You sleep till late,
while I wake early
and wait
for the slumber leading from
the excesses of
Saturday night
to end.

Or sometimes keep
peeping into our bedroom, while
getting ready, watering the plants,
feeding the cats.

Looking in, at you sleeping,
like you do,
your nose buried in your pillow.

Smelling like you do,
(as I keep telling you)
like a rubber balloon.

Waiting for you to wake
up. So I can see your searching
eyes, looking for me
to kiss your sleep away.

And then you sit
up in bed, wanting
your hot cup of strong
sweet tea, and the news
of the day.

And after that first
kiss of the day,
I go back to getting ready,
watering the plants, feeding
the cats, and waiting
for the next one that comes
when you’re getting out
of our bed, and starting our one day
together.

Fame

The best thing

about being famous

is when you walk

down the street

and people turn round

to look at you

and bump into things.

Vanity Press

Fell in love with my editor

wrote poems, uearned for her lips

She married a literary critic

now sends me rejection slips.

You Asked For a Poem

You asked for a poem

off the top of my head

I plucked out a hair

“That’s not fair”, you said.

A Brush with Authority

I had a brush with authority

Not only did it tell me

What to paint and when

But also which colours to use.

In Good Hands

Whenever night falls

The earth is always

There to catch it.

Ring

Your finger

sadly

has a familiar ring

about it.

Love Cycle

Up against the wall

locked in passionate embrace

our two bicycles.

Whoops!

You are strangely excited

as we enter the crowded bar

and find a small table in the corner.

You insist on fetching the drinks

and before disappearing

squeeze a note into my hand.

It reads: “Why go home tonight?

I have a room. I have a bed.

I have a spare toothbrush.”

I recognize my own handwriting.

Away from You

Away from you

I feel a great emptiness

a gnawing loneliness

With you

I get that reassuring feeling

of wanting to escape.

You and I

I explain quietly. You
hear me shouting. You
try a new tack. I
feel old wounds reopen.

You see both sides. I
see your blinkers. I
am placatory. You
sense a new selfishness.

I am a dove. You
recognize the hawk. You
offer an olive branch. I
feel the thorns.

You bleed. I
see crocodile tears. I
withdraw. You
reel from the impact.

Cake

i wanted one life
you wanted another
we couldn’t have our cake
so we ate eachother.

John in the garden
Playing goodies and baddies
Janet in the bedroom
Playing mummies and daddies
Mummy in the kitchen
Washing and wiping
Daddy in the study
Stereotyping

- Roger McGough

…in a way.

A friend of mine wrote these two poems. What I’d like is your reactions. Dipali? MM? Chandni? River? Eastmancolour? – all of you especially. Oh, and all the rest too.

1.

A dream in a dream of a dream come true,
A world make belief of flattering words strung together,
A conversation of untold lies and unheard truth,
Of impulsive love and poised lust…
A dream in a dream of a dream come true.

Joy plucked from the bosom of fleeting time,
A sprinkle of happiness adding warmth to the bouquet,
An uproar of calm consideration and practical patience,
Of judgment unheld and sentences unpassed…
A dream in a dream of a dream come true.

An unventured, unplanned, unseen expedition,
Into a world of torture with a silver lining,
Ending in life and love and bliss and desire,
All, pardoned, for a breath of fresh air and a night of sleep…
A woman in a dream of a fantasy come true.

I cannot say if my heart is yours or if yours is mine, all I can hope is for the foresight of wisdom into taking not the wrong decisions, of not jumping the gun, of patiently waiting for the spirit to mature and the love to ferment and for a saturation of smiles to last the wait…

2.

Have I left you with anything to say??
I have but rented a smile and stolen a little laughter…
Nights with you, now, new days to look forward too,
Conversations of suicidal tendencies and other frivolous disasters…
I wish you words to lighten up the gloomy twilights,
So that I may but stare at the birth of my dreams,
For with you not only are the devil’s desires fulfilled,
But many more are conceived through immaculate conception.

A blinded prophet lost for mere rhyme
Does but earn the luxury to lead away from astray
On the wings of hope and dreaded desire…
Oh poor wish come true, you follow only death to its end,
Be wary, be wise,
For it is not life you see, my darling Mannat,
but a serpent with the apple of demise in his eye!

