Mirza Ghalib Translations

Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869) is considered to be one of the best Urdu poets of all time. The last great poet of the Mughal Empire, Ghalib was a master of the sher (couplet) and the ghazal (a lyric poem formed from couplets). Ghalib remains popular in India, Pakistan, and among the Hindustani diaspora. He also wrote poetry in Persian.

It's Only My Heart!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s only my heart, not unfeeling stone,
so why be dismayed when it throbs with pain?
It was made to suffer ten thousand darts;
why let one more torment impede us?



Inquiry
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The miracle of your absence
is that I found myself endlessly searching for you.



Near Sainthood
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch

On the subject of mystic philosophy, Ghalib,
your words might have struck us as deeply profound
and we might have pronounced you a saint ...
Yes, if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not the blossomings of songs nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.

You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my dark, pensive thoughts.

We congratulate ourselves that we two are different:
that this weakness has not burdened us both with inchoate grief.

Now you are here, and I find myself bowing—
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.

I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.



The Mistake
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All your life, O Ghalib,
You kept repeating the same mistake:
Your face was *****
But you were obsessed with cleaning the mirror!



The Infidel
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ten thousand desires: each worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, yet still I yearn for more.

Being in love, for me there was no difference between living and dying ...
and so I lived each dying breath watching you, my lovely Infidel, sighing                       afar.



Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love requires patience but lust is relentless;
what colors must my heart leak, before it bleeds to death?



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Life becomes even more complicated
when a man can’t think like a man ...

What irrationality makes me so dependent on her
that I rush off an hour early, then get annoyed when she's "late"?

My lover is so striking! She demands to be seen.
The mirror reflects only her image, yet still dazzles and confounds my eyes.

Love’s stings have left me the deep scar of happiness
while she hovers above me, illuminated.

She promised not to torment me, but only after I was mortally wounded.
How easily she “repents,” my lovely slayer!



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It’s time for the world to hear Ghalib again!
May these words and their shadows like doors remain open.

Tonight the watery mirror of stars appears
while night-blooming flowers gather where beauty rests.

She who knows my desire is speaking,
or at least her lips have recently moved me.

Why is grief the fundamental element of night
when everything falls as the distant stars rise?

Tell me, how can I be happy, vast oceans from home
when mail from my beloved lies here, so recently opened?



Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!



Shared Blessings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She soon informed me that God does not belong to any one man!



Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Often we have heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I depart your paradise.



To Whom Shall I Complain?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To whom shall I complain when I am denied Good Fortune in acceptable measure?
Thus I demanded Death, but was denied even that dubious pleasure!



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You should have stayed a little longer;
you left all alone, so why not linger?

We’ll meet again, you said, some day similar to this one,
as if such days can ever recur, not vanish!

You left our house as the moon abandons night's skies,
as the evening light abandons its earlier surmise.

You hated me: a wife abnormally distant, unknown;
you left me before your children were grown.

Only fools ask why old Ghalib still clings to breath
when his fate is to live desiring death.


Bleedings
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Love requires patience while passion races;
must my heart bleed constantly before it expires?


Abstinence?
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Let me get drunk in the mosque,
Or show me the place where God abstains!


Step Carefully!
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Step carefully Ghalib—this world is merciless!
Here people will "adore" you to win your respect ... or your
downfall.


Drunk on Love
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She quickly informed me God belongs to no man!


Exiles
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

We have often heard of Adam's banishment from Eden,
but with far greater humiliation, I abandon your garden.


A lifetime of sighs scarcely reveals its effects,
yet how impatiently I wait for you to untangle your hair!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Every wave conceals monsters,
and yet teardrops become pearls.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


I’ll only wish ill on myself today,
for when I wished for good, bad came my way.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


People don’t change, it’s just that their true colors are revealed.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


Ten thousand desires: each one worth dying for ...
So many fulfilled, and yet still I yearn for more!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


Oh naïve heart, what will become of you?
Is there no relief for your pain? What will you do?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


I get that Ghalib is not much,
but when a slave comes free, what’s the problem?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


My face lights up whenever I see my lover;
now she thinks my illness has been cured!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


If you want to hear rhetoric flower,
hand me the wine decanter.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


I tease her, but she remains tight-lipped ...
if only she'd sipped a little wine!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


While you may not ignore me,
I’ll be ashes before you understand me.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

