I am a child of love
I profess the religion of love,
Love is my religion and my faith.
My mother is love
My father is love
My prophet is love
My God is love
I am a child of love
I have come only to speak of love
- Jalaluddin Rumi
the two insomnias
Rumi – Guest House
This thirst in our souls
No sound of clapping comes from only one hand.
The thirsty man is moaning, "O delicious water!"
The water is calling, "Where is the one who will drink me?"
This thirst in our souls is the magnetism of the Water:
We are Its, and It is ours.
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Hich bâng-e kaff zadan na-âyad beh dar
az yeki dast to bi dasti degar
Teshneh mi nâlad keh "Ay âb-e govâr"
âb ham nâlad keh "Ku ân âb khvâr"
Jazb-e âbast in `atash dar jân-e mâ
mâ az ân-e U va U ham ân-e mâ
-- Mathnawi III: 4397-4399
Version by Camille and Kabir Helminski
"Rumi: Jewels of Remembrance"
Threshold Books, 1996
Persian transliteration courtesy of Yahyá Monastra
Ask us about the lion of God
This caravan is not bringing our baggage -- it has
none of the fire of our Friend.
Though the trees have all turned green, they
have caught no scent of our spring.
Your spirit may be a rosegarden, but its heart
has not been wounded by our thorn.
Your heart may be an ocean of realities, but its
boiling does not compare with that of our shore.
Although the mountains are very steady -- by
God, they do not have our steadiness.
The spirit drunk with the morning wine has not
even caught a scent of our winesickness.
Venus herself, the minstrel of heaven, has not
the capacity for our work.
Ask us about the lion of God -- every lion has
not our backbone.
Show not Shams-I Tabrizi's coin to him who
has not our fineness!
-- Ghazal (Ode) 695
Translation by William C. Chittick
"The Sufi Path of Love"
SUNY Press, Albany, 1983
Mazhub – a voice for peaceful South Asia
In 2006, I read this brilliant poem by Brijinder"Sagar (found here on Adnan's brilliant site). I had kept it with me for an adequate translation. I have been unable to do justice and therefore I will rework my draft to post here. In the meantime, this poem will be accessible to Urdu-Hindustani speakers. This poem is about bigotry and extremism in the name of religion that has overtaken India as well as other South Asian countries. Pakistan is no exception and Bangladesh is also witnessing the rise of Islamism, though not as alarming as India and Pakistan. Sri Lanka has also seen ethnic warfare, different in its manifestation but akin to the violence and death that comes in its wake. In such a charged environment, voices for peace are delightful.
SadioN ki pehchaanaiN sub bhool aayaayBaba Najmi’s little poem
Iko Tera mera payu (You and I share the same father)
Iko teri meri maan (We share the same mother)
Iko saadi janam bhon (one is our birth place)
Tu Sardar tey mein kammi kiyon? (why are you the chief and I a slave)

A poem by Sarmad
A special friend sent this poem via Facebook. I have read it again and again..hope the readers like it too
Along the road, you were my companion
Seeking the path, you were my guide
No matter to whom I spoke, it was you who answered
When Sun called Moon to Sky, it was you who shined
In the Night of aloneness, you
were my comforter
When I laughed, you were the smile on my lips
When I cried, you were the tears on my face
When I wrote, you were the verse
When I sang, you were the song
Rarely did my heart desire another lover
Then when it did, you came to me in the other.
Bulleh Shah’s admission
Bulleh-a aashiq hoyiyon Rabb da,
Hoai Malamat Lakh Tenon Kafir Kafir aakhdey,
toon aaho aaho aakh
(Bulleh Shah)
Bulleh lover of G-d, a million blames occur
Your title is apostate, answer yes, yes, so it is.
(translation by JH)
Parveen Shakir – ‘coins of my truthfulness’
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Parveen Shakir with her mentor Qasimi whom she called Ammu |
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Young Shakir at a mushaira |
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Fifteen years later Shakir remains intensely popular. Her poetry has been reinterpreted and critics who dismissed her as a poetic lightweight have realized that there was much more to Parveen's poetic vision than just henna-dyed hands |
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Parveen Shakir (1952-1994) has defined the sensibilities of several generations and beyond. At the relatively young age of 42 years, Parveen Shakir died on an empty Islamabad boulevard, as if this was an essential part of her romantic persona. But she had lived a full life where poetry and tragedy intersected each other and became inseparable from her being.
As a young student in high school, I was introduced to Shakir’s romantic poetry, which was best represented by her first collection of poetry ‘Khushbu’. I had won an essay writing competition in Urdu and a delightful award came in the form of this tender volume of poetry. Since then I have always returned to bits and pieces of Khushbu. It may not be according to the cannons of literary theory, but it is spontaneous, fresh and almost dreamlike. Shakir was bearly 24 years old when Khushbu was published and since its first edition, this book has been a best seller wherever Urdu poetry is read or appreciated.