- lost for the meaning of life…never for words!

…and I will take another couple of days to start again.

In the meanwhile, here are some poems – very interesting ones – that I just read:

1.

Not Yet My Mother

Yesterday I found a photo
of you at seventeen,
holding a horse and smiling,
not yet my mother.

The tight riding hat hid your hair,
and your legs were still the long shins of a boy’s.
You held the horse by the halter,
your hand a fist under its huge jaw.

The blown trees were still in the background
and the sky was grained by the old film stock,
but what caught me was your face,
which was mine.

And I thought, just for a second, that you were me.
But then I saw the woman’s jacket,
nipped at the waist, the ballooned jodhpurs,
and of course the date, scratched in the corner.

All of which told me again,
that this was you at seventeen, holding a horse
and smiling, not yet my mother,
although I was clearly already your child.

-Owen Sheers

2.

Now and Then

“Now that I’m fifty-seven”,
My mother used to say,
“Why should I waste a minute?
Why should I waste a day

Doing the things I ought to
Simply because I should?
Now that I’m fifty-seven
I’m done with that for good.”

But now and then I’d catch her
Trapped in some thankless chore
Just as she might have been at
Fifty-three or fifty-four

And I would say to her
(And I have to bite my tongue)
That if you mean to learn a skill
It’s well worth starting young

And so, to make sure I’m in time
For fifty, I’ve begun
To do exactly as I please
Now that I’m thirty-one.

-Sophie Hannah

3.

Reading My Son

His last school days; he strolls through the door,
his shirt signed in fat felt-tips by his mates.
Sophie loves him loads and Todd reminds him
to keep in touch by nightly MSN.
Jodie’s going to miss his wicked laugh.
Mel rates his hair and someone wants his babies.

I try to read him. He drinks orange juice
straight from the carton, towering over me.
He’s going out tonight. He turns the bass up.
The shirt’s sloughed off. I’ll hold it once he’s gone.

-Catherine Smith

Mom sent this to me today…and I think it’s lovely. And, I think the one person who embodies both of these perspectives is my Mom. She’s been the best mother I could ever think anyone could be – and I hope I’ll be like her in this way too – along with all the other ways that I’m like her – and so proud that I am. She’s also (apart from being a mother, wife and friend, AND a practising Doctor), since the last 5 years, been running the school that my grandmother had started about 27 years ago. And, the way she’s so involved with every child in the achool – makes me so proud. And, that’s how, the rest of us – Papa, Saahil and I – help out with every year’s annual function for the school – and it’s so awesome every year.

Love you, Ma.

“Whose child is this?”

I asked one day

Seeing a little one

Out at play.

“Mine”, said the PARENT

with a tender smile

“Mine to keep a little while.

To bathe his hands

and comb his hair,

To tell him what he is to wear.

To prepare him that he

may always be good,

And each day do the

things he should.”

“Whose child is this?”

I asked again

as the door opened and

someone came in,

“Mine”, said the TEACHER

with the same

tender smile,

“Mine to keep just

for a little while.

To teach him how to be

gentle and kind,

to train and direct his

dear little mind.

To help him live by

every rule.

And get the Best he

can from SCHOOL.

“Whose child is this?”

I asked once more.

Just as the little one

entered the door,

“Ours”, said the PARENT

and the TEACHER

as they smiled

And each took the hand,

of the little child-

“OURS to love and

train together,

Ours this blessed task TOGETHER!”

HAPPY TEACHER’S DAY!!!

Who does not travel,
Who does not read,
Who does not listen to music,
Who does not enjoy himself.

He dies slowly…
Who destroys his self-esteem,
Who refuses the help of others.

He dies slowly…
Who becomes a slave of habit,
Repeating the same trajectory everyday.
Who will not change brands,
And dare not change the colour of his clothing.
Who will not converse with whom he does not know.

He dies slowly…
Who is afraid of passion
And the whirlwind of emotion,
That will return light to the eyes
And restore a broken heart.

He dies slowly…
Who does not change course when he is unhappy
At work or in his love-life,
Who will not take risks to pursue a dream,
Who will not, even once, take a chance.

Take a chance!
Live!
Do it today!
Don’t let yourself die slowly!
Don’t keep yourself from being happy!

