Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
......
Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train,
Fair Sacharissa lov'd, but lov'd in vain;
Like Phœbus sung the no less amorous boy;
Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy;
With numbers he the flying nymph pursues,
With numbers such as Phœbus' self might use;
Such is the chase when Love and Fancy leads,
O'er craggy mountains, and through flow'ry meads;
Invok'd to testify the lover's care,
Or form some image of his cruel fair:
......
I prefer red chile over my eggs
and potatoes for breakfast.
Red chile ristras decorate my door,
dry on my roof, and hang from eaves.
They lend open-air vegetable stands
historical grandeur, and gently swing
with an air of festive welcome.
I can hear them talking in the wind,
haggard, yellowing, crisp, rasping
tongues of old men, licking the breeze.
......
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passion and worship fed
......
The scent of desires and splashes of passion, a mix of effervescence with flames of fire, she glows like the silver rays of the moon
With wet lips as pen and her femininity as canvas, I seem helpless to describe the lady draped in a red saree
Adorned with delicate silver filigree earrings and the fine necklace swinging slowly, kissing her neck, arousing bubbles of jealousy in me
Eyes, beautiful as interstellar explosions, the left full of passionate wants and the other shy of my furtive gaze
Her stifling eyes speak of impetuous thoughts, combine as one, passions and lust
I hear my name unspoken in her warm untiring gaze - her mounds of pleasure inviting the baby in me to satiate his hunger
Her aromatic oxters were the wild storm in the forest of dreams, as she hypnotized me with her careless lips
Pressing kisses taste of our heaving needs, awakening wild passion within me
Her savage neckline took my breath away, the graceful claws pulled my sinful thoughts into her femininity - the delicious sparks tempting my startled masculinity
Like a teenaged butterfly she danced freely - gliding effortlessly beneath the sinful sheets like a mystical serpent
......
True life considers more than the vessel it resides in.
Sincere music’s insights are unlimited to the ears.
Authentic art faults never to its boundless perspectives.
Intuitive photography narrates beyond its frames.
Empathetic poetry humbles every language comprehensible.
True media is commissioned by the intangible.
Thursday 6 June 2024
......
Passion
I picked my soul that had sagged to the floor,
Cold and tired she lay at my feet, sunken.
Like an oversized underwear
She had fallen from underneath my body,
So I picked her up and clipped her to the hem of my heart,
Willing for her to stay a bit longer
“You must stay”
I said. disgruntle, dissatisfied.
......
In shadows of intelligence, a young man stood,
His mind ablaze, his spirit pure and good.
A brilliant flame, a flicker of creativity,
But society's pressure whispered for conformity.
With dreams of literature and arts so fine,
He yearned to let his creativity truly shine.
But the world, in its wisdom, had other plans,
Forcing the young man into law's demanding hands.
......
These are English translations of Urdu poems by Ahmad Faraz.
The Eager Traveler
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Even in the torture chamber, I was the lucky one;
When each lottery was over, unaccountably I had won.
And even the mightiest rivers found accessible refuge in me;
......
i am a hundred people at once,
a poet, a painter, a dreamer—
and i can’t remember which one of them is mine.
each morning,
i wake up with a new ambition,
a new hope to be something different.
but by the time the sun sets,
i’ve forgotten what i wanted to be,
because there’s always something more
pulling me in a thousand directions.
......