poem XXIII from The Stones Of The Sky by PABLO NERUDA

I am this naked
mineral:
echo of underneath:
I am happy
to have come so far,
from such an earth:
I am the last one, barely
guts, body, hands
that split off
from the mother lode
without knowing why,
without hope of staying,
resigned to this flighty human
fated to live and drop like a leaf.

Ah, this destiny
of the darkening incessancy,
of being your own-- unsculptured granite,
sheer bulk, irreducible, cold:
I was rock, dark rock
and the parting was violent,
a gash of an alien birth:
I want to go back
to that sure thing,
to home base, to the middle
of the stone mother
from which, I don't know how or when
I was torn away to be torn apart.

AHMET HASIM

POOL
Deep down, the night has massed again
My darling smiles in her wonted place
My darling who doesn't come by day
Appears at night by the pool.

The moonlight a sash for her waist
The heavens her secret veil
The stars roses in her hand.


DARKNESS
On this dark night of love
Wildly the nightingale sings again,
Has Leyla left Mejnun?
I thoght the Wild voice sang of parting pain.

On this dark night of love
I felt my grief, remembered you,
Burned like the love-lorn nightingale's sad refrain.


STAIRCASE
Slowly, slowly will you mount this stairway
--A heap of sun-tinged leaves upon your skirts-
And for a while gaze weeping at the sky...

The waters darken and your face grows pale,
Look at the scarlet air, for evening comes...

Bowed towards the earth, the roses endless glow,
Flame-like the nightingales bleed upon the boughs;
Has marble turned to bronze, do waters burn?

This is a secret tongue that fills the soul
Look at the scarlet air, for evening comes...


DAWN
Shall we return then from this dawn of love?
And shall we travel to the realms of night?
Now those who came here earlier than we
Weep for the phantom of an earlier light.

Return? How can there be a turning back?
When hearts are fallen in so sad a plight?
--It is a hand that reaches from the skies-
The darkness draws to oneness and delight.

Translated by Bernard Lewis


MUKADDIME
Don't think it's rose, or tulip,
filled with fire, don't hold it, you burn,
this rosy glass.

Fuzuli had drunk of this fire
Majnun, fallen with its elixir
into the state ofthis poem.

Those drinking from this cup buming
why, filling the night of love
with moans and mint, end to end

Filled with fire, don't hold it you burn
this rosy glass.

Translated by Murat Nemet Nejat



AHMET HASIM (1884-1933) He came to Istanbul from Baghdad and began his education at the Mekteb-i Sultani (presently the Galatasaray High School, long known for its excellence in French language education) as a boarding student. There he was introduced to the French poetry which later would influence his own work. The poems that he wrote during these years exhibit a romantic attitude and many lyrical qualities. In his later works, one can see the influence of Seyh Galip (1757-1799), in addition to that of French and Belgian poets. POETRY: Gol Saatleri (1921), Piyale (1926). OTHER WORKS: Gurabhane-i Laklakan (1928, collected newspaper articles), Bize Gore (1928, collected newspaper articles), Frankfurt Seyahatnamesi (1933, travel notes).

The Pardah Nashin by Sarojini Naidu

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)

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

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

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

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.