NEW TRANSLATIONS 03-01-2025

I long to embrace her, Ghalib,
whose thought is the rose in its dress of petals.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Wholly pledged to passion amid mundane life,
I worship lighting, lament the torched harvest.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nights, sleep and composure are his,
who sleeps entwined in your disheveled mane.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As a single ray of sunlight damns the dew to oblivion,
so I’m destroyed by a single kind glance.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I see her, my face lights up;
thus she thinks the patient is cured.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There’s no cure for passion, Ghalib. It’s the fire
that, ignited won’t burn, and, extinguished, refuses to die.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There, the arrogance of airs and appearances. Here, simple modesty.
If I were to meet her on the thoroughfare, would she invite me to her soiree?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I understood the merits of decorum and asceticism,
but wanted no part of them.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How could I have escaped,
when the sky spread its nets of stars?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An arrowless quiver, no hunter lying in ambush?
I’m content in my corner of the cage.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where does one plant the second footstep of longing, Lord,
when the first found an infinite desert?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Inquire with my heart about your negligent archery:
since there’s an arrow in my liver rather than higher.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Having murdered me, she foreswore further cruelty.
Such is her “repentance.”
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Thanks to passion, I developed a taste for life,
but seeking a cure for pain, I found pain beyond cure.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Due to weakness, my weeping became sighs.
Thus I learned water can evaporate.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To erase the thought of your elegant fingers
was to rip the fingernail from its flesh.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rain pouring down from spring clouds
is like weeping in grief at death’s separation.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

GHALIB ON DRUNKENNESS

To hear my rose-bestrewing speech,
first place the flagon before me!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let someone too obedient for wine and honey
transform our paradise into hell.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Grief overflows the cup despite the abundance of wine,
but this cupbearer’s slave, what griefs do I have?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Leave me alone at ZamZam because spinning in circles makes me dizzy.
And besides, my pilgrim’s loincloth has wine stains!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Will the One grants you such glorious radiance, O Moon,
not also grant me glorious wine?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the flagons and glasses are all filled,
the winehouse stands empty.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I drank wine all night, then at dawn
I washed the stains from my pilgrim’s loincloth.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the winehouse has been departed, do we care where we go?
Whether to the mosque, the classroom or some Sufi lodge?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We’re unaccustomed to leisure:
when the winehouse door closed, we visited the Ka’ba.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We departed Paradise for illusions here,
but the inebriation’s overwhelmed by the hangover.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

GHALIB ON GHALIB

Who doesn’t know Ghalib?
He’s a good poet with a terrible reputation.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Although there are other excellent poets,
they say Ghalib excels them.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Think of Poetry as an enchanted world rich with meaning:
every word, Ghalib, that charms my verse.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No matter where awareness flings its nets,
the Phoenix sleeps unseen in my nests of words.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

With his special style, Ghalib sang of subtleties.
It’s a public invitation, for friends in the know.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hearing my speech, accomplished critics
enjoined me to accessibility,
but my thoughts are complex
and if I don’t speak, I’m even harder to understand!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose bestows her glory, true,
but you have to open your eyes, Ghalib!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The shroud veiled my nakedness;
otherwise clothed, I disgraced life.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Confide in no one, Ghalib, for these days
no one keeps secrets, save the doors and walls.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When it’s allied with the enemy, there’s no trusting the heart.
My sighs? Ineffectual. My laments? In vain.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let me be punished, not tortured,
since I’m merely a sinner, not an infidel.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Something accounts for my reticence,
otherwise I can speak, can’t I?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

