I Am Confronting A Tragedy
In my city,
The trade of epitaphs
Is in full swing;
My people have forsaken,
The days, month and years,
Here only anniversaries of explosions
Are celebrated.
My poets
In front of the cakes of anniversaries,
Bend and bow themselves.
When standing afar I curse
On their reciting of panegyrics,
The folk begin to tear
Into rags my dress amid the bazaar;
And I cover my body
With the leaves of my words, and then
The world seems to me naked like a nude.
I am confronting a tragedy,
In front of which
My poetry is helpless, without extremities,
The sycophant poets,
Have got fixed horns with their couplets,
And their hands are encroaching,
The breast of poetry.
I am engrossed in the lost relations,
My hearing goes though the pangs
Of pollutions of creativity.
Ah! I behold darkness descending
Into radiance of the milky day.
(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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Intercourse Giggles At Me
They have slaughtered my golden day
In front of my eyes,
And my mournful voice was repressed,
In the durum beats of celebration.
I am digging a grave,
In the soil of my heart.
Death
Breaks into my love brimming heart;
My people
Have forgot to feel affection for life,
And they growl at one another
With brutal sounds.
I have a menace
In front which I did not risk,
My nose,
Has died for perfumes;
And a dread
Has squeezed all tastes of my tongue.
Every night one fear lies down
Before my wife reclines beside,
Intercourse standing afar
Giggles at me,
And my bed-room
Chucks me out of the door.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Avarice To Overcome A Meek Grain
What kind of incident it is,
That the most splendid women,
Of my era are carrying,
On their heads the bundles of pangs,
Of their beloved misplaced;
Stood in front of thorny fence of steel-wire,
Waiting to enter into their own lands;
In their reddish eyes,
Their well furnished houses burn.
My elders entrusted me a better world,
But I am compelled to hand over,
The descending generation a deformed world.
The crops have forgotten
The skills to grow in my farms,
Their lay ambush the dynamites in my soil.
Would that I may take all children
Of the world in my shelter!
On seeing subterranean walk of the death
In my heart creeps a wish to kiss beloved feet.
We in avarice to overcome a meek grain,
Are busy to dig out the graves of one another,
When there exists a splendid immense
Universe restless to listen the sound of strides.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Last Day Of Life On The Earth
The womb
Of the earth is bleeding,
Perhaps
The last day of life on this
Planet has reached;
The same day, when
The air will begin to simmer;
And the space
To quench its thirst will gulp
The seven seas.
War
Is constantly in our chase,
Let us to save our lives
Should flee to the Mars.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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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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A Poem For Atal Bihari Vajpayee
My Enemy!
Have you forsaken reading
The writes on the hems of petals
With the hands of dew?
Doesn’t the smile
On the flowery faces of your children
Knock at the door of your heart?
In my hatred,
Have you discarded Woman and Fragrance?
Have you learnt like me
To prefer Death to Life and Peace?
My Enemy!
We both are the weaponed passengers,
Of the same boat, floating
Into the ocean of boundless spaces.
Our interests are different
But catastrophe is the same;
Our follies are making the dreams infertile,
Of the generations,
Who will step into the world henceforth.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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An Epitaph Of A Collective Grave
Human race,
On soggy lath of its fate,
Writes suicide.
The window of my eye,
Opens to the future.
For the lap of my Earth,
An epitaph of a collective grave
Is being written;
On the head-side of which
A dried lamp is looking to the way
For mustard of its own share.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri 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 Poem In 7000AD
(1)
In a city of the footpaths,
More than everything are the houses of God,
And at every door of the house,
It is inscribed in the ink of hatred,
“Only the people of a specific sect
Are allowed here to offer the prayers.”
(2)
After some times,
The earth will gulp into the belly,
The same city divided in blocks,
On its place the earth will bring forth,
A new fertile city whose inhabitants
Will not obtain food
From the heaps of muck.
(3)
After five thousand years,
An old archeologist,
In shadow of the drowning sun,
Will discover again,
The same buried city;
And on the chipped worn out stone
Of the ruined worship house,
Will be an inscription
In a mysterious language
And he after having read it
With troublesome attempt,
Will say with a tone of certainty
To his beloved peering into her eyes
“Definitely such cities as this was
Had no right to exist on the Earth.”
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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From Behind The Moon
On seeing
From behind the moon,
The lines drawn
On face of the earth,
Are invisible.
Boundaries,
Are the leaching eruptions
On belly of the Earth.
My eyesight goes through
A dismal pain,
On seeing wretched activities
In the world.
I am fortunate
Enough that I am alive,
But astonished how alive I am.
My tomorrow is in my hands,
And there lies,
An obligation of survival
On my shoulders;
I am in a search to find out,
A secure spot
On the surface of the Earth.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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I Am A Bride-groom Of War Procession (A War Poem)
Youth
Is the natural right
Of my innocent children.
