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Michael R Burch Sep 2020
Urdu Poetry: English Translations



You will never comprehend me:
I pour out my feelings; you only read the words!
―original poet unknown, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Tears are colorless―thank God!―
otherwise my pillow might betray my heart.
―original poet unknown, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



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 ...
Hell, we might have pronounced you a saint,
if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!

There are more English translations of poems by Mirza Ghalib later on this page.



Every Once in a While
by Amjad Islam Amjad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Every once in a while,
immersed in these muggy nights
when all earth’s voices seem to have fallen
into the bruised-purple silence of half-sleep,
I awaken from a wonderful dream
to see through the veil that drifts between us
that you too are companionless and wide awake.



First Rendezvous
by Amjad Islam Amjad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This story of the earth
is as old as the universe,
as old as the birth
of the first day and night.

This story of the sky
is included in the words we casually uttered,
you and I,
and yet it remains incomplete, till the end of sight.

This earth and all the scenes it contains
remain witnesses to the moment
when you first held my hand
as we watched the world unfolding, together.

This world
became the focus
for the first rendezvous
between us.



Impossible and Improbable Visions
by Amjad Islam Amjad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eyes interpret visions,
rainbow auras waver;
similar scenes appear
different to individual eyes,
as innumerable oases
coexist in one desert
or a single thought acquires
countless shapes.



I Have to Find My Lost Star
by Amjad Islam Amjad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Searching the emptiest of skies
overflowing with innumerable stars,
I have to find the one
that belongs
to me.

...

Gazing at galaxies beyond galaxies,
all glorious with evolving wonder,
I ponder her name,
finding no sign to remember.

...

Lost things, they say,
are sometimes found
in the same accumulations of dust
where they once vanished.

I have to find the lost star
that belongs to me.



Last Night
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Last night, your memory stole into my heart―
as spring sweeps uninvited into barren gardens,
as morning breezes reinvigorate dormant deserts,
as a patient suddenly feels better, for no apparent reason ...

There are more English translations of poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz later on this page.



Intimacy
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I held the Sun, Stars and Moon at a distance
till the time your hands touched mine.
Now I am not a feather to be easily detached:
instruct the hurricanes and tornados to observe their limits!

There are more English translations of poems by Rahat Indori later on this page.



Strange Currents
by Amir Khusrow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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

There are more English translations of poems by Amir Khusrow later on this page.



The Eager Traveler
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation 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;
though I was called an arid desert, I turned out to be the sea.

And how sweetly I remember you—oh, my wild, delectable love!—
as the purest white blossoms bloom, on talented branches above.

And while I’m half-convinced that folks adore me in this town,
still, all the hands I kissed held knives and tried to shake me down.

You lost the battle, my coward friend, my craven enemy,
when, to victimize my lonely soul, you sent a despoiling army.

Lost in the wastelands of vast love, I was an eager traveler,
like a breeze in search of your fragrance, a vagabond explorer.

There are more English translations of poems by Ahmad Faraz later on this page.



The Condition of My Heart
by Munir Niazi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is not necessary for anyone else to get excited:
The condition of my heart is not the condition of hers.
But were we to receive any sort of good news, Munir,
How spectacular compared to earth's mundane sunsets!

There are more English translations of poems by Munir Niazi later on this page.



Failures
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I was unable to relate
the state
of my heart to her,
while she failed to infer
the nuances
of my silences.



Apni Marzi se
by Nida Fazli Shayari
translated by Mandakini Bhattacherya and Michael R. Burch

This journey was not of my making;
As the winds blow, I’m blown along ...
Time and dust are my ancient companions;
Who knows where I’m bound or belong?

There are more English translations of poems by Nida Fazli later on this page.



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!

There are more English translations of poems by Gulzar later on this page.



Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!

Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.

Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?

You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.

Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!



Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.



The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.



This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.

This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.

Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.

Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.

When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend ...

How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?

With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.



Being
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You are so close to me
that no one else ever can be.

NOTE: There is a legend that the great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib offered all his diwan (poetry collections) in exchange for this one sher (couplet) by Momin Khan Momin. Does the couplet mean "be as close" or "be, at all"? Does it mean "You are with me in a way that no one else can ever be?" Or does it mean that no one else can ever exist as truly as one's true love? Or does this sher contain an infinite number of elusive meanings, like love itself?



Being (II)
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You alone are with me when I am alone.
You are beside me when I am beside myself.
You are as close to me as everyone else is afar.
You are so close to me that no one else ever can be.



Perhaps
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cohesiveness between us, you may remember or perhaps not.
Our solemn oaths of faithfulness, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
If something happened that was not to your liking,
the shrinking away that produces silence, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Listen, the sagas of so many years, the promises you made amid time's onslaught,
which you now fail to mention, you may remember or perhaps not.
These new resentments, those often rehashed complaints,
these lighthearted and displeasing stories, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
Some seasons ago we shared love and desire, we shared joy ...
That we once were dear friends, you may have perhaps forgot.
Now if we come together, by fate or by chance, to express old loyalties ...
Our every shared breath, all our sighs and regrets, you may remember, or perhaps not.



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 now 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, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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

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



Memory
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, as performed by Iqbal Bano
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the wastelands of solitude, my love,
the echoes of your voice quiver,
the mirages of your lips waver.

In the deserts of alienation,
out of the expanses of distance and isolation's debris
the fragrant jasmines and roses of your presence delicately blossom.

Now from somewhere nearby,
the warmth of your breath rises,
smoldering forth an exotic perfume―gently, languorously.

Now far-off, across the distant horizon,
drop by shimmering drop,
fall the glistening dews of your beguiling glances.

With such tenderness and affection—oh my love!—
your memory has touched my heart's cheek so that it now seems
the sun of separation has set; the night of blessed union has arrived.



Speak!
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Speak, if your lips are free.
Speak, if your tongue is still your own.
While your body is still upright,
Speak if your life is still your own.



Tonight
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight! Days smoldering
with pain in the end produce only listless ashes ...
and who the hell knows what the future may bring?
Last night’s long lost, tomorrow's horizon’s a wavering mirage.
And how can we know if we’ll see another dawn?
Life is nothing, unless together we make it ring!
Tonight we are love gods! Sing!

Do not strike the melancholy chord tonight!
Don’t harp constantly on human suffering!
Stop complaining; let Fate conduct her song!
Give no thought to the future, seize now, this precious thing!
Shed no more tears for temperate seasons departed!
All sighs of the brokenhearted soon weakly dissipate ... stop dithering!
Oh, do not strike the same flat chord again! Sing!



When Autumn Came
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So it was that autumn came to flay the trees,
to strip them ****,
to rudely abase their slender dark bodies.

Fall fell in vengeance on the dying leaves,
flung them down to the floor of the forest
where anyone could trample them to mush
undeterred by their sighs of protest.

The birds that herald spring
were exiled from their songs—
the notes ripped from their sweet throats,
they plummeted to the earth below, undone
even before the hunter strung his bow.

Please, gods of May, have mercy!
Bless these disintegrating corpses
with the passion of your resurrection;
allow their veins to pulse with blood again.

Let at least one tree remain green.
Let one bird sing.



Last Night (II)
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Last night, your lost memory returned ...
as spring steals silently into barren gardens,
as cool breezes stir desert sands,
as an ailing man suddenly feels better, for no apparent reason ...

There are more English translations of poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz later on this page.



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
but this weakness has 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!



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.



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?

There are more English translations of poems by Mirza Ghalib later on this page.



Couplets
by Jaun Elia
loose translations by Michael R. Burch

I am strange—so strange
that I self-destructed and don't regret it.
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wound is deep—companions, friends—embrace me!
What, did you not even bother to stay?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My nature is so strange
that today I felt relieved when you didn't arrive.
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Night and day I awaited myself;
now you return me to myself.
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Greeting me this cordially,
have you so easily erased my memory?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your lips have provided thousands of answers;
so what is the point of complaining now?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Perhaps I haven't fallen in love with anyone,
but at least I convinced them!
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The city of mystics has become bizarre:
everyone is wary of majesty, have you heard?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Did you just say "Love is eternal"?
Is this the end of us?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You are drawing very close to me!
Have you decided to leave?
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Intimacy
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I held the Sun, Stars and Moon at a distance
till the time your hands touched mine.
Now I am not a feather to be easily detached:
instruct the hurricanes and tornados to observe their limits!



The Mad Moon
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Stars have a habit of showing off,
but the mad moon sojourns in darkness.



Body Language
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your body’s figures are written in cursive!
How will I read you? Hand me the book!



Insatiable
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This mighty ocean, so deep and vast!
If it sates my thirst, how long can it last?



Honor
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Achievements may fade but the name remains strong;
walls may buckle but the roof stays on.
On a pile of corpses a child stands alone
and declares that his family still lives on!