GHALIB ON LIFE AND LOVE

In a dream I transacted business with you,
but when I awoke there was neither profit nor loss.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All I know of my heart is this:
the more I sought it, the more you found it.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How to describe the intensity of her eyelashes?
I strung my clotted blood into coral prayer beads.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All my longings were silenced, transformed to blood.
Thus I became the extinguished lamp on a pauper’s grave.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alas, union with her was not my destiny.
Our life together would only have meant more procrastination.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I knew from your delicacy that your vows were nebulous.
Had one been firm, it could not have been so easily broken.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Joy is a drop in Oblivion’s river,
but boundless pain soon becomes its cure.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’m the captive of Love, the Huntress,
otherwise I’d have strength to flee.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your sidelong glances? Arousing.
Your cruelty? Demoralizing.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her temper’s an inferno,
but I’ll be ****** if I don’t desire hellfire.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ten thousand airs and graces
negated by a single tantrum.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where will the steed of life stop,
lacking hands on the reins and feet in the stirrups?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your glances, deadly daggers. Your winks, unerring.
You are allured by your own reflection.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If you can’t see my heart’s wound charring,
can’t you smell it, dear doctor?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’m dying with the longing to die;
death comes, but not quickly enough.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We went to complain about her negligence,
but she dismissed us with a glance and we disintegrated.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Whence, world-warming sun ray? Why not shine here?
Yet strange darkness descends like a shadow.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tyranny adores those who adore the tyrant;
she’s not cruel by being unkind.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Having adopted a mendicant’s rags, Ghalib,
I’m amazed by the spectacle of generous people.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I keep up awhile with each new jogger
yet fail to find a guide.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All creation moves toward entropy,
the sun a flickering candle in the wind.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fidelity if it holds fast is the root of faith;
if the Brahmin dies in the idol’s temple, bury him in the Ka’ba.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If I hadn’t been held up by day, would I have slept as comfortably by night?
Thankful for the theft, I bless the highwayman.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How small, our world to the oppressed
when a single ant’s egg is our entire sky.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You didn’t press your lips to another’s in kiss?
Save your breath, we also have tongues!
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t fall for the illusion of existence, Asad,
when our world’s one link in the chain of thought.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even if I live a few more days,
inside I’m resigned to someplace else.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My opposite became granite
when she saw my fluidity.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose unfurls as a means of taking leave;
fly, nightingale, fly, for the days of spring have fled.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Aloofness veils friendship;
when will you cease concealing you face from us?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where is there anyone not in need?
Where is there anyone who can fill anyone’s need?
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wealth of this world’s a lament, a handful of dust;
the sky’s a dull gray egg, to me.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why assume everyone would arrive at the same answer?
Come, let’s tour Mount Tur together.
—Mirza Ghalib, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Mirza Ghalib, translations, Urdu, Hindi, love, philosophy, heart, stone, sainthood



Earth’s least trace of life cannot be erased;
even when you lie underground, it encompasses you.
So, those of you who anticipate the shadows:
how long will the darkness remember you?
— by Mehmet Akif Ersoy, Turkish poet, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



The following translation is the speech of the Sibyl to Aeneas, after he has implored her to help him find his beloved father in the Afterlife, found in the sixth book of the Aeneid ...

The Descent into the Underworld
by Virgil
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Sibyl began to speak:

“God-blooded Trojan, son of Anchises,
descending into the Underworld’s easy
since Death’s dark door stands eternally unbarred.
But to retrace one’s steps and return to the surface:
that’s the conundrum, that’s the catch!
Godsons have done it, the chosen few
whom welcoming Jupiter favored
and whose virtue merited heaven.
However, even the Blessed find headway’s hard:
immense woods barricade boggy bottomland
where the Cocytus glides with its dark coils.
But if you insist on ferrying the Styx twice
and twice traversing Tartarus,
if Love demands you indulge in such madness,
listen closely to how you must proceed...”



Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936) was a Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. He was assassinated by Nationalist forces at the beginning of the Spanish Civil War and his body was never found.

Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.
I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.

I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.
I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.

I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.

When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.

Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.

Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.

I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.

At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.
No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.

Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.

Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.
Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.



La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.

What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked *******?

Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.

What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?

Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.

Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?

Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.

Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?

So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!

The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.



Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.



Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.
Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.

High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.
Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.

Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!

Cordoba. Distant and lone.



Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.

The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.

Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.

Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.

When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.

The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.

Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.



Despedida (“Farewell”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If I die,
leave the balcony open.

The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)

The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)

If I die,
leave the balcony open!



In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.
Heart.

In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.
Nightingale.

(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)

In the living morning
I wanted to be me.
Heart.

At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.
Nightingale.

Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!



I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.

Are you going, nightingale?
Go!

I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.

Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!

I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.

Are you departing, love?
Depart!

(To my deserted heart!)

I was born at night tall like swagger cane
A Friday's child - delivered with muse
That was fortunate enough for my parents
Oral poetry poured plentiful in the morning

That's what Saturdays are good for
Teachers worn their loincloth lose
As wine and fish soup flowed at ease
While farmers set out to burn in the sun

Now you'll understand why I chose not to be
a Saturday's child, I dread to be a farmer
Heavy drinking may not be my fate as well
It sure sets the mood right for what's right

I took sides with either of the two vices
I pitched my tent where grace and virtues lies

Love, faith and forgiveness principal are in
Christian school. Torrid anger thou must flay
While it's still displaying on the eastern tray
Ere its set on the *** laude of thy sterling
Prize. The other meek cheek of thine turn--
Though tough--to him that seek thy burn.

Gladly go not one but twain miles with
Him that bid thee. Distribute cheerfully
To widows cream bread and wine; the needy
And orphans--whether you're rolling in it--
Never neglect, and make no open show
Of thy charity: its trumpet do not blow.