- Pablo Neruda (poem translated from Spanish)

This is one of the most beautiful and poignant lines of poetry I’ve ever read.
The rest of the poem has to be read:

Kuchh to kaho meri dost
tum chup kyun ho…
waqt achha yaa bura
beet hee jaayega
hum to musaafir hain
ek ummeed liye,
koi lamha
kisi pardaao kaa nishan to laayega…

Kuchh to kaho meri dost…

Tum chup rahogi agar
mere azm ki anaa kya hogi
meri shohrat tumhari wahshat naa sahee
tumhare likhne se mere dil ko tasalli hogi…

Kuchh to kaho meri dost..

Manzil kuchh nahin hoti
thakey jismon ko bharam hota hai,
phir koi raah nikalti hai
phir chal detey hain
sirf pardaao aatey hain
nikal jaatey hain…
Phir chehre pe udaasi kaisi
kaali raat ki tarah
yeh chuppi kaisi…
khabar acchhi nahin
buri hee sahi
waqt hai yeh bhi
beet jaayega,
manzil kaa keh nahin saktey lekin
phir kisi pardaao kaa nishaan
kisi ummeed,
kisi muskan ki tarah
waqt bewaqt
chalaa hee aayega..

Kuchh to kaho meri dost…
tum chup kyon ho?

- Nilendu Sen

Main ye soch kar uske dar se uttha tha
Ki woh rok legi, manaa legi mujhko,

Hawaaon mein lehraata aata tha daaman
Ki daaman pakaD kar bittha legi mujhko,

Kadam aise andaaz se utth rahe thay
Ki aawaaz dekar bula legi mujhko,

Magar usne roka na mujhko manaaya
Na daaman hi pakDa na mujhko bitthaaya,

Na aawaaz hi di, na waapas bulaaya
Main aahista-aahista baDhta hi aaya,

Yahaan tak ki usse juda ho gaya main.

- Kaifi Azmi

Tu khursheed hai, baadalon mein na chhup
Tu mehtaab hai, jagmagaana na chhoD

Tu shokhi hai shokhi, riaayat na kar
Tu bijli hai bijli, jalaana na chhoD

Abhi ishq ne haar maani nahin
Abhi ishq ko aazmaana na chhoD

- Kaifi Azmi

You are the sun, don’t hide in the clouds
You are the moon, continue to shine.

You are mischievous seduction, don’t let it subside
You are the lightning, continue to strike.

Love has not yet admitted defeat
Continue to test it, as much as you like.

Translation by Pavan K. Varma

In the wake of the recent mania concerning making The Taj part of the new Seven Wonders of the World – and, the fact that all Indian television and radio channels, and mobile phone operators are making tonnes of money with this – here’s something from Sahir Ludhianvi:

taaj tere liye ik mazahar-e-ulfat hi sahi
tum ko is vaadi-e-rangeen se aqeedat hi sahi

[mazahar-e-ulfat = symbol of love; vaadi-e-rangeen = beautiful spot; aqeedat = respect/preference]

mere mehboob kaheen aur mila kar mujh se!

bazm-e-shaahi mein gareebon ka guzar kya maanee
sabt jis raah pe ho.n satavat-e-shaahi ke nishaan
us pe ulfat bhari ruuho.n kaa safar kya maani

[bazm-e-shaahi = royal court; sabt = etched]
[satavat-e-shaahi = royal grandeur; ulfat bhari ruuh = lovers]

meri mehboob pas-e-pardaa-e-tashheer-e-vafaa
tu ne satavat ke nishaano.n ko to dekha hota
murdaa shaaho.n ke maqaabir se bahalevaalee
apne taareek makaano.n ko to dekhaa hotaa

[pas-e-pardaa-e-tashheer-e-vafaa = behind the veil of this advertisement of faith/love] [satavat = wealth/grandeur; maqaabir (maqabaraa) = tomb; taareek = dark]

anaginat logo.n ne duniya mein mohabbat ki hai
kaun kehta hai ki saadiq na the jazbe un ke
lekin un ke liye tashheer ka saamaan nahin
kyun ke vo log bhi apni hi tarah mufalis the