Dust in the Wind
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is how I introduce myself to questioners:
Pick up a handful of dust, then blow ...



Dissembler
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In your eyes this, in your heart that, on your lips something else?
If this is how you are, impress someone else!



Rumor (M)ill
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard rumors my health was bad; still
it was prying people who made me ill.



The Vortex
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am the river whose rapids form a vortex;
You were wise to avoid my banks.



Homebound
by Rahat Indori
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If people fear what they meet at every turn,
why do they ever leave the house?



Becoming One
by Amir Khusrow
loose translation/interpretation 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
loose translation/interpretation 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.

(My translation above was informed by a translation of Dr. Hadi Hasan.)



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

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



Paradise
by Amir Khusrow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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



Mystery
by Munir Niazi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

She was a mystery:
Her lips were parched ...
but her eyes were two unfathomable oceans.



I continued delaying ...
by Munir Niazi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I continued delaying ...
the words I should speak
the promises I should keep
the one I should dial
despite her cruel denial

I continued delaying ...
the shoulder I must offer
the hand I must proffer
the untraveled lanes
we may not see again

I continued delaying ...
long strolls through the seasons
for my own selfish reasons
the remembrances of lovers
to erase thoughts of others

I continued delaying ...
to save someone dear
from eternities unclear
to make her aware
of our reality here

I continued delaying ...



Couplets
by Mir Taqi Mir
loose translations by Michael R. Burch

Sharpen the barbs of every thorn, O lunatic desert!
Perhaps another hobbler, limping by on blistered feet, follows me!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My life is a bubble,
this world an illusion.
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Selflessness has gotten me nowhere:
I neglected myself far too long.
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I know now that I know nothing,
and it only took me a lifetime to learn!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love's just beginning, so why do you whine?
Why not wait and watch how things unwind!
―Mir Taqi Mir, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Come!
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 our bodies' musky aromas!
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!



Inconclusive
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.



Wasted
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You have noticed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips ...
In whose imagination I have lost everything.



Countless
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I recounted the world's countless griefs
by recounting your image countless times.



Do Not Ask
by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do not ask, my love, for the love that we shared before:
You existed, I told myself, so existence shone.
For a moment the only light that I knew, alone,
was yours; worldly griefs remained dark, distant, afar.

Spring shone, as revealed in your face, but what did I know?
Beyond your bright eyes, what delights could the sad world hold?
Had I won you, cruel Fate would have ceded, no longer bold.
Yet all this was not to be, though I wished it so.

The world knows sorrows beyond love’s brief dreams betrayed,
and pleasures beyond all sweet, idle ideals of romance:
the dread dark spell of countless centuries and chance
is woven with silk and satin and gold brocade.

Bodies are sold everywhere for a pittance—it’s true!
Besmeared with dirt and bathed in bright oceans of blood,
Crawling from infested ovens, a gory cud.
My gaze returns to you: what else can I do?

Your beauty haunts me still, and will to the last.
But the world is burdened by sorrows beyond those of love,
By pleasures beyond romance.
So please do not demand a love that is over, and past.



O God!
by Qateel Shifai
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Torture my heart, O God!
If you so desire, leave me a madman, O God!

Have I asked for the moon and stars?
Enlighten my heart and give my eyes sight, O God!

We have all seen this disk called the sun,
Now give us a real dawn, O God!

Either relieve our pains here on this earth
Or make my heart granite, O God!



Hereafter
by Qateel Shifai
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since we met and parted, how can we sleep hereafter?
Lost in each others' remembrance, must we not weep hereafter?

Deluges of our tears will keep us awake all night:
Our eyelashes strung with strands of pearls, hereafter!

Thoughts of our separation will sear our grieving hearts
Unless we immerse them in the cooling moonlight, hereafter!

If the storm also deceives us, crying Qateel!,
We will scuttle our boats near forsaken shores, hereafter.



Picnic
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My friends laugh elsewhere on the beach
while I sit here, alone, counting the waves,
writing and rewriting your name in the sand ...



Confession
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your image overwhelmed my vision.
As the long nights passed, I became obsessed with your visage.
Then came the moment when I quietly placed my lips to your picture ...



Rain
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why shiver alone in the rain, maiden?
Embrace the one in whose warming love your body and mind would be drenched!
There are no rains higher than the rains of Love,
after which the bright rainbows of separation will glow with the mysteries of hues.



My Body's Moods
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I long for the day when you'll be obsessed with me,
when, forgetting the world, you'll miss me with a passion
and stop complaining about my reticence!
Then I may forget all other transactions and liabilities
to realize my world in your arms,
letting my body's moods guide me.
In that moment beyond boundaries and limitations
as we defy the conventions of veil and turban,
let's try our luck and steal a taste of the forbidden fruit!



Moon
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All of us passengers,
we share the same fate.
And yet I'm alone here on earth,
and she alone there in the sky!



Vanity
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

His world is so simple, so very different from mine.
So distinct—his dreams and desires.
He speaks rarely.
This morning he wrote: "I saw some lovely flowers and thought of you."
Ha! I know my aging face is no orchid ...
but how I wish I could believe whatever he says, however momentarily!



Come
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, even with anguish, even to torture my heart;
Come, even if only to abandon me to torment again.

Come, if not for our past commerce,
Then to faithfully fulfill the ancient barbaric rituals.

Who else can recite the reasons for our separation?
Come, despite your reluctance, to continue the litanies, the ceremony.

Respect, even if only a little, the depth of my love for you;
Come, someday, to offer me consolation as well.

Too long you have deprived me of the pathos of longing;
Come again, my love, if only to make me weep.

Till now, my heart still suffers some slight expectation;
So come, ***** out even the last flickering torch of hope!



I Cannot Remember
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I once was a poet too (you gave life to my words), but now I cannot remember
Since I have forgotten you (my love!), my art too I cannot remember

Yesterday consulting my heart, I learned
that your hair, lips, mouth, I cannot remember

In the city of the intellect insanity is silence
But now your sweet, spontaneous voice, its fluidity, I cannot remember

Once I was unfamiliar with wrecking ***** and ruins
But now the cultivation of gardens, I cannot remember

Now everyone shops at the store selling arrows and quivers
But neglects his own body, the client he cannot remember

Since time has brought me to a desert of such arid forgetfulness
Even your name may perish; I cannot remember

In this narrow state of being, lacking a country,
even the abandonment of my fellow countrymen, I cannot remember



The Infidel
by 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!

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.



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 blindness 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!



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

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



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

Love requires patience but lust is relentless;
what colors must my heart bleed before it expires?

There are more English translations of poems by Mirza Ghalib later on this page.



No Explanation! (I)
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Please don't ask me how deeply it hurt!
Her sun shone so bright, even the shadows were burning!



No Explanation! (II)
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Please don't ask me how it happened!
She didn't bind me, nor did I free myself.



Alone
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why are you sad that she goes on alone, Faraz?
After all, you said yourself that she was unique!



Separation
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Faraz, if it were easy to be apart,
would Angels have to separate body from soul?



Time
by Ahmad Faraz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

What if my face has more wrinkles than yours?
I am merely well-worn by Time!



Miraji Epigrams

I'm obsessed with this thought:
does God possess mercy?
―Miraji, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, see this dance, the immaculate dance of the devadasi!
―Miraji, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Excerpts from “Going, Going ...”
by Miraji
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each unfolding vista,
each companion’s kindnesses,
every woman’s subtle sorceries,
everything that transiently lies within our power
quickly dissolves
and we are left with only a cupped flame, flickering ...
Should we call that “passion”?

The moon scrapes the horizon
and who can measure a star’s breadth?

The time allotted a life, if we calculate it,
is really only a fleeting breath ...



1.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
after my life has come and gone,
perhaps someone
hearing my voice drifting
on the breeze of some future spring
will chase after my songs
like dandelions.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch

2.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
after my life has come and gone,
perhaps someone
hearing my voice drifting
through some distant future spring
will pluck my songs
like dandelions.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch

3.
Echoes of an ancient prophecy:
when my life has come and gone,
and when I’m dead and done,
perhaps someone
hearing me sing
in a distant spring
will echo my songs
the whole world over.
—Miraji, translation by Michael R. Burch

If I understand things correctly, Miraji wrote the lines above after translating a verse by Sappho in which she said that her poems would be remembered in the future. I suspect both poets and both prophecies were correct!




Every Day and in Every Direction
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Everywhere and in every direction we see innumerable people:
each man a victim of his own loneliness, reticence and silences.
From dawn to dusk men carry enormous burdens:
all preparing graves for their soon-to-be corpses.
Each day a man lives, the same day he dies.
Each new day requires the same old patience.
In every direction there are roads for him to roam,
but in every direction, men victimize men.
Every day a man dies many deaths only to resurrect from his ashes.
Each new day presents new challenges.
Life's destiny is not fixed, but a series of journeys:
thus, till his last breath, a man remains restless.