Make mammon thy master nay. Believe
The Bible though you cannot It fathom
Out--the Spirit thy heart will guide. Kingdom
Eternal chiefly pursue; to goodness cleave.
Both parents and priests honour, and men
In authority obey. Keep the Lord's pen.

Fast and pray, playing not to the gallery.
In heaven's safe thy treasure store, where
Robbers and rust have no access nor share.
For worldly wants, soul, never you worry--
Jehovah-Jireh above knows thy very need,
Who gives in season due to the sower seed.

Salt and light on earth be. Thy righteousness
The Pharisees' must exceed. All differences
Reconciled, lest thy balance draws offence
By heaven's audit. Loincloth of faithfulness
Wrap. At a lady be weary to leer, and thy
***** bridle. To God thy heart wholly tie.

The log in thine own eyes first remove
Afore thy brother's speck you see. Grudge
Not but ask, seek and knock. Don't judge.
Such measure from others expect to them give--
Golden rule. Strive to enter in at the narrow
Gate: the rough, rugged road to the end follow.

1

Why was it that Tarzan
only did one loincloth wear?
answer:  
there was no clothes-shop there

2

Do you know Tarzan had a terrible phobia?
if you must know---it lasted for a long while-
a strong swimmer he was but  devastated by this condition
as once he was nearly swallowed up by an 8-metre crocodile

3      Bringing home Cheeta the naughty little chimpanzee
         was the idea of Jane
         who said to Tarzan--we had enough of each other--
         without Cheeta we would go insane!

4    
        Why was it Tarzan and Jane
        didn't raise a family?
         they were fighting the animal-poachers
         all day long--too busy!

5
          Of course Tarzan and Jane
          lived together in the tree
          they needed no beds
          but were content and happy

Relax.
I know your instincts are screaming to fight.
This is a mistake.
You will only hurt yourself.
Just relax.

You are frightened, confused, and angry.
This is only natural.
You will tell yourself to not feel these things.
This is a mistake.
Feel them, own them.
They are yours.
It is only natural.
You are being dragged backwards through a hedge.

You say,"Stop it!
The branches are tearing my shirt!
This is my favorite shirt!"
This is a mistake.
**** your shirt.
Tear it into bandanas,
sell them on Etsy.
Just buy more shirts.
Pack of four. $9.99. Wal-Mart.
Tell a stranger a story
about the scars the hedge gave you.
Maybe he'll trade you
a shirt for a good story.

But you say,"My pants!
The hedge is covering my favorite pants in grass stains!"
Stop that.
This is a mistake.
Cover your pants in new and interesting stains.
Paint in them.
Spill food on them.
Comfort a dying animal,
let it bleed on them.
Do too much *******,
**** yourself.
Get bored, cut them into daisy dukes.
Try wearing a skirt, a sarong, a loincloth, the wind.
Calm down,
they're just pants.

"But what if I break the hedge!
The Homeowner's Association will **** me!"
This is also a mistake.
**** the Homeowner's Association.
You did not choose the hedge.
The hedge did not choose you.
And once you're on the other side,
you won't to answer to them.
No one will find you, and
you don't have to come back.
Unless you want to.
But that is your decision.
Yours and the hedge's,
no one else.
Remember that.

"But who is dragging me through this hedge?
What kind of hedge is it?
Why is this happening to me?"
These are the wrong questions.
You are being dragged backwards to through a hedge.
That is all that matters.
Concern yourself only with what matters.
Making it through.
Landing on your feet, or
barring that, getting back up.
Seeing what's on the other side.

So you ask,"what is on the other side?
What if I hate it?
What if it's a parking lot?
What if it's all sticky?
What if everything's on fire?
What if it's just more hedges?"
Relax.
You're looking at it all wrong.
Maybe your friends are all there.
Maybe it is all sticky.
Maybe it's a combination liquor store,
ice-creamery,
minigolf course,
and you can pour whiskey on your face,
and eat Rocky Road,
and finally get a hole-in-one on that ******* windmill.?
Maybe it's the way home.
You're still looking at it wrong.
This, too, is a mistake.

You were dragged backwards through a hedge.
Dragged.
Backwards.
And you made it.
While you were worrying
you didn't notice you already made it through.
So now you're here,
on the other side.
Now it's your call.
You can do as you wish.
Watch the sunset.
Or dive into a new hedge, maybe
headfirst this time.
Or walk home.
Or make a new home.
It's your choice.

And really, who's going to stop you?
Some puny ******* bush?

