A Stranger In The City Of Spell
In the dusty mirrors of centuries,
Who are these murky shadowed people?
Someone should resolve,
To me what the reality of Time is,
And what is the reality of Death,
What is the existence of colours and sounds?
What is this grief,
And remembrance of the departed ones?
In the dusty mirrors of centuries
Who are these murky shadowed people?
What is this lobbing echoing jingle
Of infinity in the rimless dome?
If edging boundary of the desert is actuality,
What is a mirage of the middle of wilderness?
If these reveries are life,
What is reflection of the city of dream
Visible day and night
On the undulating waves of blood?
What is the rite of lands that forms
Isles of intimacy?
What is the anguish of compromise
On separation of hearts?
What is pacification beneath the waters
Of the dominant seerness of ego?
On the stairs of altering moments
What is deference of the earlier vows?
What the honey
Of being deceitful in truthfulness?
What is an argument what a justification is?
What is the mystery of desire to die down,
In pretext to be in the world?
Why is there a chaos what schematic order is?
Non-existent co-relates
To the encasing arms of existent, then
What is ascending and descending of the sun?
In longings for lamentation of yesterday,
What is the rash impatience
Of drumsticks in each channel
Of blood in delight of the new days?
Am I the ballet of blazing flame
Of belief and disbelief, passing tossing through
Millennium to millennium?
In this mysterious journey of strangeness,
In Relativities and fading away Realities,
Am I a silhouette of the crestfallen generations?
Written by:
Dr. Swarwar Kamran
Translated by:
Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Curiosity Thy Name Is Ugliness
Those days,
The words and paths accompanied me.
Those days,
The words and insomnia were my companions.
How long and whereto
The carnal body goes along.
I am the every feature of mountains,
Oceans and wilderness.
My breath is the dew resting on leaves,
And Lo! Winds are busy
In wiping out my glistening foot-prints.
Look at my eyes,
They contain silence,
Of hundreds of extinguished grates
Once glaring bold.
I roamed bearing an inferno
In my breaths and thoughts,
Hauling my beacon of desire
Coated with blood.
I made my eyes still in familiarity
Of sleepless solitude amid ruins.
I shouted timely or untimely,
Town to town in front of every door,
In the eve or morn like blazing winds.
All said, "Who are you? "
I responded, "I am a desire,
Abyss of lust is my abode,
I am despised of light and truth."
"Is there anyone whose door unbolts for me? "
I yelled aloud.
Then an offspring of light
Responded with total anguish
"Come! See me! I am the one whom you long for."
But I ever unheeded to my thoughts
My apprehensions every time
Looked through the window in front,
There stood a Geraldine with hair,
Loose mangled, blood layered,
And she gazed at everything of the world.
Thus truth revealed,
"Curiosity thy name is ugliness."
The essence of our journey is that here
Is nothing except futile sweat
We all are imprisoned
Of the boundary-lines drawn by us,
And each of us is encaged
Of the rim he has drawn himself.
Life went on in the same mode,
The cruelty of explanation
And interpretation of word
Remained in vogue in the same way,
Cruelty of the word,
Oppression of the path remained constant,
And even today I am a captive
Of my own thoughts extended all-around,
Even today,
Words and paths accompany me.
Words and insomnia are my companions.
Written by:
Dr. Swarwar Kamran
Translated by:
Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Song of the Lost Generations
A swarm of the birds came down,
Passed by caressing water.
O age!
O age of the caravans!
In search of what you passed over
The waters of centuries,
The arriving and departing springs
Came and went off what for,
And what for the evening
Through spaces passed away
Sinking in blood; and we passed away
From our lives what for.
In persuasion of what the dew drops,
Settled on the trees,
After the leaves had fallen apart.
The dew fell upon the desert,
By and by but dissipated in an instant.
The life of stars,
The whole life of all objects,
Sank down into the tears.
A gust of breeze passed away,
But grappling,
Who knows where has gone the wind.
The volley of arrows,
Went through swishing, quivering,
From the bow, who knows whom for.