Couplets
by Nida Fazli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It was my fate to entangle and sink myself
because I am a boat and my ocean lies within.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You were impossible to forget once you were gone:
hell, I remembered you most when I tried to forget you!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don't squander these pearls:
such baubles may ornament sleepless nights!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The world is like a deck of cards on a gambling table:
some of us are bound to loose while others cash in.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There is a proper protocol for everything in this world:
when visiting gardens never force butterflies to vacate their flowers!
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I lack the courage to commit suicide,
I have elected to bother people with my life a bit longer.
―Nida Fazli, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Changing Seasons
by Noshi Gillani
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each changing season
reveals something
concealed by her fears:
an escape route from this island
illuminated by her tears.



Dust
by Bahadur Shah Zafar or Muztar Khairabadi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unable to light anyone's eye
or to comfort anyone's heart ...
I am nothing but a handful of dust.



Piercings
by Firaq Gorakhpuri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No one ever belonged to anyone else for a lifetime.
We cannot own another's soul.
The beauty we see and the love we feel are only illusions.
All my life I tried to save myself from the piercings of your eyes ...
But I failed and the daggers ripped right through me.



Salvation
Mohammad Ibrahim Zauq
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Anxious and fatigued, I consider the salvation of death ...
But if there is no peace in the grave,
where can I go to be saved?



Child of the Century
by Abdellatif Laâbi (a Moroccan poet)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’m a child of this dreary century, a child who never grew up.
Doubts that ignited my tongue singed my wings.
I learned to walk, then I unlearned progress.
I grew weary of oases and camels infatuated with ruins.
My head inclined East only to occupy the middle of the road
as I awaited the insane caravans.



Nostalgia
by Abdulla Pashew (a Kurdish poet)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How I desire the heavens!
Each solitary star lights the way to a tryst.

How I desire the sky!
Standing alone, remote, the sky is as vast as any ocean.

How I desire love's heavenly scent!
When each enticing blossom releases its essence.



Oblivion
by Al-Saddiq Al-Raddi (an African poet who writes in Arabic)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Discard your pen
before you start reading;
consider the ink,
how it encompasses bleeding.

Learn from the horizon
through eyes' narrowed slits
the limitations of vision
and hands' treacherous writs.

Do not blame me,
nor indeed anyone,
if you expire before
your reading is done.



In Medias Res
by Shaad Azimabadi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I heard the story of my life recounted,
I caught only the middle of the tale.
I remain unaware of the beginning or end.



Debt Relief
by Piyush Mishra
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We save Sundays for our loved ones ...
all other days we slave to repay debts.



Reoccurrence
by Amrita Bharati (a Hindi poet)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It was a woman's heart speaking,
that had been speaking for eons ...

It was a woman's heart silenced,
that had been silenced for centuries ...

And between them loomed a mountain
that a man or a rat gnawed at, even in times of amity ...
gnawing at the screaming voice,
at the silent tongue,
from the primeval day.



Don't Approach Me
by Arif Farhad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don't approach me here by the river of time
where I flop like a fish in a net!



Intoxicants
by Amrut Ghayal (a Gujarati poet)
translation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch

O, my contrary mind!
You're such a fool, afraid to drink the fruit of the vine!
But show me anything universe-designed
that doesn't intoxicate, like wine.



I’m like a commodity being priced in the market-place:
every eye ogles me like a buyer’s.
—Majrooh Sultanpuri, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If you insist, I’ll continue playing my songs,
forever piping the flute of my heart.
—Majrooh Sultanpuri, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon has risen once again, yet you are not here.
My heart is a blazing pyre; what do I do?
—Majrooh Sultanpuri, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



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

Drunk on love, I made her my God.
She quickly informed me that God belongs to no 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 abandon your garden.

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?
Dementedly, 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.



How strange has life become:
Our evenings drag out, yet our years keep flashing by!
―original poet unknown, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Longing
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Lord, I’ve grown tired of human assemblies!
I long to avoid conflict! My heart craves peace!
I desperately desire the silence of a small mountainside hut!



Life Advice
by Allama Iqbāl
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This passive nature will not allow you to survive;
If you want to live, raise a storm!



Destiny
by Allama Iqbal
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Isn't it futile to complain about God's will,
When you are your own destiny?

Keywords/Tags: Urdu, translation, love poetry, desire, passion, longing, romance, romantic, God, heaven, mrburdu
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!

Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.

Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?

You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.

Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Bengali, come, forget appearances, hair, bodice, feet, anklet, bracelet, beads, necklace, sky, clouds, cranes, cattle, toilet, lamp, wind, mascara, eyeshadow, mrburdu



These are modern English translations of poems by the great Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), who has been called the "Bard of Bengal" and "the Bengali Shelley." In 1913 Tagore became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Tagore was also a notable artist, musician and polymath.



The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.



Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.



This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.

This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.

Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.

Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.

When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend ...

How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?

With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.



Patience
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

If you refuse to speak, I will fill my heart with your silence and endure it.
I will remain still and wait like the night through its starry vigil
with its head bowed low in patience.

The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish,
and your voice will pour down in golden streams breaking through the heavens.

Then your words will take wing in songs from each of my birds' nests,
and your melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.



Gitanjali 35
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been divided by narrow domestic walls;
Where words emerge from the depths of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not been lost amid the dreary desert sands of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.



Gitanjali 11
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Leave this vain chanting and singing and counting of beads:
what Entity do you seek in this lonely dark temple with all the doors shut?
Open your eyes and see: God is not here!
He is out there where the tiller tills the hard ground and the paver breaks stones.
He is with them in sun and shower; his garments are filthy with dust.
Shed your immaculate mantle and likewise embrace the dust!
Deliverance? Where is this "deliverance" to be found
when our Master himself has joyfully embraced the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all forever!
Cease your meditations, abandon your petals and incense!
What is the harm if your clothes become stained rags?
Meet him in the toil and the sweat of his brow!



Last Curtain
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

I know the day comes when my eyes close,
when my sight fails,
when life takes its leave in silence
and the last curtain veils my vision.
Yet the stars will still watch by night;
the sun will still rise like before;
the hours will still heave like sea waves
casting up pleasures and pains.
When I consider this end of my earth-life,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the illumination of death
this world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare its meanest of lives.
Things I longed for in vain and those I received, let them pass.
Let me but truly possess the things I rejected and overlooked.



Death
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

You who are the final fulfillment of life,
Death, my Death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day I have kept watch for you;
for you I have borne the joys and the pangs of life.
All that I am, all that I have and hope, and all my love
have always flowed toward you in the depths of secrecy.
One final glance from your eyes and my life will be yours forever, your own.
The flowers have been woven and the garland prepared for the bridegroom.
After the wedding the bride must leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.



I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple’s morning service
wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore, India, Indian, poet, Bengali, sea, seashore, children, mother, dog, love, lover, patience, curtain, death
Lenz Nov 2019
Sometimes you can hear not with ears, but with a skin: with your fingers on fabric, with your hair sinking thought the palms, with your muscles on anxious joints.

Sometimes you can hear not the music, but emotions. Words, voices, harmony, rhythm, — all of them are spiralling into one multidimensional Rubik's Cube; all of them are thickening into a rich hodgepodge of colours; and then you can’t understand if the drums are ringing inside of your brains or if the song itself is closing its eyes with joy.


Sometimes you can hear nothing.

And nothing can sometimes hear you.


Today you hear winter.


Being on the ground floor it’d be like being outside.

Your elbows are on a windowsill. Your droopy eyes are chained to a sleepy late-night path.

You are therefore one short step from that path: just breathe and touch the earth with your cosy socks. The earth is chubby because of yesterday’s raindrops.

Smells like roaring lorry. Hears like water and warm winter.


The colour palette is in shades of a half past four morning.


On the opposite side of your street your neighbour still keeps Christmas: the garland made of white-blue lights flickers during four finger taps, and is lit during three. One-two-three-four, one-two-three. You can almost hear ‘Fantaisie Impromptu’ by Chopin. Right. Four. Left. Three.

That white-blue trembling sneaks into puddles along with the low smiles of lanterns further down the block. The blue glow is dancing, the copper illumination is dearer.


The cat runs — grey mouse — grey stain — on the canvas.


The windows are like card backs in Tarot spread on the walls like on the tables.

The windows are mirrors, and the mirrors are caves.

The windows run with perspective.

With the cat.


Tell us, sky! Do you exist? Have you been always franking us? Both on the left, both on the right one cannot find a difference. Your colour is lullabying.