"Come home."
Home?
The home where I once lived?
Where the days were good though the nights were bad,
And dawn and dusk were equally sad?
Home?
Was I loved there or just a regent on rent,
Who only over stayed his welcome due to the owner's consent?  
Home?
Where the heart lies is home.
But what if the heart goes where no one knows?
Is the heart still at home?
Or will it come back after show?
She cries, "Come home!"
Though I ran off,
With my tux in a loincloth.
Abandoning the warm soup with it's cold broth.
But leaving there infected by her cough.
I coughed the whole way to the motel.

We reached the island in the late afternoon, it was no bigger than a cricket pitch to my eyes.  The runway was a sick joke. There was none!  There was a strip of land that was clear of jungle, (the runway) started in the sea, and finished in the sea, and was full of big potholes. It had been a Japanese airfield in the second world war, now it was covered in cows, goats and children.
We flew very low over the island twice to warn them of our intention to land.
We were very low on fuel and needed to land as soon as possible. "Here we go," the pilot grinned *hit or bust! we  almost landed in the sea, and bounced down the runway, we were less than fifty yards from the surf when we turned and trundled over to the refuelling station. I watched in trepidation as the second aircraft attempted to land, bounced twenty feet in the air and took off again, skimming the sea. It managed to land at the second attempt, bounced several times, and turned with it's tail wheel almost in the sea.  I turned to say something to Gordon and saw the pilot and aircrew looking up at the starboard engine and wing of our aircraft, which appeared to have gone green. "Looks like the reduction gears have packed in."  That was the opinion of the air frame fitters. "Can you fix it?" That was the pilot.
"Yes, but not here." the fitter said shaking his head, "It's stuck in coarse pitch so you'll need to take it easy." The pilot laughed. "If it's stuck in coarse pitch we will have to be flat out to get her off the ground!"
A little old man dressed in a loincloth, ragged shirt, and sandals manned the fuel pump and began to pump fuel into the fuel tanks located in each wing.
When that was done, about three hours later, the pilot  had him douse the wing and engine cover that was covered in the green grease, and we did our best to clean it up. As soon as the other aircraft was refuelled, we took off again. "Next stop Darwin, fingers crossed." He laughed. I could only admire his happy go lucky attitude and determination, I think he would have got us safely to our destination, even if we lost a wing!

the droning image before me,
a wetted silhouette hushed in loincloth.

all are tiny currents with their immediacy;
confound careless grace for warmbound sweat
of the swollen world in the heat of an uncollected moment.

dartle I may in delight of frenzy, cold air nibbling
at my feet. river runs pale in the narrow grey-faced street.
knee-deep into the water of no rain, simply a dream

of wide hours. mind you in the **** of minutes
and fine-tune this machine infected with body english;
basking in the flood of midnight – this swirling fish

in the permeable navy: a nautical breath tender in its rasp;
a trifle on the things and their undulations. remember you
in that stolen night, face to face with walls their blackened meanings

faces pining away in transit – if the plenitude of voices
in the station would merge and form a whole new world,
are we to drown in the sound and emerge mute with wonder?

I squint at the city across the balustrade, its sibilant air
of disgust – I recognize mooned tapestries and see myself
as one of the lights, the appropriate tension of hands that

have    their own silences held to themselves
like how I ***** you in light.

I’m lying awake
In my thoughts contractions
You are the weapon
That will eventually slaughter me
Because you’re stronger than I
Yeah, you’re the only one
Who can nail me to my bed
Without using any nails
And even though I’m greedier than you
You’re still my Judas
When you whisper in my ear
Your yellow pupils radiating heat like the sun
Threatening to turn me into ashes before I die
My mother always said one could turn blind by staring into the sun
Is it the truth?
I defy her advice
For a moment the sun in your eyes belong with the ocean in mine
You gave me an answer to my question
So
Let me turn the water in your body into wine
I am thirsty
Let me enjoy one last supper
Surrounded by white sheets covering just as much as a loincloth would
Let me show you that Paradise is real
And take you there
Let me enjoy one last sin
Before I sacrifice myself on my oakwood bed
Your hands make me feel resurrected
Let me hope for salvation

my hairline sweat and tears
mist from a shoreline,
paint down my wrinkles like waves cresting
a rocky beach,
my colors so dissolved, all my fleshy canvases
exposed to too much sun, my piercings all droopy,
teeth falling out. I need a hair cut a good dentist and Dr.
Phil. Or just strip down to my loincloth
go back to Rochester,
run with  wildness, as I did then
through brush and bathed in purple
abandonement, virile unabsorbed
lazing under the mulberry brush
the willows swaying down to touch my unscarred youngness,
with hope with hunger, then.

