Her life is a revolving dream
Of languid and sequestered ease;
Her girdles and her fillets gleam
Like changing fires on sunset seas;
Her raiment is like morning mist,
Shot opal, gold and amethyst.
From thieving light of eyes impure,
From coveting sun or wind's caress,
Her days are guarded and secure
Behind her carven lattices,
Like jewels in a turbaned crest,
Like secrets in a lover's breast.
But though no hand unsanctioned dares
Unveil the mysteries of her grace,
Time lifts the curtain unawares,
And Sorrow looks into her face . . .
Who shall prevent the subtle years,
Or shield a woman's eyes from tears?
~Sarojini Naidu(1879 - 1949)
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
कभी किसी को मुकम्मल जहां नहीं मिलता
कहीं ज़मीन तो कहीं आसमान नहीं मिलता
जिसे भी देखिये वो अपने आप में गुम है
जुबां मिली है मगर हम_जुबां नहीं मिलता
बुझा सका है भला कौन वक़्त के शोले
ये ऎसी आग है जिसमें धुंआ नहीं मिलता
तेरे जहां में ऐसा नहीं के प्यार न हो
जहां उम्मीद हो इसकी वहाँ नहीं मिलता
~निदा फाज़ली
Kabhii kisii ko mukammal jahaaN nahiin milataa
kahiin zamiin to kahiin aasmaaN nahiin milataa
Jise bhii dekhiye vo apane aap mein gum hai
zubaaN milii hai magar ham_zubaaN nahiin milataa
Bujhaa sakaa hai bhalaa kaun vaqt ke shole
ye aisii aag hai jis mein dhuaaN nahiin milataa
Tere jahaan mein aisaa nahiin ke pyaar na ho
jahaaN ummiid ho is kii vahaaN nahiin milataa.
English translation: Kabhi Kissi Ko Mukammal JahaN Nahiin Milataa
No one ever gets a perfect world
Sometimes the earth is missing and sometimes the sky.
Each one seems to be lost in oneself
One has the tongue but no one to understand the words
Who has been able to douse the flames of time!
This is the kind of fire that emits no smoke
It is not that your world is devoid of love
Just that, it is not found where one hopes it will be.
~Nida Fazli
Translated by Mohammad Ahsaan/ Abha Iyengar, May 25th 2009
कहीं ज़मीन तो कहीं आसमान नहीं मिलता
जिसे भी देखिये वो अपने आप में गुम है
जुबां मिली है मगर हम_जुबां नहीं मिलता
बुझा सका है भला कौन वक़्त के शोले
ये ऎसी आग है जिसमें धुंआ नहीं मिलता
तेरे जहां में ऐसा नहीं के प्यार न हो
जहां उम्मीद हो इसकी वहाँ नहीं मिलता
~निदा फाज़ली
Kabhii kisii ko mukammal jahaaN nahiin milataa
kahiin zamiin to kahiin aasmaaN nahiin milataa
Jise bhii dekhiye vo apane aap mein gum hai
zubaaN milii hai magar ham_zubaaN nahiin milataa
Bujhaa sakaa hai bhalaa kaun vaqt ke shole
ye aisii aag hai jis mein dhuaaN nahiin milataa
Tere jahaan mein aisaa nahiin ke pyaar na ho
jahaaN ummiid ho is kii vahaaN nahiin milataa.
English translation: Kabhi Kissi Ko Mukammal JahaN Nahiin Milataa
No one ever gets a perfect world
Sometimes the earth is missing and sometimes the sky.
Each one seems to be lost in oneself
One has the tongue but no one to understand the words
Who has been able to douse the flames of time!
This is the kind of fire that emits no smoke
It is not that your world is devoid of love
Just that, it is not found where one hopes it will be.