[saadiq = true; tashheer = advertisement; mufalis = poor]

ye imaaraat-o-maqaabir ye faseele.n, ye hisaar
mutal-qulhukm shehenshaaho.n ki azamat ke sutuu.n
daaman-e-dahar pe us rang ki gulakaari hai
jis mein shaamil hai tere aur mere ajadaad kaa khoon

[hisaar = forts; mutal-qulhukm = unthinking/arrogant; azamat = greatness; sutuu.n = symbol]
[daaman-e-dahar = on the face of this world; gulakaari = flowers and vines; ajadaad = ancestors]

meri mehboob! unhein bhi to mohabbat hogi
jinki sannai ne bakhshi hai ise shakl-e-jameel
un ke pyaaron ke maqaabir rahe benaam-o-namuud
aaj tak un pe jalaayi na kisi ne qandeel

[sannai = artistry; shakl-e-jameel = beautiful form]
[benaam-o-namuud = without name or even a trace; qandeel = candle]

ye chamanzaar ye jamuna ka kinara ye mahal
ye munaqqash dar-o-deevaar, ye meheraab ye taaq
ik shehenshaah ne daulat ka sahara le kar
ham gareebo.n ki mohabbat ka udaayaa hai mazaak

[chamanzaar = garden; munaqqash = picturesque]

mere mehaboob kahin aur mila kar mujhse!

Whether flowers bloom or not

it’s spring today

On the paved footpath

with feet dipped in stone

a rather wooden tree

laughs out loud

chest bursting with fresh green leaves

Whether flowers bloom or not

it’s spring today.

The days of masking the sun

and then unmasking it

of laying people down in the lap of death

of picking them up again

those days that have passed this way

let them not return

That lad of many voices

who for a coin or two

would chirp like a koel down the street

in the ceremonial yellow of twilight

— those days have taken him away

With the sky like a red and yellow wedding invitation

on her head

clasping the railing to her breast

a dark and ugly unwed girl down this alley

played with such idle thoughts

Right then

there fluttered in, shamelessly, right onto her body,

oh damnation! A stupid, awful, foolish butterfly!*

Then the sound of a door slamming shut.

Hiding his face in the dark

that sinewy tree

was still laughing.

- Subhas Mukhopadhyay

jis’e paakar lag’e
ki apne ko paa liya
samajhna wo apna hai.
aur jis’e paakar
lag’e ki apne ko
kho diya,
samajhna wo aur bhi
apna hai.

Here’s to you, sweetie.
…just another 27 days to go.

aao ki koi khhwaab bunein kal ke vaaste
varnaa ye raat aaj ke sangeen daur ki
Das legi jaan-o-dil ko kuchh aise ki jaan-o-dil
ta’umr phir na koi haseen khwaab bun sakein

[bunein = to weave; sangeen daur = difficult times]
[Das legi = will bite; ta'umr = entire life]

go hum se bhaagti rahi ye tez-gaam umr
khwaabon ke aasare pe kaTi hai tamaam umr

[tez-gaam = fleet-footed]

zulfon ke khwaab, honThon ke khwaab, aur badan ke khwaab
meraaj-e-fan ke khwaab, kamaal-e-sukhan ke khwaab

[meraaj-e-fan = (to reach) summit of art; kamaal-e-sukhan = perfection in poetry]

tehzeeb-e-zindagi ke, farog-e-vatan ke khwaab
zindaan ke khwaab, kuuchaa-e-daar-o-rasan ke khwaab

[tehzeeb-e-zindagi = civilized life; farog-e-vatan = nation's upliftment]
[zindaan = prison; kuuchaa-e-daar-o-rasan = road leading to the gallows]

ye khwaab hi to apni jawaani ke paas thay
ye khwaab hi to apne amal ke asaas thay
ye khwaab mar gaye hain to be-rang hai hayaat
yoon hai ki jaise dast-e-tah-e-sang hai hayaat

[amal = work; asaas = foundation; hayaat = life]
[dast-e-tah-e-sang = hands crushed under a stone/helpless]

aao ki koi khwaab bunein kal ke vaaste
varna ye raat aaj ke sangeen daur ki
Das legi jaan-o-dil ko kuchh aise ki jaan-o-dil
ta’umr phir na koi haseen khwaab bun sakein