Which were the desires that broke us into pieces,
And who should tell whom,
Now who rests where.
O falling shower, Soaring birds!
O breaking stars!
O my search exhausted friends!
Where do you dwell call us aloud?
We are nameless astray boats,
In the bankless blue ocean.
O! The wind of shores take us along,
We are the diminishing marks
Of curiosity from the snow clad valleys.
O! Life take us along,
In the darkness of forests,
We are rustling sounds of the steps
Halting on the dried leaves.
O! Guiding light take us along,
We are hotness of the journey,
We are dust of the route,
We are the age but too precise,
We are alive for an instant…
O! Wind take us along.
Where have gone You God?
Take us along! Take us along!
Written by:
Dr. Swarwar Kamran
Translated by:
Muhammad Shaanzar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Leah
They defied the gods and earned their wrath.
Waters washed over their land
sinking it miles beneath the sea
to languish for centuries in myth and mystery.
Then emerged a mysterious woman
I found floundering near the shore.
She said her name was Leah
and claimed she was from a land
that sunk centuries ago
by the gods deep beneath the sea.
As the days progressed from the time,
I found her
this is the story she related to me.
My city is one of many
and my people are very old.
We learnt a long time ago
the key to immortality.
Ours is but a simple life
farming fish and seaweed
for our daily feed.
Over the centuries we learnt the secrets
all here seek to learn,
how to breath underwater
and above on this land.
It was while I was exploring
you found me near the shore.
We go out quite often
just to explore this world
to see if you have learnt
from the mistakes we made
when we defied the gods.
Sadly, from what we have seen
you make more than we,
but I fear that unlike us
you will never sink beneath the sea.
Instead, your cities will crumble
and you will be buried
beneath your city’s waste
when the buildings crumble to the ground
She then rose up and moved
away from my house back to the sea,
as I called out her name Leah
a wind came up from nowhere
carrying her name away from me.
Leah vanished back into the sea
leaving me with only mystery.
Was she from the fabled Atlantis?
Was she as old as she had implied.
What about the prediction for us,
did I dream it all
or was it an alternate reality?
These questions I cannot answer,
but each night I wander
alone along the beach
and shout her name Leah
only to have the wind
carry it away from me
to somewhere far out to sea.
7 September 2011
poem by David Harris
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My Dear People
How long my dear people,
How long we shall sprinkle essence of rose,
And smoulder fragrant contents.
How long we shall burn grates of hatred,
And how long we shall pour down
The rain of blood,
How long we shall light up lamp on the graves,
How long we shall strew flowers
On the graves of friends,
How long we shall make graves of our kids,
And how long we shall bury our bodies alive.
Now my dear people, my own people,
We shall not contrive ditches,
In the upcoming days;
We shall not extinguish our existence,
And our faces radiant like candles,
We shall not erase glowing names carved
On entrance of the heart,
We shall not en-kindle such lamps
As they may turn our houses into ashes.
Now my dear people, my own people,
Facilitate life confined in the walls of our own;
Mark difference,
Who is our own and who is an outlandish,
Why should we chase delusions,
Why should we tire our own souls,
This earth is the mother of us all,
We should be proud of it,
Why should we harm ourselves,
While fighting for the interests of others,
Why should we perforate our own eyes,
With the arrows of our own,
And why should we desolate our own existence.
If the strength of our own arms is true,
We should be proud of it,
We have to divert the track of waters,
And change dormant origins into gurgling fountains,
We have to make desolate, the house of plotters,
We have to search for the perpetual enemy,
We have to bless the descending generations,
And we have to bless ourselves too.
Written By Qayyum Tahir
Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Love: A Mystery
(Written By Javed Ahmed Translated By Muhammad Shanazar)
O! Love your existence is mysteriously baffling,
You are in the scattered shattered heart,
And with the intact ego too;
You invent the devices of cruelty,
And you are with the loyalty, fidelity too;
Your manners reveal a tale of darkness,
And enlighten the lamps of pleasing light
And then you are with the gushing blows too;
You are in the fondness of beauty,
You throb in the redness of blood,
And in the colour of Hina too,
Strangely relates your colour to my heart,
You are with the fragments,
And with the cracking sounds too,
Mosque, temple and church all are your prints,
You dwell in the features of idols,
And reside with God too,
You move in the evening gale and with the breeze too.