"my heart, all of me, this tree
turning its leaves
one by one in the wind

fluttering rustling with the call
of your closed lips

mere light can move it
a touch of light
can make it sing

the shell of our lives capturing
the tatters of a song
: a torn veil, the unraveled loincloth
of a wandering god

these sharp caressing tatters
tongues
of a song"

Ioana Ieromin, from *The Lens of a Flame

The white collar - his pinstripe suit tailored to his broad
figure, his shirt starched, his brogues gleaming - returned from his nine-to-five job.
He stepped in to find that his home had been robbed.
Silk wallpaper torn, the glass of pictures cracked, a sight
that almost made him drop.
Settled in a corner was a mob, he held onto it like it was
a staff, and thought of his God.
Could He really sanction such absurdity? Was a thought
beyond his ability to focus on for too long.
He stood there, rooted to the floor, remembering the
times when he still had more, before he’d walked in
through the door.
He was well-off, he was confident, clever, and never let
a droplet of alcohol touch his lips, or his nose catch the
wisps of smoke.
He was always handsomely attired, groomed, admired,
desired and scarcely ever tired before his head touched
the pillow.
A widow yet again allowed herself to feel the throbbing
stream of love and adolescent liveliness at his sight.
He was a man reputed to have found the true light, yet
now it seemed not so bright.
The white collar - trying not to faint - stood in the dim
hallway.
There was nothing to say to the remains of his wealth.
A neglected watch was left askew on the shoe rack - perhaps out of compassion - and he took it in his hand.
It ticked and breathed like a dying bird, and he pressed
his thumb against the thick glass, as if to feel some of its
waning life.
It cost him a fortune, it really has, yet even that futile
thing could not save a man returning home at dawn to
find he was left to die.
Thinking hurt,
Seeing the mess, the tumult and the damage hurt even
more.
It didn’t cross him that the burglar - though he doubted
this was the work of one person - could still be inside. In
the shadows.
The clock in his hand not abandoned, only as of yet unheeded.
But he didn’t flick the switch, didn’t take off his blazer,
nor did he open his eyes. He embraced his death.
His house was ransacked, his prosperity killed, and his
debts would arrive, unpaid, himself soon deemed bankrupt by the court. His image torn my the claws of the
tiger of fate.
No one in the firm he was part of would accept him, he
would be fired at once. Mister Jeffrey would be tact, gentle, but his phone-call would not save the white collar.
The clock in his hand wouldn’t save him too.
His starched shirt - now damp at the armpits -wouldn’t
save him, his suit would be - no matter what - stuck to
him like the drenched skin of a creature from hell, or an
angel from above. It would embrace him, he could cry,
scream or deteriorate, yet it would neither hate nor love.
He couldn’t believe it,
He begun laughing.
He had nothing, was nothing. He was free.
Feeling more alive than ever, he walked along the dark
hallway. He was happier than the whole organisation,
more free than the burglar or the burglars whom had
stripped him of meaning, more free than the preachers,
the scholars, the commoners. The aristocrats. They had
meaning, were fooled by meaning - he had nothing, was
fooled by nothing.
The idea of pressing the barrel of his souvenir rifle
against his temple and pulling the trigger didn’t seem so
bad - death wasn’t any less freeing than life, if not more
freeing - but he didn’t need suicide.
He found something by finding nothing.
Suppose that’s what the dead feel, he thought, and
walked, passed a few thresholds, darkness enveloping
him, until he reached the door to the backyard.
The double-glazed window was shattered - all the way
through - at the bottom left corner, near to where the
handle was so as to make access possible.
He didn’t doubt that each and every room was as bad
as the last - even the kitchen was weeping in its ruin,
silverware strewn on the granite floor, the appliances
scratched or battered or both. This was an act of hatred
and possibly envy, too.
This house had been treated with proprietorial ugliness
and recklessness. But he didn’t care anymore, it wasn’t
his house. It belonged to the mad.
He opened the door, left it to swing lazily in the dawn’s
breeze, and descended the flight of stairs.
He walked along the wet grass for awhile, admiring the
hidden crickets, the swarm of fireflies dancing in the
thickets, the howls of a distant dog, and the encouraging
whistles of its owner still believing that their home was
their own.
He smiled, he walked, and he watched.
He couldn’t help but to feel the disappointment sinking
in. The inevitable disappointment he sensed towards the
whole of humanity.
He too was disappointed in himself for being part of
it, but the disappointment wasn’t personal, aching or
intense. It was peaceful, quiet.
They had messed up good, there was so much proof
one didn’t need to find it. It was there already: In the
swooshes of a car, the rattles and whines of a sophisticated machine, the dead and ghastly faces of passers-by,
the bulky textbooks, the cunning commercials. . .
But that didn’t matter too, not as he walked and talked
to the creatures of the night.
He was ready to live for the first time in his life, to sleep
in the meadows, on the broad and long branches of giant
trees, or alongside a sunny brook. Nature his friend,
humanity too his friend, though avoided when it could
be helped.
* * *
On one stuffy and still evening, he has awakened to
the rustles of undergrowth, the subsequent flutters of
alarmed birds, and the quiet murmurs of voices.
A loincloth wrapped and knotted to his groin, he restrained from making any noise as he sat up, brushing
some dirt off of the side of his face.
‘You ain’t gonna shoot none if ya don’t hold your breath,
focus and stay patient.’ A grating, old voice said.
‘Okay, okay.’ Said another. This an indication of youth
and growing frustration. ‘God, can’t you let me learn.’
‘You ain’t gonna learn by making the same mistake over
and over again.’ Said the older voice. ‘And don’t talk to
me in that tone, son. Guys charge for such a service, I
don’t.’
‘You’re my dad.’