Your colour is dual; at first glance it’s pure blue-plum gouache, but looking closely… The sky is scarlet. Scarlet as a wisp of a tapestry.

The scarpestry breaks through plumouache.


Suddenly a little white twinkle hops into winter, and suddenly dies.


Your heart has grown to your tongue root and to your little alcove under your ribs, and the heart is writing-writing-writing, and is escorting passing cars, and is fuming-fuming-fuming, and is sweating like in a sauna.

It’s dribbling outside.



Homely.


Nothingly.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.

Originally published by The Chained Muse. My translation is based on an untitled text in Bangla (Bengali) first published in 1912 and known as "60" due to its numerical placement. Tagore made history by becoming the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize for Literature the following year. Keywords/Tags: seashore, gathering, children, sky, sea, water, dance, sand castles, shells, boats, play, nets, swim, fish, pearls, ships, waves, songs, mother, lullaby, baby, cradle, tempests, death
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Patience
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If you refuse to speak, I will fill my heart with your silence and endure it.
I will remain still and wait like the night through its starry vigil
with its head bent low in patience.

The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish,
and your voice will pour down in golden streams breaking through the heavens.
Then your words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests,
and your melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, patience, heart, silence, night, vigil, morning, voice, golden, streams, heavens, songs, birds, melodies, songs, jubilation, flowers, forest groves, mrburdu

These are modern English translations of poems by the great Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), who has been called the "Bard of Bengal" and "the Bengali Shelley." In 1913 Tagore became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Tagore was also a notable artist, musician and polymath.

The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.



Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!

Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.

Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?

You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.

Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!



Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.



This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.

This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.

Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.

Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.

When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend ...

How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?

With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.



Gitanjali 35
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been divided by narrow domestic walls;
Where words emerge from the depths of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not been lost amid the dreary desert sands of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.



Gitanjali 11
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Leave this vain chanting and singing and counting of beads:
what Entity do you seek in this lonely dark temple with all the doors shut?
Open your eyes and see: God is not here!
He is out there where the tiller tills the hard ground and the paver breaks stones.
He is with them in sun and shower; his garments are filthy with dust.
Shed your immaculate mantle and like him embrace the dust!
Deliverance? Where is this "deliverance" to be found
when our Master himself has joyfully embraced the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all forever!
Cease your meditations, abandon your petals and incense!
What is the harm if your clothes become stained rags?
Meet him in the toil and the sweat of his brow!



Last Curtain
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

I know the day comes when my eyes close,
when my sight fails,
when life takes its leave in silence
and the last curtain veils my vision.
Yet the stars will still watch by night;
the sun will still rise like before;
the hours will still heave like sea waves
casting up pleasures and pains.
When I consider this end of my earth-life,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the illumination of death
this world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare its meanest of lives.
Things I longed for in vain and those I received, let them pass.
Let me but truly possess the things I rejected and overlooked.



Death
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

You who are the final fulfillment of life,
Death, my Death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day I have kept watch for you;
for you I have borne the joys and the pangs of life.
All that I am, all that I have and hope, and all my love
have always flowed toward you in the depths of secrecy.
One final glance from your eyes and my life will be yours forever, your own.
The flowers have been woven and the garland prepared for the bridegroom.
After the wedding the bride must leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.



I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple’s morning service
wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore, India, Indian, poet, Bengali, sea, seashore, children, mother, dog, love, lover, patience, curtain, death
Michael R Burch Sep 2020
Poems about Laughter, Giggles and Smiles



Here and Hereafter
by Michael R. Burch

Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter ...
wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter.



Laughter’s Cry
by Michael R. Burch

Because life is a mystery, we laugh
and do not know the half.

Because death is a mystery, we cry
when one is gone, our numbering thrown awry.



Love Is Not Love
by Michael R. Burch

Love is not love that never looked
within itself and questioned all,
curled up like a zygote in a ball,
throbbed, sobbed and shook.

(Or went on a binge at a nearby mall,
then would not cook.)

Love is not love that never winced,
then smiled, convinced
that soar’s the prerequisite of fall.

When all
its wounds and scars have been saline-rinsed,
where does Love find the wherewithal
to try again,
endeavor, when

all that it knows
is: O, because!



The Folly of Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch

She is wise in the way that children are wise,
looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes
I must bend down to her to understand.
But she only smiles, and takes my hand.

We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go,
so I smile, and I follow ...

And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves
that flutter above us, and what she believes―
I can almost remember―goes something like this:
the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss.

She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well
if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell
as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree
that once was a fortress to someone like me

rings wildly above us. Some things that we know
we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly



Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch

There never was a fonder smile
than mother's smile, no softer touch
than mother's touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than "much".

So more than "much", much more than "all".
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother's there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.

There never was a stronger back
than father's back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother's tender smile
will leap and follow after you ...



Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch

We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo!," only two.

We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.

We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries ...

Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It’s me I see. Just me."

He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.

Originally published by Lucid Rhythms



Laughter from Another Room
by Michael R. Burch

Laughter from another room
mocks the anguish that I feel;
as I sit alone and brood,
only you and I are real.

Only you and I are real.
Only you and I exist.
Only burns that blister heal.
Only dreams denied persist.

Only dreams denied persist.
Only hope that lingers dies.
Only love that lessens lives.
Only lovers ever cry.

Only lovers ever cry.
Only sinners ever pray.
Only saints are crucified.
The crucified are always saints.

The crucified are always saints.
The maddest men control the world.
The dumb man knows what he would say;
the poet never finds the words.

The poet never finds the words.
The minstrel never hits the notes.
The minister would love to curse.
The warrior never knows his foe.

The warrior never knows his foe.
The scholar never learns the truth.
The actors never see the show.
The hangman longs to feel the noose.

The hangman longs to feel the noose.
The artist longs to feel the flame.
The proudest men are not aloof;
the guiltiest are not to blame.

The guiltiest are not to blame.
The merriest are prone to brood.
If we go outside, it rains.
If we stay inside, it floods.

If we stay inside, it floods.
If we dare to love, we fear.
Blind men never see the sun;
other men observe through tears.

Other men observe through tears
the passage of these days of doom;
now I listen and I hear
laughter from another room.

Laughter from another room
mocks the anguish that I feel.
As I sit alone and brood,
only you and I are real.

I wrote this poem either my first or second year in college, around age 18 to 19. It remains largely the same, with only minor changes.



Leaf Fall
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever winds encountered soon resolved
to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps
of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall.
In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each
dry leaf into its place and built a high,
soft bastion against earth's gravitron―
a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright
impediment to fling ourselves upon.

And nothing in our laughter as we fell
into those leaves was like the autumn's cry
of also falling. Nothing meant to die
could be so bright as we, so colorful―
clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain
we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea


Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch

It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.



See
by Michael R. Burch

See how her hair has thinned: it doesn't seem
like hair at all, but like the airy moult
of emus who outraced the wind and left
soft plumage in their wake. See how her eyes
are gentler now; see how each wrinkle laughs,
and deepens on itself, as though mirth took
some comfort there and burrowed deeply in,
outlasting winter. See how very thin
her features are―that time has made more spare,
so that each bone shows, elegant and rare.
For loveliness remains in her grave eyes,
and courage in her still-delighted looks:
each face presented like a picture book's.
Bemused, she blows us undismayed goodbyes.

Originally published by Writer's Digest's―The Year's Best Writing 2003



Ali’s Song
by Michael R. Burch

They say that gold don’t tarnish. It ain’t so.
They say it has a wild, unearthly glow.
A man can be more beautiful, more wild.
I flung their medal to the river, child.
I flung their medal to the river, child.

They hung their coin around my neck; they made
my name a bridle, “called a ***** a *****.”
They say their gold is pure. I say defiled.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.
I flung their slave’s name to the river, child.

Ain’t got no quarrel with no Viet Cong
that never called me ******, did me wrong.
A man can’t be lukewarm, ’cause God hates mild.
I flung their notice to the river, child.
I flung their notice to the river, child.

They said, “Now here’s your bullet and your gun,
and there’s your cell: we’re waiting, you choose one.”
At first I groaned aloud, but then I smiled.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.
I gave their “future” to the river, child.

My face reflected up, dark bronze like gold,
a coin God stamped in His own image―BOLD.
My blood boiled like that river―strange and wild.
I died to hate in that dark river, child,
Come, be reborn in this bright river, child.

