octopus' can also look soft and desirable...so whats the difference? Women and Octopus...tentacles...but even women have them! I wonder...
