En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Second Visit (After the Nuclear War)

Oh! Where have gone children, men and women,
The fair featured descendants of Adam and Eve,
I might have come on some disaster-prone planet,
With grim sooty mountains, sterile barren plains,
The treeless valleys extend before my amazed eyes.

Oh! It is the same spot, I vividly summon up,
Though deformed, distorted with horrible looks.
It is the land where the shepherds grazed,
Their sheep, goats and cows from morn to eve.
These were the farms where lush wheat swayed,
And butterflies hovered over the sweet-scented,
The yellow blossomed amphitheatre of sarsoon 1.
The rustic damsels singingly weeded the farms,
Gathering herbs to nourish the bleating goats.

This is the dry banyan tree stands like a ghost,
Where at noon in summer we all took rest,
In its cool shade and played hide and seek,
The older men played cards sitting in circles.
Amid the chirping of sparrows, crowing of crows,
Cooing of doves, and transporting songs,
Of the nightingales and seasonal cuckoos.

Oh! Who are these who drag the bodies,
Like reptiles remotely resemble the human race,
Hairless heads, faces without beards and moustaches,
Shaved brows, sans lashes beady gummy eyes,
The bag-like loose bellies fall on the knees;
Flexible noses hang like lurking beaks.
Arms like jointy-sticks with overgrown hands,
Legs like thick bendy rope made of black polythene.

Here is the rivulet where along with the age fellows,
We took bath in the opaque, muddy water of Saawun 1,
Now I see sitting in lines along the grassless banks,
The post-war generation, outcome of devilish intellect,
Pounce on the crabs, toads and frogs when they
Up rise from the water and some breathless chase
The rodents when they come out of their holes.
And chatter like the swarm of cackling wild-goose,
When the hunter appears from behind the rock,
And with precision points the hunting gun at them.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Fall of Dhaka

When we all were small girls and boys,
And played with dolls, and ball like toys,
Were often asked to drift and lead the cattle;
To the nearby meadows, farms and forest,
To have them grazed from morn to eve,
And freshened them with the water clean.

We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Letting them loose sat on top of the mound,
Among the old reverend shepherds,
Who told us the tales of olden times;
Ups and downs of the world they had seen,
How they fought the World War Second,
How they did see the roaring fighter jets;
How the rumbling sounds of the shells,
Did resound and reverberate in the valleys,
How they did watch meadows, fields and farms,
Littered with the human blood flesh and shreds,
How the two shining glaring cities of Japan,
Were obliterated casting perpetual horror.

One day as we sat in the sunshine of December,
Among us someone broke the depressing news,
That our one hundred thousand sons of the land,
Spotting, smudging, smearing the whole history,
Surrendered themselves throwing the weapons.

We the little masters of cows, goats and sheep,
Sat sad and silence prevailed wrapping us all,
As in the days of frost often fog envelops,
The visible objects and blurs the beauties,
The waves of rage and wrath formed and broke,
Emerged and submerged in the ocean of heart,
Then someone of us set a bush on fire,
We all then ran, made the torches of the sticks,
And soon the whole forest was on fire,
We all wished the entire world be burnt,
For we had lost our dear Dhaka.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Poetry: My Sweet-heart

She was born with me when
I inhaled the first breath;
In infancy she showed herself to me,
In the dim hazy colours of rainbow,
That floated in front of the eyes,
Like an astray flake of coloured cloud.

In childhood she flew in front of me,
Assuming the shape of butterfly,
Stayed close, lingered, hovered over,
The yellow blossomed mustard farms.

In boyhood before the years of maturity,
She played hide and seek,
And I chased her till I did exhaust,
She too oscillated me on the swing,
Under the huge banyan tree,
With thick cool shade.

In the years of adolescence
And the days of full ripeness,
I saw her smiling,
Under the bundle of too lush green grass,
She walked with heart-mincing graceful gait.