Originally published by Black Medina

Note: Cassius Clay, who converted to Islam and changed his “slave name” to Muhammad Ali, said that he threw his Olympic boxing gold medal into the Ohio River. Confirming his account, the medal was recovered by Robert Bradbury and his wife Pattie in 2014 during the Annual Ohio River Sweep, and the Ali family paid them $200,000 to regain possession of the medal. When drafted during the Vietnamese War, Ali refused to serve, reputedly saying: “I ain't got no quarrel with those Viet Cong; no Vietnamese ever called me a ******.” The notice mentioned in my poem is Ali's draft notice, which metaphorically gets tossed into the river along with his slave name. I was told through the grapevine that this poem appeared in Farsi in an Iranian publication called Bashgah. ―Michael R. Burch


Love Sonnet XI
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
I stalk the streets, silent and starving.
Bread does not satisfy me; dawn does not divert me
from my relentless pursuit of your fluid spoor.

I long for your liquid laughter,
for your sunburned hands like savage harvests.
I lust for your fingernails' pale marbles.
I want to devour your ******* like almonds, whole.

I want to ingest the sunbeams singed by your beauty,
to eat the aquiline nose from your aloof face,
to lick your eyelashes' flickering shade.

I pursue you, snuffing the shadows,
seeking your heart's scorching heat
like a puma prowling the heights of Quitratue.



The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.


My Feelings
by Dolqun Yasin, a Uyghur poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The light sinking through the ice and snow,
The hollyhock blossoms reddening the hills like blood,
The proud peaks revealing their ******* to the stars,
The morning-glories embroidering the earth’s greenery,
Are not light,
Not hollyhocks,
Not peaks,
Not morning-glories;
They are my feelings.

The tears washing the mothers’ wizened faces,
The flower-like smiles suddenly brightening the girls’ visages,
The hair turning white before age thirty,
The night which longs for light despite the sun’s laughter,
Are not tears,
Not smiles,
Not hair,
Not night;
They are my nomadic feelings.

Now turning all my sorrow to passion,
Bequeathing to my people all my griefs and joys,
Scattering my excitement like flowers festooning fields,
I harvest all these, then tenderly glean my poem.

Therefore the world is this poem of mine,
And my poem is the world itself.



Ode to Anactoria
Sappho, fragment 31 (Lobel-Page 31 / Voigt 31)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch


How can I compete with that ****** man
who fancies himself one of the gods,
impressing you with his "eloquence,"
when just the thought of sitting in your radiant presence,
of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter,
sets my heart hammering at my breast?
Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you,
I'm left speechless, tongue-tied,
and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin.
Then my vision dims with tears,
my ears ring,
I sweat profusely,
and every muscle in my body trembles.
When the blood finally settles,
I grow paler than summer grass,
till in my exhausted madness,
I'm as limp as the dead.
And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you ...


Ode to Anactoria
Sappho, fragment 31 (Lobel-Page 31 / Voigt 31)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To me that boy seems
blessed by the gods
because he sits beside you,
basking in your brilliant presence.

My heart races at the sound of your voice!
Your laughter?―bright water, dislodging pebbles

in a chaotic vortex. I can't catch my breath!
My heart bucks in my ribs. I can't breathe. I can't speak.

My ******* glow with intense heat;
desire's blush-inducing fires redden my flesh.
My ears seem hollow; they ring emptily.
My tongue is broken and cleaves to its roof.

I sweat profusely. I shiver.
Suddenly, I grow pale
and feel only a second short of dying.
And yet I must endure, somehow,

despite my poverty.



Sometimes the Dead
by  Michael R. Burch

Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes―
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.

Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.

Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.

Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies,

yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must ...



Premonition
by Michael R. Burch

Now the evening has come to a close and the party is over ...
we stand in the doorway and watch as they go―
each stranger, each acquaintance, each unembraceable lover.

They walk to their cars and they laugh as they go,
though we know their warm laughter’s the wine ...
then they pause at the road where the dark asphalt flows
endlessly on toward Zion ...

and they kiss one another as though they were friends,
and they promise to meet again “soon” ...
but the rivers of Jordan roll on without end,
and the mockingbird calls to the moon ...

and the katydids climb up the cropped hanging vines,
and the crickets chirp on out of tune ...
and their shadows, defined by the cryptic starlight,
seem spirits torn loose from their tombs.

And I know their brief lives are just eddies in time,
that their hearts are unreadable runes
to be wiped clean, like slate, by the dark hand of fate
when their corpses lie ravaged and ruined ...

You take my clenched fist and you give it a kiss
as though it were something you loved,
and the tears fill your eyes, brimming with the soft light
of the stars winking gently above ...

Then you whisper, "It's time that we went back inside;
if you'd like, we can sit and just talk for a while."
And the hope in your eyes burns too deep, so I lie
and I say, "Yes, I would," to your small, troubled smile.

I rather vividly remember writing this poem after an office party the year I co-oped with AT&T (at that time the largest company in the world, with presumably a lot of office parties). This would have been after my sophomore year in college, making me around 20 years old. The poem is “true” except that I was not the host because the party was at the house of one of the upper-level managers. Nor was I dating anyone seriously at the time.

Keywords/Tags: Laugh, Laughs, Laughter, Giggle, Giggles, Smile, Smiles, Humor, Light Verse, Friendship


Published as the selection “Poems about Laughter, Giggles and Smiles”
David flew into my bedroom
light blue eyes flashing excitement

"Sonya ki," he gushed

"We are now the proud parents
of a newborn baby pineapple!"

For two years David fathered
and diligently nurtured the
pineapple cutting from
the Yoga ashram

Cooing, lullabying,
coaxing, fertilizing

I threw on my sandals
and dashed into the
bucolic nursery

There peeking up at us
it's amber pink body
swaddled in spiky
leaves
was our own little
darling pineapple
The chair is sighing
The walls walking
The mirror feeling sick of my ugly face
That curtains are annoying too
I don't see the window in the
silence that chocks the sparrow
The trees has made me a prison
My dreams are long
Longer than the shadows and
with their lappets I'll sew a dress
Its buttons up to my eyes
An afraid balloon may be plays
with the hands of a child in the
distance
And the victim would be a lady
tomorrow letting go all her
childhood in hands of the wind
I look at my future
1- I love to be in the arms of a man
In the hands has not touched any
woman's *******
2- I see a pregnant lady coming
down the stairs not thinking of
her tomorrow
lullabying for the dolls
-I've forgotten all the names of my dolls-
3- I have a child
tying her shoelaces
Taking her warm hands
I can't say how much I love her even in my eyes
Backing home from a daily shopping,
she sings with her childish voice passing through
the alleys
4- I'm old
Mum and dad are not with me anymore
They had to go
The photo frames, just excuses
for touching my memories
The chair is still sighing
The walls walking and
It's just me
Dead this time

صندلی آه می کشد
دیوارها راه می روند
آینه
از زشتی صورتم
استفراغ می کند
پرده ها هم مزاحم اند
پنجره را نمی دیدم
در آن سکوتی که گنجشک را خفه کرد
درختان
زندان را برایم ساخته اند
مدتیست
خواب هایم از سایه ها
بلند تر می شوند
با دنباله اش
لباسی خواهم دوخت
که دکمه هایش از چشمانم
بسته شوند
از دور
شاید
بادبادکی
-هراسان-
در دستان دختر بچه ای همبازی می شد
فردا
قربانی خانمی خواهد بود
که تمام کودکی هایش را با باد
رها می سازد
به آینده ام نگاه می کنم
1- دوست دارم
در آغوش مردی باشم
که دستانش
سینه های زنی را لمس نکرده اند
2- زنی باردار را می دیدم
که از پله ها پایین می آمد
بی آنکه به فردایش بیندیشد
برای عروسک ها لالایی می خواند
-من اسم تمام عروسک هایم را فراموش کرده ام-
3- کودکی دارم
بند کفش هایش را می بندم
دستان گرمش را می گیرم
حتی با چشمانم هم
نمی توانم بگویم
چقدر دوستش دارم
از کوچه ها می گذریم
با صدای بچه گانه اش
شعر می خواند و
از خرید روزانه
به خانه برمی گردیم
4- پیر شده ام
دیگر پدرومادرم در کنارم نیستند
آن ها هم باید می رفتند
قاب عکس ها بهانه اند
تا خاطراتم را نوازش کنم
هنوز
صندلی آه می کشد
دیوارها راه می روند
فقط منم
که این بار مرده بودم
please excuse me my dear friends
i re-post this poem
because i want to know your more comments
and this is my favorite poem
when i wrote it, i was 18
and doctors said to me you can't pregnant
in that time, i was so angry and sad then i wrote this poem

this poem is my dream that never comes true...
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
poetry, oddly enough, falls the easiest as pray to that beast plagiarism; now all the more easier, like loving the sort of poetry that's not easily inspiring is to me what generic poetry, the sort of material for occasions and birthday cards and anniversary rhymes that's blatantly reproducible, is to invoking "inspiration." did anyone say the word peacock? no? good: here's a whiff of my skunk and sailors' socks lettering.*