You move in veins with blood as intoxication,
And pulsate with the palpitating heart too.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Let Us Confess
O! My love,
Separation of centuries
Ensued between us,
But the son of love
Still shines in the heart.
Though we parted
Yet remained loving;
Let us confess that we dwell
In the heart of each other.
By Fakhira Batool Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Searching the truth
Nothingness of negation or
Negation of nothingness....
In self, we are the negation of nothingness,
But we allow the nothingness for self.
We allow the nothingness of consciousness
As a perpetual flight of the being.
We exist in self and we exist for self,
In a cartesian duality,
In a latin con-cretum,
When the certain being surpasses that being toward nothingness.
If Jesus did not exist,
the Christians would not be existent,
But Christians are existent.
No one can deny Jesus, as Son of the God,
And say that He is non-existent, at the same time,
As Son of The God,
Because no one can deny something that
Is non-existent,
As no one can deny the real essence of the existent.
The non-existent things are part of the reality.
He is existent in the Christian's mind.
He is non-existent in other's mind.
He is in idea.
There are too many wars for this idea..
Negation of nothingness
Lead to nothingness of negation
In a double negation.
Jesus is necessary for salvation,
Jesus is essential for salvation.
We need to be sanctified,
We need to be better than we are.
Without the assertion of existence,
The negation cannot destroy it.
We have a metaphysical necessity,
While God has His necessity of Himself.
And what would be the purity of intention
And the truth
Without this?
The denial of noes, which means fertilization, at Hegel,
The absolute duty to tell the truth, at Kant...
The human lie at Schopenhauer.
The existence and the non-existence,
Seemingly, an irreconcilable antithesis....
poem by Marieta Maglas
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A Thorn In The Feet Of Humanity
28th May blackened
The clean countenance
Of my calendar,
And ruined
The days of future into rubble.
On that day
We turned our back
To our survival.
The sneaking era
Entangled around our feet,
And we could never rise
From that period.
Now
The smoke will spurt up
From our well furnished houses.
A dreadful explosion,
Perforated
The existence our dream.
Now we are alive
But with the dread of Death.
A half burnt corpse
Of a young solider
Haunts me in my sleeps;
It had in its cold hands,
A crumbled picture
Of a damsel who resides
On some remote unknown seaside;
And in her golden eyes
‘To wait’ is inscribed.
We are: a thorn in the feet of humanity,
That is bent upon
To lose harvest of the centuries.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Denizen Of An Ill-fated Planet (A War Poem)
From the womb of life,
Smoke is squirting up,
The tempest of war
Is about to extinguish
The flame of life.
I am a denizen of the same ill-fated planet!
Our back again inclines to bend;
And the slithering era,
Again bends upon to dominate us all.
Dread
Hatred
And violence have snatched from us
All compassion: an essence of humanity;
And we have thrown
Dreams of generations
Into the furnace of war.
Now our faces bear only sockets,
Void of eyes.
Ah! We are heading towards a forest!
In search of beautiful dawn,
That will never see the sunrise time,
Death will invade us instantly;
And that day,
After every second,
Will be the World War Third.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Primordial One
The Primordial One is immanent, while He’s never transcendent
And this existent world, at the beginning, was only His vision.
The Lord has Being to create his vision-world without lightweight
For this real world of Becoming, with His meticulous precision.
At the beginning, we were His imagination; we were a reason for creation
And, only for being with Him, He made us, in time, to become so real.
Tower of Babel wasn’t an illusion, when people suffered tongues confusion,
God isn’t an illusion in our perfection, when His plans He wants to reveal.
We are in our Apollinian illusion, when we think that God means confusion
And our own perfectionism we try to reach in the mean time.
But in the reality of our Apollinian confusion, God is no longer an illusion.
