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Nico Judd Oct 11
Where are you, my daughter?
death has come to reclaim her own
eager to quelch this mother’s perfection
Seizure; as in the taking of

Death has come to reclaim her own
You, grabbed and shaken by the collarbone
Seizure; as in the taking of
this hungry heart braced to break

You, grabbed and shaken by the collarbone
C’mon, baby girl. C’mon wake up
this hungry heart braced to break
panic erupting softly from the belly

C’mon, baby girl. C’mon wake up
speeding now. Flailing limbs grasping at God
panic erupting softly from the belly
not fall, but autumn. not winter, but death.

Speeding now. Flailing limbs grasping at God
eager to quelch this mother’s perfection
not fall, but autumn. not winter, but death.
Where are you, my daughter?
Written August 24, 2020
Aer Oct 8
all it took was a single look- he fell for her.
angel eyes in clear blue skies, he only thought of her.

the sun created her dancing raven locks,
capturing life- tempting him to reach towards her.

the moon would rise, singing solitary melodies,
and in his inner strife, he only wished for her.

the stars could taint the lonely night
but their brilliance couldn't stain his love for her.

chrysanthemums reflected in her sancy diamond lies,
and for her sustenance, he picked bouquets for her.

her beauty shone like carved, clear stone,
and his heart was enveloped in a cold embrace from her.

and as he fell, a willing victim to the abyss,
he smiled, as if all his breath was hers.
a ghazal attempt I wrote for class about a man with an...unhealthy obsession with the abyss.
[ Translation of Ghazal
“Dil Mein Ek Lehar Si Uthi Hai Abhi”
Poet: Nasir Kazmi ]

Heart flutters –
with a new beat
A fresh breeze is on the move

An uproar in cavern-of-heart,
down goes
     some wall

Fragile spirits
and now, a new scar

Foggy ghosts of forgotten isles
still –
echo your voice

Down the dark alleys
searching …
for you
Ghulam Ali's performance --
دل میں بس تجھ کو بسا رکھا ہے
لب پے بس تجھ کو سجا رکھا ہے
دیکھ  آ دل کے میکدے میں کبھی
درد ہی درد چھپا رکھا ہے
مجھ کو ویرانیاں ہی بھاتی ہیں
دشت میں ڈیرہ لگا رکھا ہے
بے ثباتی سے واسطہ ہے مرا
ریت کا گھر بھی بنا رکھا ہے
عشق کے رستہ پر خار پے بھی
بوجھ تیرا ہی اٹھا رکھا ہے
آج خود اپنے لہو سے ارسل
بزم میں دیپ جلا رکھا ہے

Dil main bas tujh ko basa Rakha ha
Lab pe bas tujh ko saja Rakha ha
Dekh aa Dil Ke maikaday main Kabhi
Dard hi dard chupa Rakha ha
Mujh ko veeraniyan hi bhaati Hain
Dasht main dera Laga Rakha ha
Bay sabati se waasta ha Mera
Rait ka Ghar BHI bana Rakha ha
Ishq ke Rasta e pur khaar pe BHI
Bojh tera hi utha rakha ha
Aaj khud apnay lahoo se ARSAL
Bazm main deep jala Rakha ha
اب تو آنکھوں سے پلایا جاۓ
ان کی زلفوں پے لٹایا جاۓ
لمس میں ان کے بجلیاں صدہا
پس کہ خرمن کو جلایا جاۓ
میں عدم میں ،وہ منتظر میرا
کاش اک بار جگایا جاۓ
غاصبوں نے قلم بھی  چھین لیا
اب کے نشتر ہی اٹھایا جاۓ
بھر گیا دل تری کرامت سے
اب نہ اعجاز دکھایا جاۓ
پس کہ کہنے کو کیا رہا باقی
نام ارسل کا مٹایا جاۓ
I travel nightly to and fro on windswept sandy dunes,
and watch the far side of the moon, for it won't face me here.

I hear the Mourning Dove start sighing meloncholy tunes
in morning light, which starts too soon, and always finds me here.

I ponder life so quizzically, and contemplate the rhunes,
for I must never ask the Moon, whose silence chills me here.

Behind the glowing clouds that veil the fine majestic moon,
the bride awaits beloved groom, as I stand watching here.