what i know of poetry i use from the lack of knowledge i have of life,
so why would i suddenly follow suit with metaphor
and other tools so blatantly, so consciously, as to write
for an essayist or a critic? why? i have no need for that sort
of nit & pick approach, just so i can have someone say
something about it: easily recognise the alkalis and acids
and yeasts and the final product of dried brains and sugars stored
in liver. i heard a poet talk once about how drinking and
blasting music made him write the most terrible poetry,
a generational gap it would seem prompted me to say:
it's music, it hushes my thought to such a measure that i automate
my writing - hardly a thought concerns the writing - it's
impulse, instinct, impulse, instinct - the unknown river winding -
until i reach the other side of this styx - it's sometimes a sober
journey, but it's never a journey where the river is as if the hush
lullabying mute lake - and i even manage to strain music,
never allow it a completion, and thus the chaos of intro, a part,
no song entering its crescendo - sometimes just the mundane
bits of it, and that's it! i also heard the same poet talk about
the writing ethos: three hours in the morning, one at night...
why would i also do that, stand in the iron maiden of "professionalism"
and rigid matchstick packaging into specified slots of the everyday?
as i heard the same poet speak about practicing, comparing
the poet not to a composer, always adrift on the blanks with
spores against blinking and seeing blanks without inky caterpillar winding,
i'm not a ****** pianist, i'm chopin, there's a difference,
i'm not competing for laureate laurels, i'm competing for the
emperor's clothes: and in the realm of my ever expanding empirical
vocabulary, i'm the sole provider of such similarities to imagine
myself in toga and sandal drinking wine with bacchus and molesting
the nymphs with drunken song - as once in craze on a birthday,
making such cocktails and providing such crazy muses due from
music by cedric 'im' brooks that i swooned into lust and power,
taking a girl to my room and doing her all over in pitched pleasures
of darkness while the modest celebrations continued - the guests
didn't seem interested in helping themselves to barbecue or
the cocktails as much as this one girl - who noticed i was educated
in her own leather contrast with me: so let me tell you,
girls of such countenance enrage heaven with you and solomon and sheba,
for a girl who sees you take interest in her cultural output
is marked to take interest in anything else by you, esp. if it's
after a cosmopolitan, or that cocktail with galliano, or cointreau;
hmm, that last line about "cultural output" sounds hypocritically leftwing
stiff... well i know that something was... stiff... ah crap, now it
sounds all too very much carry on movie giggles; feet ashore!
Lily Audra Oct 2022
I hate dreaming about her,
Her hands immediate and cold,
Peeling back my shirt,
I lay down with my arms over my face and say:
'you shouldn't be allowed,'
In the time between night and day,
The puddle blue sky towers over me,
Pokes me back into sleep,
Where she might be.
How dare she!
Kind and gentle, her voice lullabying me into ease,
My mouth rising with a smile at the edges only to remember and feel double crushed,
Pressed into the bed by her shoe,
And worse,
Sometimes reality plays out and I have to relive it,
Like having my arm broken twice to reset the bone,
Crunch crunch,
I feel violated because my brain is for me and she shouldn't be allowed into the soft parts without my permission.
I wake and start the day with the stone in my throat and swallow and swallow and it does go away.
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
Gitanjali 11
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Leave this vain chanting and singing and counting of beads:
what Entity do you seek in this lonely dark temple with all the doors shut?
Open your eyes and see: God is not here!
He is out there, where the tiller tills the hard ground and the paver breaks stones.
He is with them in sun and shower; his garments are filthy with dust.
Shed your immaculate mantle and likewise embrace the dust!
Deliverance? Where is this "deliverance" to be found
when our Master himself has joyfully embraced the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all forever!
Cease your meditations, abandon your petals and incense!
What is the harm if your clothes become stained rags?
Meet him in the toil and the sweat of his brow!

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, vain, worship, entity, God, temple, chanting, singing, counting, beads, petals, incense, meditations, tiller, paver, dust, rags, sweat, toil, mrburdu



These are modern English translations of poems by the great Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), who has been called the "Bard of Bengal" and "the Bengali Shelley." In 1913 Tagore became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Tagore was also a notable artist, musician and polymath.

The Seashore Gathering
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

On the seashores of endless worlds, earth's children converge.
The infinite sky is motionless, the restless waters boisterous.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children gather to dance with joyous cries and pirouettes.
They build sand castles and play with hollow shells.
They weave boats out of withered leaves and laughingly float them out over the vast deep.
Earth's children play gaily on the seashores of endless worlds.
They do not know, yet, how to cast nets or swim.
Divers fish for pearls and merchants sail their ships, while earth's children skip, gather pebbles and scatter them again.
They are unaware of hidden treasures, nor do they know how to cast nets, yet.
The sea surges with laughter, smiling palely on the seashore.
Death-dealing waves sing the children meaningless songs, like a mother lullabying her baby's cradle.
The sea plays with the children, smiling palely on the seashore.
On the seashores of endless worlds earth's children meet.
Tempests roam pathless skies, ships lie wrecked in uncharted waters, death wanders abroad, and still the children play.
On the seashores of endless worlds there is a great gathering of earth's children.



Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!

Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.

Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields, anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?

You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.

Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!



Unfit Gifts
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

At sunrise, I cast my nets into the sea,
dredging up the strangest and most beautiful objects from the depths ...
some radiant like smiles, some glittering like tears, others flushed like brides’ cheeks.
When I returned, staggering under their weight, my love was relaxing in her garden, idly tearing leaves from flowers.
Hesitant, I placed all I had produced at her feet, silently awaiting her verdict.
She glanced down disdainfully, then pouted: "What are these bizarre things? I have no use for them!"
I bowed my head, humiliated, and thought:
"Truly, I did not contend for them; I did not purchase them in the marketplace; they are unfit gifts for her!"
That night I flung them, one by one, into the street, like refuse.
The next morning travelers came, picked them up and carted them off to exotic countries.



This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.

This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.

Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.

Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.

When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend ...

How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?

With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.



Patience
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

If you refuse to speak, I will fill my heart with your silence and endure it.
I will remain still and wait like the night through its starry vigil
with its head bowed low in patience.

The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish,
and your voice will pour down in golden streams breaking through the heavens.

Then your words will take wing in songs from each of my birds' nests,
and your melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.



Last Curtain
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

I know the day comes when my eyes close,
when my sight fails,
when life takes its leave in silence
and the last curtain veils my vision.
Yet the stars will still watch by night;
the sun will still rise like before;
the hours will still heave like sea waves
casting up pleasures and pains.
When I consider this end of my earth-life,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the illumination of death
this world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare its meanest of lives.
Things I longed for in vain and those I received, let them pass.
Let me but truly possess the things I rejected and overlooked.



Death
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

You who are the final fulfillment of life,
Death, my Death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day I have kept watch for you;
for you I have borne the joys and the pangs of life.
All that I am, all that I have and hope, and all my love
have always flowed toward you in the depths of secrecy.
One final glance from your eyes and my life will be yours forever, your own.
The flowers have been woven and the garland prepared for the bridegroom.
After the wedding the bride must leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night.



I Cannot Remember My Mother
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes in the middle of my playing
a melody seemed to hover over my playthings:
some forgotten tune she loved to sing
while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes on an early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room
as the scent of the temple’s morning service
wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.

I cannot remember my mother,
yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window,
when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy
and sense on my face her serene gaze,
I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.



Gitanjali 35
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been divided by narrow domestic walls;
Where words emerge from the depths of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not been lost amid the dreary desert sands of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward into ever-widening thought and action;
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.



Gitanjali 11
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Leave this vain chanting and singing and counting of beads:
what Entity do you seek in this lonely dark temple with all the doors shut?
Open your eyes and see: God is not here!
He is out there where the tiller tills the hard ground and the paver breaks stones.
He is with them in sun and shower; his garments are filthy with dust.
Shed your immaculate mantle and likewise embrace the dust!
Deliverance? Where is this "deliverance" to be found
when our Master himself has joyfully embraced the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all forever!
Cease your meditations, abandon your petals and incense!
What is the harm if your clothes become stained rags?
Meet him in the toil and the sweat of his brow!

Keywords/Tags: Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore, India, Indian, poet, Bengali, sea, seashore, children, mother, dog, love, lover, patience, curtain, death
Tyler S Anderson Apr 2015
They move as lace
through the discarnate night;
Soft, volitional footsteps along disturbing corridors,
with outstretched
scalpel-esque appendages,
******* five, adjacent, stimulating patterns-

getting deeper-

 
Deeper.


And flashing their leer
of quivering needles.
Lullabying odiums to Johnny-*****;
Drinking his breath in the night.

O, for an exposed ripe?
Seeing only a diced-fraction of hell?
Will you not rest in the light?
Or wisp away in the rigid winds of reality?