‘**** right.’
The rustles intensified. And through his bleary eyes -
crusted with sleep - he could see flickers of blues and
reds moving behind the greenery.
Perhaps he could’ve moved earlier, and hidden in a
place less exposed than this, though from the concise
conversation that had caught his ear, it was obvious that
whomever was approaching him was armed, and the tinniest of noises on his part could have deluded them into
thinking that an animal was nearby. In addition to this,
his tanned skin might - to them - appear to be the fur of
a deer when glimpsed through the undergrowth, and the
guy in the deep voice - the dad - might then be persuaded into wielding his rifle and demonstrating to his son
how a professional shoots down his prey.
Hence he just sat there, awaiting to be acknowledged
and hopefully unheeded.
There would be some odd looks, no doubt, but he wasn’t
the mad. He wasn’t the one holding a rifle in his hand,
teaching his son how to steal life, and - worse still - how
to get good at it.
Six months of living in the wilderness had taught him
more about life than his Marketing course had in Harvard. He begun seeing, hearing and feeling more. He
could detect a potential predator - though not always -
without even laying an eye on one. Likewise, if he’d been
awake a few moments before, he would’ve been aware
of the hunters’ impending arrival before they were even
within earshot.
He could’ve constructed himself a makeshift weapon,
but he didn’t need to. In fact, the hunters and their rifles
didn’t frighten him, if he was to be shot down mercilessly like a deer, so be it. Half a year ago he’d found liberty,
death didn’t scare him.
The older huntsman begun hushing and ticking his
tongue, making the rustles and footfalls cease.
‘Look son, see that thing moving over there?’ He whispered.
The boy cried in ecstasy: ‘Oh my-’
‘Hey. . .Shut up.’ The father reprimanded. ‘Ya wanna get a **** or not?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Go on, it’s hard to see it, but it’s there. Aim, hold your
breath, and shoot that thing down.’
‘Okay dad. . .’
He was - by the looks of it - to be shot after all.
He clasped his hands to his elbows, feeling the life underneath his skin, and straightened up his back, drawing
in a lungful of air, and blowing it out through his dishevelled growth of beard.
He meditated to the silence. To a bystander, such a silence might seem tense and wringing with suspense, but
for him it was still, spacious and pleasant, for tension
only existed when an occurrence was being anticipated,
he didn’t visualise the sharp bullet emerging out of the
rifle’s gaping mouth, black fumes encompassing it as
it darted through the air, nor did he try to imagine the
impact of the bullet as it ripped through his flesh and
muscle, the agony suffocating him like a thousand of
oceans. All he seen were the verdant bushes, the trees,
the drooping twigs or the moving colours coming to a
stop in front of him.
‘Shoot, son.’ The deep voice said urgently. ‘You’ll make
your father proud.’
‘What about mom?’
‘Shoot.’
The white collar didn’t hear anything, there was nothing
to hear. Nor did he feel, see or smell. He had almost felt
like he’d ever since the burglary, nonetheless now there
was nothing. He remained in that Nothing for eternity, a
void of absolute liberty everyone he’d ever beheld would
soon be part of. In fact, if Time was for a moment to be
overlooked, it is safe to say that everyone is part of this
void, everything that had - or will - ever live. Even the
kid and his irascible father whom had, on that stunning
evening, stumbled upon the white collar would soon  
return to this void. Up until now he was half-naked
and exposed, now he was what had been many times
throughout the history referred to as a ghost, a soul or
something akin, but its essence would only be marred
by such deceitful words, for it was ineffable, beyond
anything one could ever utter, read or hear of. Everyone
knew it, deep down, under the filth and grime of delusion and confusion. It was there, resting in its temporary
slumber, awaiting its awakening.
On that sunny and splendour evening, the white collar
had indeed been killed, and more injustice ensued from
this act of haste and carelessness as the father - his voice
higher than ever - knelt down before his son, grasped his
bonny shoulders and blurted into his face a plan conceived on spot. ‘No one can possibly be concerned about
this man’s death!’ Cried he to his son. ‘He is barely a
human being, the beggars we seen at the bazaar last
year were more human than this thing! Don’t ya dare
shed a tear!’ He slapped the boy in the face, bringing
some colour to the icy whiteness of it. ‘Don’t cry! You go
back along the path we’d walked. Here. . .’ He produced
a set of car keys and prodded the boy’s chest with them.
‘You get back into the car and wait. And never mention what’d happened here. Ever!’ He shook him. ‘It’s
too small to even be thought of! We’ll watch that movie
with the talking dog tonight, we’ll eat toffee popcorn,
we’ll drink what there’s to drink, we’ll tell your mother
that there was nothing to hunt, and will never ever go
hunting again. . .Go now, son.’.
The plan - as many do - had proved successful.
The white collar was shot down, his corpse thrown
down into some forgotten pit which was then topped
with twigs and foliage the father had cut off from the
many trees using his dagger. That was the plan, and he
was potentially correct when he said that no one would
shed a tear for him, the white collar had always been
glimpsed and admired for his charm and effort, but that
was back when he was just a living appliance, hence he
was by now most likely forgotten like a rusty tool lost in
a corner, and his disappearance probably linked to the
burglary, encouraging the police to believe that he was
murdered by someone out of spite or envy. But even if
whomever was responsible for the burglary had been
detected and lawfully jailed, they would only be charged
for that one crime, and so much puzzlement would then
arise as a dozen - or more - of minds would attempt to
discover the truth. What the hell happened after the
breaking-in? Where did the white collar go? Is he dead?
Was it due to accident, suicide or homicide?
Little did they know, he was where they too would once
rest.