~Nida Fazli
Translated by Mohammad Ahsaan/ Abha Iyengar, May 25th 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
कभी किसी को मुकम्मल जहां नहीं मिलता ~निदा फाज़ली (3) with English translation Share
कभी किसी को मुकम्मल जहां नहीं मिलता
कहीं ज़मीन तो कहीं आसमान नहीं मिलता
जिसे भी देखिये वो अपने आप में गुम है
जुबां मिली है मगर हम_जुबां नहीं मिलता
बुझा सका है भला कौन वक़्त के शोले
ये ऎसी आग है जिसमें धुंआ नहीं मिलता
तेरे जहां में ऐसा नहीं के प्यार न हो
जहां उम्मीद हो इसकी वहाँ नहीं मिलता
~निदा फाज़ली
Kabhii kisii ko mukammal jahaaN nahiin milataa
kahiin zamiin to kahiin aasmaaN nahiin milataa
Jise bhii dekhiye vo apane aap mein gum hai
zubaaN milii hai magar ham_zubaaN nahiin milataa
Bujhaa sakaa hai bhalaa kaun vaqt ke shole
ye aisii aag hai jis mein dhuaaN nahiin milataa
Tere jahaan mein aisaa nahiin ke pyaar na ho
jahaaN ummiid ho is kii vahaaN nahiin milataa.
English translation: No one ever gets a perfect world
No one ever gets a perfect world
Sometimes the earth is missing and sometimes the sky.
Each one seems to be lost in oneself
One has the tongue but no one to understand the words
Who has been able to douse the flames of time!
This is the kind of fire that emits no smoke
It is not that your world is devoid of love
Just that, it is not found where one hopes it will be.
~Nida Fazli
Translated by Mohammad Ahsaan/ Abha Iyengar, May 25th 2009
कहीं ज़मीन तो कहीं आसमान नहीं मिलता
जिसे भी देखिये वो अपने आप में गुम है
जुबां मिली है मगर हम_जुबां नहीं मिलता
बुझा सका है भला कौन वक़्त के शोले
ये ऎसी आग है जिसमें धुंआ नहीं मिलता
तेरे जहां में ऐसा नहीं के प्यार न हो
जहां उम्मीद हो इसकी वहाँ नहीं मिलता
~निदा फाज़ली
Kabhii kisii ko mukammal jahaaN nahiin milataa
kahiin zamiin to kahiin aasmaaN nahiin milataa
Jise bhii dekhiye vo apane aap mein gum hai
zubaaN milii hai magar ham_zubaaN nahiin milataa
Bujhaa sakaa hai bhalaa kaun vaqt ke shole
ye aisii aag hai jis mein dhuaaN nahiin milataa
Tere jahaan mein aisaa nahiin ke pyaar na ho
jahaaN ummiid ho is kii vahaaN nahiin milataa.
English translation: No one ever gets a perfect world
No one ever gets a perfect world
Sometimes the earth is missing and sometimes the sky.
Each one seems to be lost in oneself
One has the tongue but no one to understand the words
Who has been able to douse the flames of time!
This is the kind of fire that emits no smoke
It is not that your world is devoid of love
Just that, it is not found where one hopes it will be.
~Nida Fazli
Translated by Mohammad Ahsaan/ Abha Iyengar, May 25th 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Say Something about Child’s Play by Chris Abani
The soldier asks the boy: Choose which
do I cleave? Your right arm or left?
The boy, ten, maybe nine, says: Neither,
or when I play, like a bird with a broken wing
I will smudge the line of the hopscotch
square, let the darkness in.
The soldier asks again: Choose which
do I cleave? Your right leg or left?
Older in this moment than his dead father, the boy
says: Neither, or when I dance the spirit dance,
I will stumble, kick sand in the face of light.
This boy says: Take my right eye,
it has seen too much, but leave me the left,
I will need it to see God.
From Hands Washing Water
do I cleave? Your right arm or left?
The boy, ten, maybe nine, says: Neither,
or when I play, like a bird with a broken wing
I will smudge the line of the hopscotch
square, let the darkness in.
The soldier asks again: Choose which
do I cleave? Your right leg or left?
Older in this moment than his dead father, the boy
says: Neither, or when I dance the spirit dance,
I will stumble, kick sand in the face of light.
This boy says: Take my right eye,
it has seen too much, but leave me the left,
I will need it to see God.