"I am your mate, have you forgotten, my dear silent Moon?"
"We are a single flesh, in tune.  Why have you left me here?"

"Your face aloft and turned away, to stars you wail and croon,"
"and seek your other now lost Lune, while I am waiting here!"

Her farthest edges faintly glow. I'd pay to watch her swoon,
to my heart's rhythm late in June, yet I'm imprisoned here.

My chest, that swells by what I knew of times our love did bloom,
deflates remembering its doom, and I am stranded here.

"Too high to reach, in clouds cocooned, my far beloved Moon,
return to me on Earth and soon, or find my bones still here.

(C)2020, Christos Rigakos
Hrithik Hiran May 19
Chehre pe gira jo woh boond uske
Jhalak ke aayi meri muskan aise
Ke Bikhri hui zindagi mein baras baithe
Khoyi hui aashaon ki baarish jaise

Bhul na paunga woh din
Pehli baarish jo bitayi thi saath mein
Chaatha tha mere paas bhi
Par ghus gaya tumhaare sang mein

Ek choti chathri aur hum do uske neeche
Bheeg rahe the hum aadhe aadhe
Par aise bheegne ka mazaa he hai kuch aur
Jab Aaghosh ke woh pal mile na kabhi aur

Chalte rahe hum aahista apne bus ki or
Kya batau kaise bitaye woh 5 minute
Unke Bheege zulfein jo karr rahe the shor
Chodke use apne bus mein
Bheegta raha uss pal ki yaadon mein

Aaj bhi Barsat jab bhi kare
Chaatha lene ko majboor
Yaad tumhari he karta hu Ke kaash tum hoti
Ghus jaata tumhare he chatri ki chaav mein
Pehli baarish ki un boondon ko chakhne
Ke kya swad aaj bhi wahi hai
Jo uss din chakha tha saath mein humne
This is about that special rain we all have had in our life in HINDI.
Hope you all like it!
What Happened to Them?
by Nasir Kazmi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Those who came ashore, what happened to them?
Those who sailed away, what happened to them?

Those who were coming at dawn, when dawn never arrived ...
Those caravans en route, what happened to them?

Those I awaited each night on moonless paths,
Who were meant to light beacons, what happened to them?

Who are these strangers surrounding me now?
All my lost friends and allies, what happened to them?

Those who built these blazing buildings, what happened to them?
Those who were meant to uplift us, what happened to them?

NOTE: This poignant poem was written about the 1947 partition of India into two nations: India and Pakistan. I take the following poem to be about the aftermath of the division.

Climate Change
by Nasir Kazmi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The songs of our silenced lips are different.
The expressions of our regretful hearts are different.

In milder climes our grief was more tolerable,
But the burdens we bear today are different.

O, walkers of awareness's road, keep your watch!
The obstacles strewn on this stony path are different.

We neither fear separation, nor desire union;
The anxieties of my rebellious heart are different.

In the first leaf-fall only flowers fluttered from twigs;
This year the omens of autumn are different.

This world lacks the depth to understand my heartache;
Please endow me with melodies, for my cry is different!

One disconcerting glance bared my being;
Now in barren fields my visions are different.

No more troops, nor flags. Neither money, nor fame.
The marks of the monarchs on this land are different.

Men are not martyred for their beloveds these days.
The youths of my youth were so very different!

Nasir Kazmi Couplets

When I was a child learning to write
my first scribblings were your name.
―Nasir Kazmi, translation by Michael R. Burch

When my feet lost the path
where was your hand?
―Nasir Kazmi, translation by Michael R. Burch

Everything I found is yours;
everything I lost is also yours.
―Nasir Kazmi, translation by Michael R. Burch

Syed Nasir Raza Kazmi (1925-1972) was a renowned Urdu poet and playwright. His poetry continues to be used in Pakistan Television (PTV) shows and in Indian Bollywood films. Keywords/Tags: Nazir Kazmi, Urdu, translation, ghazal, couplet, love, pain, grief, melancholy, mrburdu
My Apologies, Sona
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My apologies, Sona,
if traversing my verse's terrain
in these torrential rains
inconvenienced you.

The monsoons are unseasonal here.