Now she dwells in the cottage of my heart,
Thatched with the dried tassels of dreams,
She wipes my tears, consoles me when I weep,
And supports, props my bent body, when I tumble.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Dreamy Age

Remembering of the dreamy age,
Fills my eyes with tears,
The sights unpolluted and clear,
Now changed into smoky and full of noise,
Where I played with cheerful friends,
Whom ruthless tides have scattered,
As the wind disperses the dried leaves,
A slight before the dead winter,
Some went abroad, some to the Town of Silence

What a delight it was!
At noon under the blue skies,
Running after the butterflies,
Delicate and nicely-colourful,
Spoiling the mustard farms,
Blossomed yellow, sharply fragrant.
The indignant landlady cursed,
Chasing with a stick wet and long,
But we always were out of her access.

In the days of torrential rains,
Under the noses of flowing spouts,
We stood long, making a noise,
The lightening thundered scaring,
Made me afraid, as if we,
The shouting children interrupt.
The grand office of God.

Then for diving and swimming,
Ran to the pond nearby the village,
Beside the huge banyan tree,
What a delicious bat it was!
In the muddy opaque water.

Each delight of child-hood,
Is soul-sucking, worth-recalling,
When before the wintry nights,
Played we all girls and boys,
Out on the ploughed farms,
Hiding in ricks and heaps of fodder.
Under the waning moon,
Unaware to the thoughts obscene.

Often in the downy steeps,
In the deep recesses of thick forest,
Drank water from the trickling fountains,
Carefree, oblivious to woes and worries,
Spent days plucking the sweet berries,
From the thorny branches bending down,
Laden with ripe red fruit.

Sometimes on the rocky ground,
By the luck benevolent we found,
In the fragrant bushes honey wild,
While getting the comb down,
The incensed bees stung the cheeks,
Then returned home swollen faced,
And got chidings kind of the parents.

The intoxicant spring approached,
With thrilling spirit, refreshing hopes,
The soft, gentle breeze blew.
Made the village drowsy fragrant.

In the swaying crops, blooming fields,
Blossomed wild poppies flowering red,
And when we ran bare-footed,
After the fluffy lambs, on the dewy grass,
The birds sang sweet melodies,
Hovered in circles over the head,
Making us feel their presence.

In silence at the warm nights,
A mysterious sound of the distant lute,
Enchanted throwing me into ecstasies.

If the childhood be a commodity,
And I had the heap of gold,
And wealth countless and untold,
I would buy without bargain,
The dreamy age second time.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Wildy Ones

The sheep are in the silver wood,
The cows are in the broom;
The goats are in the wild mountain
And won't be home by noon.

My mother sang that olden tune
Most every night,
And to her newest she would croon
By candle light;
While cuddling in the velvet gloom
I'd dream of cows
That sought each dawn 'mid golden broom
To gently browse.

Or I would glimpse the silver wood,
The birchen glade,
Where pearly sheep in quiet mood
Cropped unafraid;
But how I loved in lapsing drowse
The mountain wild!
The goats were more than sheep and cows
To one wee child.

For cows and sheep are shelter-wise,
And love the lea;
While goats have starlight in their eyes,
In cragland free . . .
And now on edge of endless sleep
Wryly I note
How less I'm kin to kine and sheep
Than rebel goat!

poem by Robert William Service
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Fleeting Visions

How sometimes invisible secret eyes,
Capture marvellous fleeting visions,
And see the spectrum of reality,
But the wise regard a product of insanity.

Often I wonder at the sight strange,
And the heart longs to have once again;
That my eyes captured,
While praying to God for bounteous blessings
On the Matchless and the Most Sacred.

I do swear, I did behold,
The fair creature sitting straight
In the rows long, each extended,
Left to right, beyond the sight,
With folded knees, in silence serene,
Of the same colour, age and size,
Myriad like blossomed pink poppies,
Cultivated in lines, swaying in breeze.