Khushbu turned Shakir into a celebrity. Aside from mushairas, newspapers and public fora, she was ever-present on the Pakistan television, perhaps as its only saving grace during the rigid years of Zia-ul-Haq’s Martial Law. Shakir had a natural talent for public speaking, reciting poetry and just being herself. I remember one monsoon evening in Murree when we were hooked to her presentation on Pakistan’s Independence Day. There was a distinct tenderness in her voice that was in sharp contrast to the platitudes being churned out. Above all she was beautiful. I remember she would read verses from her own work and from the great masters of Urdu poetry with complete ease and immense refinement. In the short period of time that she lived as a poet, Parveen did rather well and was quite prolific. Her later collections comprised Sad Barg (marsh merrygold), Khud Kalami (conversing with one’self), Inkaar (refusal), Maah-e-Tamaam (full moon) and Kaf-e-Aaina (edge of the mirror).
Her raw romanticism runs through her poetry. For instance, yay haseen shaam apni is a love poem of rare beauty; and has always been a favourite of mine. It is composite, taut and melodic; and here is my translation.
This melting evening of ours
Where everything dissolves
The scent of your clothes
The blossoming sprouts of my dreams
A deferred vision, this is
In a little while,
A star will emerge on the horizon
To gaze at you meaningfully…!
Your heart shall then reminisce
The echo of a memory
The tale of a separation,
Of an unfinished moment
Of un-blossomed dreams, things unsaid
We ought to have met
In times, considerate
In pursuit of attainable dreams
On a different sky
On a different earth
We ought to have met
On Rumi’s birthday
Journey in yourself, journey out of self
Take simplicity as your companion
A TRIBUTE TO KAIFI AZMI
Dr. Visho Sharma has been kind enough to send me this guest post that pays tribute to a legendary poet of the subcontinent who was committed to his principles and ideology throughout his life. RR
Jo bejaan khilonon se bahel jaati haiy
Tapti saanson ki haraarat se pighul jaati haiy
Paaon jis raah mein rakhti hai phisul jaati haiy
Bunkey seemaab hur ek zurf mein dhul jaati haiy
Zindagi jihad main hay sabar kay qabu main nahin.
Jannat ek aur hay jo murd kay pahloo main naheen.
Uski azaad ravish pur bhi machalna hay tujhey
Zeest key aahni saanchey main dhulna hai tujhey
Uth meri jaan mere saath hi chalna hai tujhey.”
These verses are from the Urdu poem “Aurat” (Woman) written by the famous Urdu poet from India , Kaifi Azmi. What is remarkable is that Kaifi wrote this poem in the 1940s before the independence of India . In that era when the Indian society was very traditional and very much a man’s world, such thoughts were almost unheard of. But then Kaifi was always decades ahead of his time.
W H Auden on Partition
Ramadan came to the heart’s temple
Rumi on Eid
Ramadan came, but Bairam is with us.
The lock came, but the key is with us.
Mouth is closed. Eyes are opened.
That brilliance that the eyes see is with us.
What a fine, broad kingdom
Another fine poem by Rumi - translation followed by the original
In the world there are invisible ladders,
leading step by step to the summit of heaven.
There is a different ladder for every group,
a different heaven for every path.
Each one is ignorant of the other's condition in this wide kingdom which
has no end or beginning.
Majeed Amjad and chopped trees
In response to my article on Lahore's vanishing trees, a reader reminded me of one of my favourite poems in Urdu composed by the lesser known genius, Majeed Amjad. I am posting this poem though I am not sure if everyone will be able to read the Urdu script. I am taking a chance at translating the opening lines:
For twenty years, these trees stood at the doorstep of a singing canal
Gallant guards at the borders of swaying fields
Shady, enticing, blossoming chatnars
All were sold for a mere twenty thousand rupees
In the last stanza, after all the trees have been chopped, the poet cries
Now I stand by the singing canal and muse
In this murderous environment, only my thought sways
Adam's descendants ought to chop me, why not?
“The Blocked Road”
I wish I knew what you wanted.
You block the road and won't give me rest.
You pull my lead-rope one way, then the other.
You act cold, my darling!
Do you hear what I say?
KHUDKUSH BAMBAAR LARKAY SAY – a poem
All the precious words
all the precious words
you and I have exchanged
have found their way
into the heart of the universe
one day they'll pour on us
like whispering rain
helping us arise
from our roots again
-- Quatrain 1112
Translation by Nader Khalili
Rumi, Dancing the Flame
Cal-Earth Press, 2001
Thou art wine and I am water
Before such spirit-bestowing Beauty, how should
I not die? How should I not go mad and seize hold of Thy
chainlike tresses?