My poems' pitfalls are sometimes sodden.
Water often overflows these ditches.
If you stumble and fall here, you run the risk
of spraining an ankle.

My apologies, however,
if you were inconvenienced
because my dismal verse lacks light,
or because my threshold's stones
interfered as you passed.

I have often cracked toenails against them!

As for the streetlamp at the intersection,
it remains unlit ... endlessly indecisive.

If you were inconvenienced,
you have my heartfelt apologies!

by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, let us construct night
over the monumental edifice of silence.
Come, let us clothe ourselves in the winding sheets of darkness,
where we'll ignite our bodies' incandescent wax.
As the midnight dew dances its delicate ballet,
let us not disclose the slightest whispers of our breath!
Lost in night's mists,
let us lie immersed in love's fragrance,
absorbing the musky aromas of our bodies!
Let us rise like rustling spirits ...

Old Habits Die Hard
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The habit of breathing
is an odd tradition.
Why struggle so to keep on living?
The body shudders,
the eyes veil,
yet the feet somehow keep moving.
Why this journey, this restless, relentless flowing?
For how many weeks, months, years, centuries
shall we struggle to keep on living, keep on living?
Habits are such strange things, such hard things to break!

by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A body lies on a white bed—
dead, abandoned,
a forsaken corpse they forgot to bury.
They concluded its death was not their concern.
I hope they return and recognize me,
then bury me so I can breathe.

Keywords/Tags: Gulzar, Urdu, Hindi, Punjabi, Triveni, translation, life, death, love, ghazal, couplet, mrburdu
Strange Currents
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

O Khusrow, the river of love
creates strange currents:
the one who would surface invariably drowns,
while the one who surrenders, survives.

There are a number of translations of this poem, and they all involve some degree of interpretation. I can't claim that my interpretation is "correct" and sometimes poets are intentionally ambiguous. I based my translation on this explanation by Madhu Singh: “Ubhra-Floats: He who floats actually sinks (is lost) & and he who drowns actually reaches the other side (gets salvation).” In other words, one must stop struggling and surrender to the river of love. And this makes more sense to me than some of the other translations do.


Becoming One
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I have become you, as you have become me;
I am your body, you my Essence.
Now no one can ever say
that you are someone else,
or that I am anything less than your Presence!


I Am a Pagan
by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I am a pagan disciple of love: I need no creeds.
My every vein has become taut, like a tuned wire.
I do not need the Brahman's girdle.
Leave my bedside, ignorant physician!
The only cure for love is the sight of the patient's beloved:
there is no other medicine he needs!
If our boat lacks a pilot, let there be none:
we have god in our midst: we do not fear the sea!
The people say Khusrow worships idols:
True! True! But he does not need other people's approval;
he does not need the world's.

*****-e-ishqam musalmani mara darkaar neest
Har rag-e mun taar gashta hajat-e zunnaar neest;
Az sar-e baaleen-e mun bar khez ay naadaan tabeeb
Dard mand-e ishq ra daroo bajuz deedaar neest;
Nakhuda dar kashti-e maagar nabashad go mubaash
Makhuda daareem mara nakhuda darkaar neest;
Khalq mi goyad ki Khusrau but parasti mi kunad
Aarey aarey mi kunam ba khalq mara kaar neest.


Amir Khusrow’s elegy for his mother
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Wherever you shook the dust from your feet
is my relic of paradise!


by Amir Khusrow (1253-1325)
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

If there is an earthly paradise,
It is here! It is here! It is here!

Amir Khusrow (or Khusro) was born in 1253 A.D. in Patiyala, India, His paternal ancestors belonged to the nomadic tribe of Hazaras. Khusrow called himself an Indian Turk (Turk-e-Hind). He was a Sufi mystic, musician, poet, composer and scholar who wrote in Persian (Farsi) and Hindavi (Hindi-Urdu). Khusrow has been called the “Voice of India” and the “Father of Urdu literature.” He introduced the ghazal to India and made significant contributions to its development. He also wrote in other musical and verse forms, including qawwali, masnavi, qata, rubai, do-baiti and tarkib-band.? Keywords/Tags: Amir Khusrow, Khusro, India, Urdu, Hindi, Farsi, Sufi, ghazal, love
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