Long lashes, black brows, modest eyes,
The ornaments of down casting purity,
Muslin coverings on the heads veiling
Rosy faces emitting thin glow,
Sat on the ground, swayed heads,
Like oscillating cradle about to stop.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The Grave Of My Brother

The spot where now I sand was empty,
Undisturbed for the years, only tufts of grass swayed,
But now filled in with a heap of fresh dug earth:
The grave of my brother.

The memories of the past have begun to emerge
As panic fishes come out upon the surface of the sea.
We slept on the same bed for a decade,
We played in the same yard together
Through the years of childhood,
We played hide and seek, ran after the butterflies,
Yes, together in the mustard farms,
We ran through the streets while monsoon rains rained,
We stood under the spouts to have the most delicious bath.

O! Brother you explained to me
The mysteries with the childish wisdom,
“The stars are the shinning rivets,
The moon and the sun: the loaves of gold and silver,
And twilight the crimson particles of dust.”

O! Brother you laboured, you toiled a lot
Against the odds of life, at last you lost the race
Trudging through the quagmire of misfortunes.

O! Brother you are fortunate for you have got
The place in the feet of your mother,
You have been entrusted to the grave
Amid the sobs, shrieks and cascades of tears,
With all religious obsequies, all threw handfuls of earth,
And some performed the obligation with shovels.

I see into future we who remain behind are not sure
What fate we shall meet, whether we shall have graves
Or our bodies will lay unburied with the scavengers around;
Who knows when itchy leprous fingers will activate
The nuclear or chemical devices, the world will change into
An amphitheatre of corpses rotting in the hot sun.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Village Pond

Here, there, women, children and men
Talk animatedly, little water waves disrupted by scooping
Water vessels, the faded green water lilies, shoved aside.

Cows moo, the goats bleat,
School children scramble for a spill,
The edges, slippery and muddy, non of a bother.

The gold, liquid of life, simmers under the hot sun,
Though, shrinking in size, by every draw,
The earth is bare, the pond tags their hope.

Here in the pond, they see, sigh and fall
The feminine and masculine bodies attract
The gossip, filters, confirmed, a new life sees dawn.

Wild tree fruits, like monsters surround the village pond
I'm told the fruits, purify the village pond
Lives ruled, made to see day, Honor to the village pond.

poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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To the Banyan Tree

“Oh! Overshadowing, evergreen Banyan,
Where have gone my vivacious playmates,
Who climbed up your reverend shoulders,
Clambered down by lowering, lurking roots?
And while playing they the run-and-catch,
Did hide themselves in the leafy boughs,
Mimicked the cuckoo in voice and tone.”

“Oh! Where have gone the contestants?
Playing cards sitting in the circles,
Patting hard upon the cards thrown,
Challenged with hope to win the game,
Pleasure they had, is unknown to the kings,
On the conquest of the distant continent,
Possessing oil-fields, fertile watery plains.”

“Oh! Where have gone the colourful damsels,
That swung ere the moon-soon winds blew,
Behind their necks fluttering Anchals1 flew,
Like the wings of hovering butterflies?
My eyes moved with the oscillating sight,
Now dashing down, now rising to the height;
With wonder I stood aside to understand,
They were nymphs or the earth pertained? ”

“Oh! Your pensive thoughts have maddened me,
Why they broke the bonds, confounds me,
That ten-generation devotedly strengthened.
Though white blood runs into my old veins,
And do not have the human breathing heart,
Yet I weep and miss them more and more,
The tickling tiny feet might have grown old,
Or they might have cherished love for gold,
Or might have they found the cooler shades.”

“Since long no one plays the run-and-catch,
No one titillates my crude hard shoulders,
No longer I hear laughter of the real conquest.
No colourful damsel plies with my aged arms,
No ploughman comes staggering to have rest,
Snorts deep while the wind blows to the West.”

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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On The First Anniversary Of Nuclear Explosions

The pitcher of the Earth
Has got emptied
The water-bags of eyes
Of the damsels going to the fountains
Have dried;
Un-kissed kisses of the damsel of Thur
From the yellow branch of lips
Shed one by one.