From Hands Washing Water
Slow Dance by Matthew Dickman
Slow Dance
by Matthew Dickman
More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dining room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about
how all the stars in the sky are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained
Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-chord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like
children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a sheer white dress
covered in a million beads
slinks toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scraping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutan slow dance.
by Matthew Dickman
More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance
between the couch and dining room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around
because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.
A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.
Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about
how all the stars in the sky are dead. The my body
is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained
Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-chord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.
I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like
children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.
Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,
and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.
The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.
When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink. There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard. When the stranger wearing a sheer white dress
covered in a million beads
slinks toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove
in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scraping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutan slow dance.
Prayer by Rebecca Wee
I love you so I swear I do adore you
Tristan Tzara
From the wreck and tangle of the past moon the past
moment every minute since this thirst began,
I lean
I stumble toward you hoping
you’ve not turned away yet
hoping there might be something here
to hold your falling eyes, tack your feet
to the floor
If I could escape my head
for one day
and come to you as tongue, as open mouth proud
hunger and thighs, as fingernail and footsole
lapis and emerald
If I could come to you
without my voice pulling words
around the sound
but just carry you with me
to the water
and walk our bodies in until our mouths are under-
neath us and making Os, marking us
with sucking, octopus and leech
If I could I would leave
the flimsy skin of my intellect on the sand
like a towel, a blouse, to change shape and texture
into wind
From Uncertain Grace
Tristan Tzara
From the wreck and tangle of the past moon the past
moment every minute since this thirst began,
I lean
I stumble toward you hoping
you’ve not turned away yet
hoping there might be something here
to hold your falling eyes, tack your feet
to the floor
If I could escape my head
for one day
and come to you as tongue, as open mouth proud
hunger and thighs, as fingernail and footsole
lapis and emerald
If I could come to you
without my voice pulling words
around the sound
but just carry you with me
to the water
and walk our bodies in until our mouths are under-
neath us and making Os, marking us
with sucking, octopus and leech
If I could I would leave
the flimsy skin of my intellect on the sand
like a towel, a blouse, to change shape and texture
into wind
From Uncertain Grace
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Salmon by Kim Addonizio
In this shallow creek
they flop and writhe forward as the dead
float back toward them. Oh, I know
what I should say: fierce burning in the body
as her eggs burst free, milky cloud
of sperm as he quickens them. I should stand
on the bridge with my camera,
frame the white froth of rapids where one
arcs up for an instant in its final grace.
But I have to go down among
the rocks the glacier left
and squat at the edge of the water
where a stinking pile of them lies,
where one crow balances and sinks
its beak into a gelid eye.
I have to study the small holes
gouged into their skin, their useless gills,
their gowns of black flies. I can't
make them sing. I want to,
but all they do is open
their mouths a little wider
so the water pours in
until I feel like I'm drowning.
On the bridge the tour bus waits
and someone waves, and calls down
It's time, and the current keeps lifting
dirt from the bottom to cover the eggs.
(C)Kim Addonizio
they flop and writhe forward as the dead
float back toward them. Oh, I know
what I should say: fierce burning in the body
as her eggs burst free, milky cloud
of sperm as he quickens them. I should stand
on the bridge with my camera,
frame the white froth of rapids where one
arcs up for an instant in its final grace.
But I have to go down among
the rocks the glacier left
and squat at the edge of the water
where a stinking pile of them lies,
where one crow balances and sinks
its beak into a gelid eye.
I have to study the small holes
gouged into their skin, their useless gills,
their gowns of black flies. I can't
make them sing. I want to,
but all they do is open
their mouths a little wider
so the water pours in
until I feel like I'm drowning.
On the bridge the tour bus waits
and someone waves, and calls down
It's time, and the current keeps lifting
dirt from the bottom to cover the eggs.
(C)Kim Addonizio
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Home is so Sad by Philip Larkin
Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft
And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
From Collected Poems by Philip Larkin. Copyright © 1988, 2003 by the Estate of Philip Larkin. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. All rights reserved.
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft
And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the piano stool. That vase.
From Collected Poems by Philip Larkin. Copyright © 1988, 2003 by the Estate of Philip Larkin. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux. All rights reserved.
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