In this ache of Being and in this agony of Becoming, He’s sublime.
To reach our perfection we sing a hymn, we need to be with Him,
Because when we are not with Him, we are in the illusion of Being.
Without transmogrifying us, to transfigure Him, sometimes, we have a whim,
Because we need to understand our illusory own perfection in wellbeing.
We try to put ourselves in His place, in order to understand His grace
We need the Dionysian illusion of Being to experience the world we know.
In both Dionysian and Apolllinian illusions, we jump to our conclusions.
We are illusory Primordial Beings creating our Apollinian powerful show.
I am this person staring back from His mirror at me, I want existent to be.
I want to identify this image with myself and to realize who I really am.
Because of my sins I lost my serenity, I have a sense of my mistaken identity.
I was His dream, I am His child and for saving me He sent me His lamb.
Everyone is dreaming, but it seems that no one really believes in dreams.
One by one we need to wake up out of our own illusions of self.
The world of minds is the God's mental projection, it has interconnection.
Without this major pervasive reality, the world is not existent in itself.
The sufferings of people can be for some an illusory space, having no grace,
And they live in their own world of solely material realities without restricts.
Others believe in the world, which is non-physical and it's essentially spiritual,
They need a mental, spiritual and moral dimension to life, without conflicts.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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An Incentive
Alas! Some strange dream,
In their colourless lives,
Should raise such a tempest,
As your love,
Fused into my blood,
And keeps me in fervour,
Enkindles my heart,
Places my entire self in commotion,
Provides me with the cause to live,
And titivates my face like a moon.
Written by Sabina Riffat
Translated by Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Manifesto [ORIGINAL & REVISED]
[REVISED]
Okay – I admit romance does not exist, at least
not in this quaint veracity which claims it has a
place somewhere but rarely ever here
I shall not cry about discovery of circumstance
that fact is non-existent in romance – reality a
chance one does not really have to see
Anyone can prove it lives eternally in dreams, a
never dying sustenance of many Worlds beliefs
with energies too dominant to ever die
If fantasy alive and well then I admit against my
better judgement I’ve been hurt; but add in haste
it does not matter since it truly breathes
In Worlds as infinite or parallel, I do not need the
proof of our reality – a mere perchance of it as
probability enough - the vastness of infinity
allows for every choice and dream or hope and
expectation to exist – I do not need accord to see
romance, or merely mention the ideal -
of fantasy, hopes, & dreams to make it true for me,
I shall avoid reality, live in dreams encompassing
imaginings I’ve always gladly had or harboured to
excess; therefore your attitude, and lack of feeling
means a blank to me; cannot kill the vision I shall
cherish from now on until eternity arrives…
[ORIGINAL]
Okay, I admit, romance does not exist – at least not
in this reality; but the fact that we can dream about
romance is proof it does exist somewhere
I shall not cry about my loss – discovering that
romance is non-existent – reality is only a mirage,
one parallel world amongst many – I do not need
Anyone to prove that romance lives on in our dreams,
nothing can kill it; no negative word, no pain, no dis-
illusionment, can kill the many worlds theory
Where fantasy is alive and well - I admit, against my
better judgement, I have been hurt; but hasten to add
it does not matter since romance is alive and well
In infinite parallel worlds - I do not need proof in our
little world of intersubjective reality – mere possibility
is probability enough - the vastness of infinity
Allows for every choice, dream, hope and expectation
to exist – I do not need you or anybody else to agree
to feel romance; merely mentioning the ideal -
- fantasy, hope and dream - makes it true for me, I shall
leave reality and live within a dream encompassing
every thought, hope and ideal
I have ever harboured; your attitude and being, your lack
of feeling, means nothing to me; cannot kill the vision
I cherish unto eternity…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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An Elegy Of The Earth
I before my death,
Have composed,
An elegy of the Earth,
Which (after war)
Roodali of the Air will sing,
Weeping and wailing,
Sitting amid the burnt
Decomposed bodies.
The Decree of Death
Has been written,
On the pale forehead of the Earth;
Only time is to be fixed.