The dawn is riding forward-

As the last tree in the forest falls with a whisper.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i only read poetry because it's so accessible, a perfectly formed statue; i only read poetry because it's so accessible, and yet so easily forgettable, so self-embodying in that sense of forgetting; well obviously you will not cradle a culture of poetics akin to a worth of fiction, and canonise people into a sainthood likewise, should they read a major work of fiction and compare it to the same feat having read a scarcity on a page, as based on mass appreciation comparison; a poem isn't exactly a rite of passage, it's a process of embodying yourself, to be dropped into the depths... a novel ensures you're dropped into the shallows (the hugging narration of lullabying a reader to sleep), which is why it's so culturally significant in the medium of replicas / imitations; poems influence the stockbrokers of creativity, and they range from being painters to being philosophers.

liken any period of history
to the days we know
how to scribble down a date for,
i'm sure the glutton vacuum
will lie to you about any time period
of your choosing,
and should it not be a glutton,
it will be a skeletal short-story,
hardly a history book's worth of
storytelling;
but like now, the world in impromptu
satisfying,
opened sylvia plath's collected
poems on the poem *the times are tidy
,
started reading it, got caught up
in lizard imagery,
Libras of skin ceramics,
lizard skins akin to well dressed tables -
right now i feel a woman kicking
me in the ******* -
judo chop!
skins of lizards finely attuned to
candlelight suppers...
anyway...
started reading sylvia's poem,
by god the solitary gas chamber of hers,
she was "supposed" to put a chicken in there
to bake at 180° for two hours, not her head!
oh god, not her head!
the entire Auschwitz is lodged in that head of her's!
anyway...
so i started reading her poem
unlucky the hero born,
in this province of the stuck record

and out of nowhere, by the end of
the second form fireworks go off...
i mean it, a neighbour sets off fireworks
on good friday,
phosphorescent blue and yellow,
and that stench of gunpowder all around,
you'd think a horde of mongolians were riding
on the high tide of conquest and hopes of ****...
but you never hear of mongolia in the press,
i guess the communist experiment got the better
of the world, isolated them like Idaho or Alaska...
it started there mind you, i spent an hour
in the u.c.l. library researching the ****...
but i mean... what timing!
pure transcendental ***! starting to read a sylvia
plath poem and then fireworks...
you don't get this much magic even if mermaids
or fairies or godmothers exist.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
after my cat broke into my room
and ****** on my writing chair,
i threw the **** covers into the garden
and sat, for months on a skeletal chair,
namely one: without cushions...
  the cat? i call him a ginger farmer,
or simply hulk, nearing
10 kilograms, we can be just that -
oh the operas he sings with that variation
of meow...
apparently there are 200 unique ideograms
of a meow,
and i've just about heard
   one hundred and ninety-nine...
now my *** is cushioned back to its original
throne...
      you really can have a ****** day
listening to ****** music,
or not listening to music and making
modern echoes of vicilisation audible...
cars, airplanes, and not a gush of wind,
or an owl in a forest making coo...
   on my walk with four beers and finding
the perfect spot to take a ****...
yes, drink them quick enough
and you **** clear, pristine waters,
wait till the morning, and there she is,
yellow ammonium...
   but i do find that the famous grouse
was being a bit of a ***** yesterday,
i got all nostalgic and didn't feel like
inviting this spirit into my abode...
i wrote the most feeble things (partially)
necessary, but, evidently, only intended
for a transition period...
     so i said to myself, the local co-op
opened recently, they had an offer on *****
the other day...
and now she stands on my windowsill,
pretty little russian girl:
     as стaндaрт...
   for too long i have not delved into her natures...
a stealth spirit, an assassin...
    yet i never thought these people
still existed... filling up to my 3rd can of beer,
watching a man pull into a petrol station
on a motorbike,
filling up, and then quickly driving off...
   well, thrusting off...
   so i caught the eyes of the petrol station's
attendant, he too bemused...
   it's good to see that such people still
happen to do the most pleasing of transgression
that comes standard with: the civlised,
law-abiding citizens...
     seeing a thief like that while you're drinking
a beer almost makes the most perfect sense...
as to the cushions i'm sitting on in my chair:
the one that maine **** hulk of a cat
****** on and i threw into the garden to
get winter air and soak...
    feels a bit like ******* with your
left hand... or as a step-father told a friend
of mine: sit on your forehand long enough
until it goes numb, and afterward
it's like someone else is doing it for you...
  but we are here, forget homosexuality
being the artistic canvas these days,
they've gained political motivation,
there's no art coming from the former taboos...
a lot more things are dying than the mere
death of god... that's heidegger ponderings
ii - vi, aphorisms 185 - 191...
the grouse was being a *****,
i have to say, or as some orthodox "priests"
from polish cinema said once:
you drinking perfumes?
             whiskey, perfumes, chanel no. 5...
well... back to the roots of reasoning
a few pointless things through...
   that's also called: listening to a few ******
pop songs and then going into
big boy territory... jed kurzel, wardruna...
i can't be a Bukowski, every time i read
him now i get a writer's block...
i can't say classical music is that good,
or that it's the medium of genius,
i can say that it's the only music
i can listen to when i turn on the radio,
otherwise i have to be my own d.j.,
   i'm sitting in a room with a record collection,
bemoaning how people sorta stopped
caring for music in the old fashion
sense of buying it...
   and it's not exactly pirates of the caribbean for
****'s sake...
   if there's no respect for artists,
there's no respect for anything,
in the old polish proverb: hulaj duszo, piekła niema...
in verse: hulaj piekło, duszy nie ma
   (go wild, soul, for there is no hell...
reverse: go wild, hell, for there is no soul) -
thankfully : and italics is correct here,
   it wouldn't be correct had the emphasis
included bold text.
  that really can happen, i.e. to become
tiresome of whiskey, you drink what later resembles
your **** upon waking...
  and yes, given what i drink,
i do feel ****** the next day,
   i can't say hangover, but just crap....
until i take a ****, after that: it's all downhill -
one the **** is out, the ego can begin its ascent.
so here's to miss стaндaрт,
may she live long and prosper from as many
drunks as she deems worthy of lullabying
with a few poems they might throw into
the calendar of white, with year not relevant,
with month not relevant, and with diem
as only carpe.
    or as i like to say, after reading this article
about tinder and how women are sploit
for choice...
     i should be in the game, what, being 30...
but i read the enemy's propaganda and it's
not good... well it's good that i know it's
propaganda... the article is only a week old,
misplaced the magazine for about a week to just
read it now...
       lily 23, erin 25, mariella 23,
alexandra 24, alice 23, julia 28
(actress, digital marketing executive,
   fashion pr, sales and marketing graduate,
publishing assistant, journalist - respectively)...
with what they said, as the article states,
and whether the core of western values and
democracy is for the freedom of journalism
  (does anyone still bother?
it's selective, it has editors,
there's too much happening anyway,
and if it is happening, it's coverage is delayed
by zombie-audiences, like that case of Fritzl
in the whittle village of Amstetten) -
   they were really quick on the mark there,
or the Milly Dowler case...
would any sane individual in the western  world
go to war to protect journalism?
    i'm starting to think that state-owned media
is not such a bad thing,
   better hearing organsied lies than disorientating
lies that have no *****-like authority of a nationhood...
some peoples' lives are simple, they need
to hear stories... some actually prefer listening
to music, i too wouldn't want the entire world
gatecrashing an event such as modern Mongolia...
you never really hear any news from Mongolia...
the perfect example of Tao... isolationism
to perfection... and yes, some people don't get
to write a poem either...
   would i go to war defending the rights of newspapers?
given what we are currently seeing?
   it's very strange to see newspapers with suspicious eyes,
terrible so, you'd like to think they did speak
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth...
     but then i look at my 10 kg bonsai tiger pavarotti,
and i sit on my windowsill, he sits on his
windowsill in the bathroom...
              ****** comes back into my room
and ****** on my chair, i swear i'll smack him again
just like i did when the ****** struck at my bed
almost a year ago (as documented in qat qaeda) -
leaving a warm **** on my bedsheets...
  and yes, he needs supervision when urinating
into the toilet... ginger pavarotti... this one's on you.
paint me this picture, sonorous color
clutching the quiet ****

             pressed against cloying scenes,
        a loose hand bannering a bayonet.

rivet me waters, and much of the Earth
tightly groping inlands,

                thatched in the branch nowhere alone,
                is the song of God lullabying cities.

again the whole sky with its keen eyes
manifests a gleam worth knowing a cherub,

                 and sooner than it is later, when the seasons
    postpone their flamboyances, chiaroscuros of smoke,
   deceit, uncared for and unheard shrieks bounce off careless corners
    and the song of God is but static with little wings clipped
    and tossed into vicissitude:

song   or    no   song
bearing a fruition of attrition:

                    resounding far-away:  a comatose  of cars,
             a scuffle of powerlines, a melee of battlement and tranquil

continually     fluster the  child
   in  metronomic dance.
A song of war, violence and peace displaced.
The chair is sighing
The walls walking
The mirror feeling sick of my ugly face
That curtains are annoying too
I don't see the windows in the
silence that chocks the sparrows
The trees has made me a prison
My dreams are long
Longer than the shadows and
with their lappets I'll sew a dress
Its buttons up to my eyes .
An afraid balloon may be plays
with the hands of a child in the distance
And the victim would be a lady
tomorrow letting go all her
childhood in hands of the wind
I look at my future...