War
Claims a part of my age;
My back is destined not to become a bow,
Death has built a nest in my chest;
And dread
Travels though my bones,
These my young and warm hands,
Which had been kissed more than often,
By my beloved women
Now are marked by death.
I wish that before my death,
I could take my aged mother in my lap;
Ah! No one is there to shed tears
On the death of Happiness.
I am a Bride-groom of war procession,
Radiation will apply Surma to my eyes,
At the very moment,
Life on my cheeks will die down,
My shoes will sleep in mud prostrate,
And the rags of my shirt,
Will cover nudity of any half-burnt tree.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
Surma: A black stone ground into powder which is applied to blacken the eyes.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Song On Resurgence Of The Earth
War
Begins with the tears,
And peace with smiles.
Peace
Is an enslaved damsel that the warriors:
The guardians of peace captured
And imprisoned her
Amid the walls by force.
What type of life this is,
That the thought of death
Never releases us even for a moment;
Upon my colonies falls
Depression from the sky,
And in dread,
The breasts of mothers have dried.
In my infertile land
Peace does not grow;
It is a an indoor plant
Of the land of the descending Sun
Which is exported to favourite countries
And so is earned the foreign exchange.
The deprived people,
Like us can not afford peace;
For us life is harder than the war,
But life in the clutches of death,
Is demanding its own right.
Come!
Let us compose a new song,
On resurgence of the Earth.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Smoke Is Rising From The Branch Of Olive
War
Is impending over our heads,
And Alla Din of Death,
Having the lamp in his hands,
Is waiting for a signal.
Smoke is rising
From the branch of olive,
To see the blind,
The useless,
And the heap of broken bodies,
Is the fate of our eyes.
I am seeding the flowers,
Life, freedom, and peace.
“Peace through war” is the game
Of weapon merchants,
The powers at war have brutal relation
With one another.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri 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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The Warriors Do Not Have The Hearts
I am in search of a heart,
In which miseries,
Of my people could breath;
And the warriors
Do not have the hearts.
My people are born,
But without peace and liberty;
They remain alive.
And die.
When we wished,
To speak for our rights,
Our voices stuck,
To the vocal-cords.
We are the numbers,
With which rulers play,
The game of plus and minus.
Hearken! The eye of glass,
Is always sans sight,
I have the song,
But not the voice;
You have the voice,
But not the song.
Let us then sing
The song altogether,
For the birds
Have forsaken to sing.
I in the concert when sing
The song of peace,
In appreciation get disgust,
As if
The people
Have conspired with the Death.
(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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Half Century, Three And Half Wars
Half Century,
Three and half wars.
Our past is our future,
We have not denounced plying
With the mistakes of each other.
My body is the fodder of war,
An in front of my eyes wafts
My decomposed burnt corpse.
I am a song of those tongues
Which have been pulled out of the roots.
My hearing is being eroded
Waiting to listen to the arrival of good tidings.
Armed Forces
Pour into porches of my ears
The lead of Epic,
And Peace,
Has been flinging down exertion,
Into my eyes since centuries.
My Dreams
Deepen roots into my own soil,
In my possession,
I do not have any palace
In Europe.
My dear land that is being enslaved
Is my last abode.
I cultivate my own dreams,
Into the eyes of my own kids.
I urge for the life of peace,
And natural death.
How long we shall neglect our
The most fervent wishes?
At last
We shall have to place out
Our feet from the worn out
Torn shoes.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Science Is Killing Us All
Holding the hem of an old worn out dream,
We have reached a footpath.
In the callous streets
Of the hilarious city
Making the atom bomb
Our covering
Keeping begging bowls in the hands
And arms on the fore-heads
We are dormant all oblivious.
Amid the fodder
And the crop of swaying starvation,
Our tossing children
Sleep every day
On the worn out carpet of patriotism,
Tasting the flowing salt of their eyes
And licking the long-ranged missiles.
Long lurking militant tongues
Are bent to represent the weapon-adorers.
Life
Love
Who is the ambassador of Freedom?
Our skills are consumed,
In always chiseling the weapons,
Yes; Science is killing us all.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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There Are A Few Poets
THERE ARE A FEW POETS
There are a few poets
Beyond the poetry you and I know
And are capable of –
There are a few poets
Who seem to write a poetry
Which is Poetry itself,
A Poetry which is everything Poetry should be-
Those poets are somewhere else
On a level far beyond any we can hope to reach-
They are Poetry –
And we we are the little listeners and readers
Who can in awe and praise worship
What we ourselves will forever be incapable of.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Army Ensnares My Dream
A dream chases me,
I always seed the forests
Of olive in the dream,
So that the inhabitants
May breathe fresh air,
And could live natural length life.
A dream chases me,
And an army ensnares my dream;
Now my dream has begun
Peeping out of my eyes.
(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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