The farms
Where my ploughmen seeded Life
Now Death is getting its roots deeper.
On the chest of the Earth
The crops of sores wave,
And half dead colonies: villages and towns
Are sitting on the brims of grave,
Hanging the feet down,
Gilding eyes with a hope of last ablutions.

Those who fight on the front thirst
Their weak eyes gaze at the supply of rain;
In the season of migration,
Greenery and the birds,
Have surpassed the human beings.

The bowls of dried fountains
Far and near are lying turned up;
And on the paths leading to the founts,
The jingles of anklets and bangles
Are lying dead, un-graved, without coffins.

The giggles of children
Left away one by one in the chase of water,
And a thirsty-river
On the paper of sand
Is composing an elegy of Water.
On the forehead of the Earth,
Thirst is inscribed for the descending generations,
Ah! The water of our eyes has dried.

(Written by Jawaaz Jafri Translated by Muhammad Shanazar)

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Wild Goats

Rock of escaping goats,
Your own eyes have seen this day;
But understand and perceive the muse of my love.

From evil doers comes evil deeds,
But i will pay homage to the things which are right;
And like the crags of the wild goats.

Give me a special blessing and let me love you,
Give me a special love and let me guide you,
Give me a special care and let me be with you always;
And she became the trap for him who was asleep.

On the crag of the wild goats,
Do love yourself first before loving me;
For you can't love others by hating yourself.

Rock of escaping goats,
I am a poor man and little known by you;
But my mind is faster than the bullets of war!

To the son-in-law of the king,
And to the daughter-in-law of the queen;
This is the time that i am free from war,
And like the rock of escaping goats.

Whose son is this boy?
Whose daughter is this girl?
Whose husband is this man?
Whose wife is this woman?
On the cage of the wild goast to take a rest;
But this is the day that Yahweh spoke of.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Dream

I had a dream--a strange, wild dream--
Said a dear voice at early light;
And even yet its shadows seem
To linger in my waking sight.

Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew,
And bright with morn, before me stood;
And airs just wakened softly blew
On the young blossoms of the wood.

Birds sang within the sprouting shade,
Bees hummed amid the whispering grass,
And children prattled as they played
Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass

Fast climbed the sun: the flowers were flown,
There played no children in the glen;
For some were gone, and some were grown
To blooming dames and bearded men.

'Twas noon, 'twas summer: I beheld
Woods darkening in the flush of day,
And that bright rivulet spread and swelled,
A mighty stream, with creek and bay.

And here was love, and there was strife,
And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries,
And strong men, struggling as for life,
With knotted limbs and angry eyes.

Now stooped the sun--the shades grew thin;
The rustling paths were piled with leaves;
And sunburnt groups were gathering in,
From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves.

The river heaved with sullen sounds;
The chilly wind was sad with moans;
Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds
Grew thick with monumental stones.

Still waned the day; the wind that chased
The jagged clouds blew chillier yet;
The woods were stripped, the fields were waste,
The wintry sun was near its set.

And of the young, and strong, and fair,
A lonely remnant, gray and weak,
Lingered, and shivered to the air
Of that bleak shore and water bleak.

Ah! age is drear, and death is cold!
I turned to thee, for thou wert near,
And saw thee withered, bowed, and old,
And woke all faint with sudden fear.

'Twas thus I heard the dreamer say,
And bade her clear her clouded brow;
'For thou and I, since childhood's day,
Have walked in such a dream till now.

'Watch we in calmness, as they rise,
The changes of that rapid dream,
And note its lessons, till our eyes
Shall open in the morning beam.'

poem by William Cullen Bryant
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A Forest in the Garden

A Gardener with saintly vision,
Planted a garden making its division,
Into the zones two.

Fed he each plant and tree,
With the pure blood of his hopes;
And soon each nook and corner,
Began to flourish and blossom too.

Before they bore the mellow fruit,
And fragrant flowers with shades,
Light, deep and dark;
And enjoyed he the days of solace,
Death made him depart to the world next.