When I drink Thy wine, how should I not be
obliterated? Thou art wine and I am water, Thou art honey
and I am milk.
His Sun always shines within me
You call him a moon,
yet moonlight fades.
You call him a king,
yet kingdoms fall.
How often you say,
Wake up, you'll miss the sunrise.
But His Sun always shines within me.
How can I miss the sunrise?
-- Version by Jonathan Star and Shahram Shiva
A Garden Beyond Paradise
Bantam Books, 1992
Two new poems by Kishwar Naheed
My Nation, Listen to My Entreaty / Aey Meri Qom! Meri Binti Sun!
My country came into being through a law,
the law of the British
British – whichever line they drew
and gave it the name of two countries,
we just accepted it.
Our nation accepts every thing and every person
This nation accepted tyrants
it accepted lackeys, accepted impostors
If it did not accept,
it did not accept maulvis
it did not accept vampires and wolves,
did not accept declarations and fatwas.
O my nation
Your ancestors also had not accepted them
Your courts also had not defended them
Your flag also had not worn their amulets.
O my nation,
beware of those people
saluting them
defending them
wearing their amulets.
They hate woman,
as if they hate their own mother and their own daughter
In every shape of woman they see lust
and decorate their dreams as such
May any disaster fall upon the world,
they will not speak
May all the officers of all the country
become corrupt, drunk, venal,
they will not speak
On each and every step throats are slit,
people are bought and sold,
they will not speak.
Yes, but if any woman emerges with a banner in hand –
instantly they will speak
instantly delete her from the sphere of Islam,
from every reward of life.
O my nation!
Seek shelter from these merchants of Islam
Else in the harems of tribal leaders and landlords
our futures will be nurtured
These people will not issue fatwas against them
And when our future children
won’t be able to tell the names of their father
then even flocks of swallows will not come to their help.
A Solemn Conversation with the Taliban / Taliban se Qibla-ru Guftagu
Those who were frightened even of girls
Those even averse to knowledge,
they speak of the great Lord
He who commands of knowledge
Unrelated to His command,
they announce these declarations:
That no book be in any hand
Nor a pen between fingers
No place remain for writing a name
That women become nameless
Those who were even frightened of girls
announce in every city:
That the budding contours of a young girl
be veiled
That to the query of every heart
answer this –
There is no need
that these girls
soar like birds
There’s also no need
that these girls
head to any schools, any offices
If there be some blazing beauty, some one pious
then only within the walls
is her place
This is the Decree
This Written.
Those who were frightened even of girls
they are here, somewhere nearby –
See them, know them
Expect anything from them
in the fallen city
Keep courage, believe this
that those who were frightened even of girls
what pygmies they are
Announce in every city:
Keep courage, believe this
That those who were frightened even by girls
they are such pygmies.
Ghalib: Heart is a Mirror and Mirror a Heart
Ghalib: Heart is a Mirror and Mirror a Heart
az mihr taa bah-;zarrah dil-o-dil hai aa))inah
:tuu:tii ko shash jihat se muqaabil hai aa))inah
1) from sun to sand-grain-- heart; and heart is a mirror
2) {from / by means of} the six directions, a mirror confronts the parrot
Translation and commentary on Desertful of Roses. Parallel commentary on The South Asian Idea.
THE IMMIGRANT WOMAN
A poem by Dr. Carole Fontaine
She's surrounded by people
She can't understand,
And every signs says
"This is not your land".
She stands in line after line—
If she's legal and lucky;
She lies down on bed after bed
If she's not.
They are the women
Their countries forgot:
the nanny, the maid, the meatpacker,
the prostitute, the sweatshop woman
Starting over again,
Surviving once more.
The Immigrant Woman
mujhay koray na maaro – a poem by Neelum Basheer
Kuch tu Hawa bhi serd thi
Kuch tu Hawa bhi serd thi, kuch tha tera khayal bhi
Dil ku kushi ke saath saath, hota raha malal bhi
Baat wu aadhi raat ki, raat wu pure Chand ki
Chand bhi ain Chait ka, uss pur tera Jamal bhi
Sub se Nazer bacha ke wu, Mujh ku tha aese dekhta
Aik bar tu ruk gayi, Gardish e Mah o Saal bhi...
W.H. Auden’s poem – Partition
My friend IK has reminded me of W.H. Auden's poem “Partition,” published in 1966. These moving verses highlight the absurdity of the way the border was created sixty two years ago:
Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission,
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition
Between two peoples fanatically at odds,
With their different diets and incompatible gods.
“Time,” they had briefed him in London, “is short. It’s too late
For mutual reconciliation or rational debate:
The only solution now lies in separation.
The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter,
That the less you are seen in his company the better,
So we’ve arranged to provide you with other accommodation.
We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu,
To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you.”