We are neither afraid of death,
Nor covetous for life,
We only wish to relish in full,
Our natural life before the final ruin,
And it is our right too.
If war is indispensable,
We shall fight it only for our existence,
For our dreams are not
The fuel for the wars being fought on rent.
‘Roodali’ is a professional woman whom the elite class of the Sikhs hires to lament on the death of someone.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Bring Me Back My Eyes
Bring me back my eyes,
For I shall behold
All colours of the universe.
I shall captivate
The galaxies in my eyes,
And steal all colours of roses
To adorn my countenance.
I shall behold
How the pang of separation
Inscribes lines on the forehead,
How love makes
Hermits the kings,
And union fills
The eyes with stars.
I shall behold
How tears dropp
From the lashes when one weeps,
And if one laughs impulsively
How pink roses
Bloom instantly on the lips.
I shall behold
Why the snakes complain
Against the lady of night,
How the petals uncatch themselves
From the flowerer-flies,
Why the butterflies become
Gloomy seeing the flowers,
Who wrote all the mysteries
On the chest of mother Earth.
I yearn to pick
All seasons with the lashes.
O! My love,
You keep the reality with yourself,
But only once show me a dream
Though glimmering
Like a tiny glow-worm.
By Fakhira Batool Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Dreams and Weapons
We are the astray travellers,
Of South Asia,
We have purchased weapons
by selling our dreams;
And always preferred to form forces
To the starving children.
Now in our deserted courtyard
The trenches slink,
And blood-claiming Furnace of War
Gazes at our well grown up bodies
With capricious eyes.
War
From behind the table of dialogue
Whispers to us,
And the starved graveyard
By steadily creeping,
Has reached walls of the city.
On the branch of our helpless eyes,
The dream of prosperity and friendship
Is withering.
The moment is alert, awakening in my blood,
When these forces … in front of my eyes
Will ravage ruin Beauty and Life.
Only Death will be alive to discriminate
Between the conqueror and the conquered,
And Silences,
Will celebrate the event on our half burnt bodies.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Treasure
Packed in an old trunk,
Beneath the worn-out garments,
And the torn pieces of paper,
Amid the charms and devices of spell,
In a rusty box of metal,
Beneath the fading photograph,
The coloured silky sari that lies
There with a red golden lace,
And glistening stars,
Is dearer than the soul,
For an unfortunate aged woman.
Written by Naina Adil
Translated by
Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Village Of Deceptions
The world O! Friend,
Is a village of deceptions,
No deference is observed
Behind the pardas.
This is the place where we meet
Losses but not the truth.
O! Friend speak caring least
The difference of ‘I’ and ‘You’,
Here marital pleasures
Of all are robbed off.
Do not press your tongue,
Between the teeth, for your silence
Holds a storm in it.
The world in itself without you,
Is nothing, proclaim aloud
That it has severed you
Only with the fever of love.
Written By Fakhira Batool Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Journey Irritates My Soles
Give me
The wages of my hands,
So that I could dig the earth.
I have dug a canal of milk,
And consumed myself for you;
Keeping nothing reserved for myself.
I accept not
The guidance of my own belly,
I am lavishing my days hurriedly,
The world
Is lying under my heels,
Wheezing, panting for the last breath,
I have sheltered myself in my fist,
I am latent keeping the bundle
Of my dreams beneath my head.
Journey irritates my soles,
Here bellies of the people
Scuttle ahead faster than the feet,
But I have cut asunder
My belly and left it far behind.
In my gardens the birds are reducing,
In the sky of my share a holocaust is inscribed,
The lap of my Earth is going to be desolate soon.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Difference Between God and Man
The world,
God created
In full six days,
Man is competent
To destroy it
In six minutes.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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From Behind The Worn-out Grave Of Time
From behind the worn-out grave of Time,
Death,
Sends me a message;
I am a thick shady tree of creation,
The poems chirrup in my tassels,
But Death
On my stem brimming with life,
Inscribes the song of inaccessibility.
Written by Dr. Jawaz Jaffri translated by Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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