How sooner the garden changed;
Into a forest teeming with wild animals,
The hogs, the wolves, the snakes, the rats,
Came out of the kennels, hovels and holes,
Move they freely, with liberty, unafraid.

Their avaricious bellies are possessed,
With ever enhancing increasing appetite,
And each victual adds fuel to flames,
No laws, no scruples, no morals they obey.

The seats where cuckoos and nightingales,
Were to build up nests for the descendants,
Are usurped, snatched by crows and owls,
Their voices irritate the more indwellers.

From morn to eve they serve but themselves,
Feeding upon the leaves, flowers and fruit,
They even gnaw crust hard around the stems,
Yet night comes with the healing air and dew.

The eyes amaze at the miraculous game,
When on the morn next it appears unharmed,
For it was planted by a saintly man,
The eaters are to pass away,
The garden is to behind remain.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Real Game

Uninvited frequent gluttonous guest,
Visited and picked up one by one,
The elder and younger of the family,
Making each time the house desolate.

When I was hardly three years old,
And nothing about painful death was told,
Played carefree with half dressed friends,
And ran around the big tree of acacia,

Staining with dust, mud and water dirty,
Made filthy my legs and arms, feet and face,
My grandmother would then give me a bath,
And I did weep, cryingly protested against,
The act of washing, making me neat.

She then mopped my body, wiped my eyes,
Doting upon me, she caressed my cheeks,
Embracing me she would often warm,
Titillate with the fingers frail and old,
Made me laugh to forget the cold,
She hid behind the door, under the cots,
Played hide and seek to make me please.

Ah! One morning she lay stiff, could not rise,
Then was dressed with the suit of cotton white,
As she would go on the journey long,
Gathered men, women, young and old,
Some wailed, some sniffed, some silent sat.
But played I with the friends of my age,
And ate yellow rice with the belly fill.

In the evening they shouldered the cot,
The procession advanced leaving me depressed,
Turned the corner, with the sacred chorus.
I stood stunned in the middle of the yard,
Staring to the street, questioning the walls,
“Why had they not taken me along? ”

At night I cried aloud when I found,
An empty bed laid in the deserted corner,
I sought under the cots, behind the doors,
Where she did hide, but could not find.
A pair of shoes, the clothes on cord,
Consoled me well, told me the truth,
Ah! The real game at last she had played.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Out Of Their Hands

Feeble hands and weak knees,
They who escape will be refugees onthe plains of the mountains! !
And like the doves of the valleys nearby;
For, they will lack water and food,
Because, the joy of peace are now gone far out of their hands!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Banyan Tree

Banyan tree, banyan tree
that century old banyan tree
standing grandeurly for us to see
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Cool breeze passing through
seeking blessings of banyan tree
branches shaking in approval
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Glassy green with majestic trunk
touching the earth, not breaking free
shelter home for different birds
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Yellowish streaks, some with reddish tinge
welcome every season with a glee
symbol of eternal life
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Shedding leaves, like tears falling
a grandfather lamenting on its knees
new plants cuddling around
banyan tree, banyan tree.

Lord Buddha became its buddy
meditation was the only key
peace you get underneath
that is why it is banyan tree.

Banyan tree, banyan tree
wish fullfilling, it is banyan tree
just pray here and let you see
Banyan tree, banyan tree.

A life giver and just for free
Banyan is my national pride
preserve these at any cost
don't commit a homicide?

God blessed us with banyan tree
heat absorbing banyan tree
has healing powers this banyan tree
banyan tree, banyan tree.
---- X -----
copyright/Children of Lost God/Tribhawan Kaul
All rights reserved

poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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An Abstract painting

My eyes fall on an abstract painting
of which my girlfriend,
wants to paint a series
that may hang in board halls
and offices.

There’s something hot and alive
in the background
that changes from golden yellow,
to flame orange
and flows into black red
and a green line
runs from the foreground
into the horizon.