in the beginning is the young child
always thinking, questioning why
the sky is blue, why the sun is round,
why the rain falls down.

The Poet
in the early morning is the first one
rising at dawning, before the robin
sings his sweet song, with mind moving
as pistons, shaping, shifting and lifting.

The Poet
in midafternoon, jots down thoughts
on a paper napkin while stirring her
coffee with a spoon. Everything she sees
will be composed into a poem, even some
poor innocent child without their knowing.

The Poet
in the evening hunkers down with
a book, to escape into another man’s
story, cut from the loincloth of his pages
she engages another brilliant mind before
her bedtime.

The sharp, dark waves crashed onto the rocky shore of a small island. The jagged stones that made up the coast stuck out of the ocean like an unorganized set of teeth shooting in all directions. A cold gust swept in and pushed the tall trees to and fro; moving them at the whim of the wind. The sky was grey as clouds completely surrounded the shore and blocked out the sun and its magnificent rays. The waves continued to smack up against the black stone shore when a man walked out to the oceanfront.
He was a small, old man wearing nothing but a loincloth and a bow strung across his body at his left shoulder. On his back was a quiver of crude arrows that were carved from the same black stones that created the island’s shoreline. The man was of a slight build. He was not particularly imposing as his olive skin and dark black hair continued to get rained on. He gazed out into the choppy waters before him, unfazed by the downpour of rain from the sky. He concentrated on the waves as they rose and crashed in a cycle that seemed to go on forever and ever. There was something peaceful about it all. To see a wave rally itself to an intimidating height and then disperse into the waters around it as if it had never existed in the first place. But yet that wave was always still a part of that ocean; though the definition of what was the wave was, was never clear.
The man turned his gaze back to the island with the rocky shoreline. He had lived there for as long as he could remember. His parents said the same thing to him when he inquired about their arrival on the island. And his grandparents told his parents the same thing a generation before. The island wasn’t so different from the waves, he thought to himself. People come and go. They disappear, but their essence always remains. There is something that always endures and rises in the next wave. Something simultaneously transient and eternal. The man smiled at this thought as he heard his wife call him in for dinner. He turned his back to the edge of the earth and walked home.