With strong straight lines wood,
and sink plate shacks appear
with horizontal and vertical lines
and it looks like a squatter camp,
or the houses of a headman
in the country.

To me it looks like drums and large tin cans
that lies around in the front
and a big old TV set
with sitting places round it
and at the back,
there are two wooden pens
to keep in sheep and goats.

Maybe there’s red sand
on the one side
and yellow and green grass
for grazing on the other side,
but honestly I do not want to stay
in such a place.

[Reference: Abstract painting by Mandi. Look at the painting on my mabooki webpage: http: //www.mabooki.com/poems/display/1416_An_Abstract_ painting.htm]

poem by Gert Strydom
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Replacement

Amid the village is a deserted house,
That gives depressing impressions to the onlookers,
The windows and doors are shabby broken
There dangle bats on the walls at nights, and crows caw
At noons in the branches where nightingales sang,
And often at nights mysterious sounds we hear.

Ah! Four decades ago it was inhibited,
Noise of the children spilled out of its walls,
They all played hide and seek with the befriended kids.
I too played believing in the innocent notion
That time and tide could not part us asunder,
Whether rains rain and clouds thunder,
But my self-assumed belief proved fragile,
Then the shocking moments approached,
And occupants departed to a better dwelling abroad.

I often recall the moment when they departed,
The whole village gathered, men, women and children wept,
Their eyes were red as if blood would dropp soon;
They were kissing, embracing the departing fellows,
I wept too stealthily, and felt as if my soul was being torn apart.

Now after many years their descendents come and go,
Nobody receives or bids them farewell, nor do they bother anyone,
And each time they visit, they replace on the gate,
The rusty lock with the new one.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Once upon a summer's day......

Sweet voices, sound like little bells
as children frolic on the dells
picking yellow buttercups
and four leaf clovers for good luck.

With chubby, tiny hands they forage,
in the grassy lush green woods
ferreting out treasures
within the sunlit lands.

A melody of summer sounds
hums peacefully and sweet.
Blackberries and fruits are plenty
for a happy tea time treat.

Dogs are romping in the meadows,
fetching sticks and licking hands
giving such delightful pleasures
now, here comes the ice cream van.

Chocolate lollies, ice cream cornets,
ice cold drinks are what they need,
begging mother for some silver
to go buy a snack to eat.

Dodging wasps that swarm about them,
waiting for the chance to sting,
pretty butterflies abounding,
now the birdies start to sing.

Dusk is coming, sun is setting,
little legs are tired now,
soon the homeward track they're treading,
craving for a comfy bed.

Bath time, bed time, night time stories
of the daytime fun they've had.
Sleepy heads on plumped up pillows,
say goodnight to mum and dad.

poem by Ruth Walters
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Peacocks and Nightingales

Danseuse peacocks frequently assembled
Under an arbour of a banyan tree
And enacted among themselves their skills.
Each came with mind and eye set on
Its feat and went with no notice on others feet.

Melody queen nightingales often gathered
Upon lush branches of a banyan tree
And recited among themselves their skills.
Each came with mind and ear set on its tone
And went with no effect from others’notes.
Peacocks and nightingales for dance and music
Aren’t good audience; it must be ducks and doves.

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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My Kingdom

Down by a shining water well
I found a very little dell,
No higher than my head.
The heather and the gorse about
In summer bloom were coming out,
Some yellow and some red.

I called the little pool a sea;
The little hills were big to me;
For I am very small.
I made a boat, I made a town,
I searched the caverns up and down,
And named them one and all.

And all about was mine, I said,
The little sparrows overhead,
The little minnows too.
This was the world and I was king;
For me the bees came by to sing,
For me the swallows flew.

I played there were no deeper seas,
Nor any wider plains than these,
Nor other kings than me.
At last I heard my mother call
Out from the house at evenfall,
To call me home to tea.

And I must rise and leave my dell,
And leave my dimpled water well,
And leave my heather blooms.
Alas! and as my home I neared,
How very big my nurse appeared.
How great and cool the rooms!

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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