1- I love to be in the arms of a man
In the hands has not touched any
woman's breast

2-I see a pregnant lady coming
down the stairs not thinking of her tomorrow
lullabying for the dolls
I've forgotten the names of my dolls

3-I have a child
tying her shoelaces I can't say
how much I love her even in my eyes
Backing home from a daily
shopping,she sings with her
childish voice passing through
the alleys

4-I'm old
Mum and dad are not with me anymore
They had to go
The photo frames,just excuses
for touching my memories
The chair is still sighing
The walls walking and
It's just me
Dead this time .


صندلی آه می کشد
دیوارها راه می روند
آینه
از زشتی صورتم
استفراغ می کند
پرده ها هم مزاحم اند
پنجره را نمی دیدم
در آن سکوتی که گنجشک را خفه کرد
درختان
زندان را برایم ساخته اند
مدتیست
خواب هایم از سایه ها
بلند تر می شوند
با دنباله اش
لباسی خواهم دوخت
که دکمه هایش از چشمانم
بسته شوند
از دور
شاید
بادبادکی
-هراسان-
در دستان دختر بچه ای همبازی می شد
فردا
قربانی خانمی خواهد بود
که تمام کودکی هایش را با باد رها می سازد
به آینده ام نگاه می کنم

1- دوست دارم در آغوش مردی باشم
که دستانش
سینه های زنی را لمس نکرده اند

2- زنی باردار را می دیدم
که از پله ها پایین می آمد
بی آنکه به فردایش بیندیشد
برای عروسک ها لالایی می خواند
من اسم تمام عروسک هایم را فراموش کرده ام

3- کودکی دارم
بند کفش هایش را می بندم
دستان گرمش را می گیرم
حتی با چشمانم هم
نمی توانم بگویم
چقدر دوستش دارم
از کوچه ها می گذریم
با صدای بچه گانه اش
شعر می خواند و
از خرید روزانه
به خانه برمی گردیم

4-پیر شده ام
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Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
ms. amber is still not through, lullabying me proper; as much as i have "wasted", it seems strange, that i have yet to wait for so much more.

does it come upon such times, then even
an mongrel irish man,
bestowed upon the shores of goa,
deem himself the classical masochistic
christian in demanding:
our fate belongs from the inheritance
of **** & pillage -
     says one anglophobe to another
native "anglophile" -
the natives speak worse english than
the horde.
              does it really come upon such times?!
let me tell you: for all the "need"
to speak english - english has been
****** into a digital whirlpool -
it's a lost tongue: it has been useful:
up to now, but all their b.d.s.m. anti-inflammatory
rhetoric is bugging me...
their entire ****-load-of-****
in attempt to "erase" dyslexia by,
nonetheless allowing the imagery:
  you want to spell good, mr. gump?
watch some ****.
     get right down to the lingo!
          it's called the universal phellatio...
******..
    you send one more mongrel irish
down my way: i'll ask for you to recite me
the entirety of macbeth: the only
play of shakespeare than borrows from
ancient greece (the graeae,
the missing eye of odin) - and gives
the medieval time a reboot one last chance!
****** eli of anglia my ***...
     whoever honey-suckled that brazilian
briefing: by now, added his spinal bones
to his dentistry's affair...
     the guillotine signalled one affair
an assurance: dead for sure,
i too cut meat on a meat cutter...
last time i remembered it was a clean
cut, clean enough to hear dante speak
for the dead: with the dead asking for
an audience: ex hades in hades -
    from the realm of the dead:
the readiest of a ginette mathiot -
  one shoe fits all: or ask cinderella...
my fingers are starting to glue...
     i speak better native than the natives,
and what rewards do i get?
stay, in, line!
                stay, in, line!
sure, let the idiot come first,
and the intelligent foreigners come last -
because: that's just how the world is...
           **** poo = 1000+ sims of
clappers...
           esp. in manchester...
   my mother said: head north -
i say: **** you to hell and your joke
of me:
       i'll sooner fear living too long,
than your woman-kind,
and being unfretted by living too long...
         i have as much fear of death
as i have of: a life...
buttered by what the stereotype doesn't
give away with me being a single child...
again: being qua mechanisation -
the in-endurable "waking"
of what was to certainly come
free, nonetheless in shackles.
if only history knew a genuine of itself
in itself: the perfected
compartmentalism:
an - *arca in arca in arca in arca per se

(a box in a box in a box in a box in itself) -
cf. a babushka doll...
              western society is overladen
with visualisations that lead to no
potent set of words...
                     these people, currently
going down: do, not, know, themselves;
what they know is that they "think"...
the more a people esteem their cleverness
the more stupider their actions
become... the more replicable...
    the more unsatisfactory - the more
congested in repetitive "plagiarism"...
the more clued-up on cluelessness...
    siberia is not exactly the north western,
the south western, or texas,
         i used to love the idea of america,
****, i loved the cinema,
i loved the music,
  but these days?
       the u.s.a. is about as uniform in
politics as any football team aspiring
  for a chance at the world cup...
  the leverages are even...
      the moral compass is:
omnia in aether est -
            america has suddenly started to
not ask a north korean for a shoeshine -
i don't get the *******
  moral "debate" given that there has only
been one country to have dropped the nuke:
twice!
       what's the defence? the cultural
exchange program? only if they kept
it up! they seem slightly limp **** about
how: creativity is not a competitive
market economy: there's not magnetism
to parallel a market and an artist's blank slate:  
in wall street there's no costello moment
of leprechaun-**** appreciation:
     i'am an artist. you give me a fing tuba,
i'll get you something out of it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
****, shove a woodpecker up my ***,
and i'll get you a canary to play me a,
******* trombone in cough-up beat-box!  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
do these people really think that writing
******* instead of f
ing will revive
their sadistic dream of abolition?
that's cheap, that's real cheap...
         america, beacon of the west?
beacon of the west?
more like bacon of the west -
never send puritans of huguenots stock:
to do a catholic's job;
just saying...
                who needs these boneless
deflated ******* of "ambition" to
orchestrate the boys they ****** but
never minded to castrate?!
             never send a protestant to
do a catholic's job... otherwise?
you get america...
     pish-poor job you did there:
     america truly is a modern nation:
with inclinations to hollywood medieval -
****, i love my odd exorcism and levitation -
never send a ******* hugh to do a
calvanelli's job -
women complain: 1 period once a month...
sure: and there's me jerking off 30 times a month!
that's what i find wrong with the greeks'
interpretation of the hebrews:
  i was born into a life, and i will live
out a life, in order than, somehow,
archeology can be subverted from
the already given unearthed facts...
                        so they were all pretty ****
mad and irrational...
   or, what?
            for the greek so good with ideas:
as the modern time suggests:
a tad ****** with money.
   or for the jews so good with money:
as the modern times suggest:
a tady ******, and late with their own goal
when it comes to ideas.
born into it: will die in it -
can't shake off the sadomasochism of
christianity, the irrationality of:
back then - even the lunatic was allowed
to talk, and his talk was allowed the freedom
of the talk, given the talk of the lunatic didn't
pick up the sword...
           celebrating christmas
& easter is becoming more and more
uncomfortable for me, year upon year:
since i don't know what i'm exactly "celebrating"...
i'm probably much closer celebrating
keeping my mouth shut,
   than anything coming from
the celebratory gob of cousins who are lesser
read... it's not pedantic,
         it's just what it is...
          i'm already sick with christmas
having a genesis at the beginning of november...
almost coinciding with
the end of halloween...
                         i hate protestant nations
for one concern alone: the joy from lying -
why was lying never a crowning achievement
of sin, that cardinals ought to know best?!
lying was "fun" as a child:
as an adult?
                  lying breeds no thrills -
as apathy being unable to breed a pathology
worthy of being categorised
in that juicing the giraffe nibbling on
a skittels rainbow...
    a lie was never, and never will be:
an elaboration of deception...
a lie always was, and always will be:
a ****** game of chess...
              a lie will always be
the most devastating, yet at the same time:
the most unsatisfactory "revelation"
of a lost sense of trust...
           lies belong to children -
and lies make adult men into boys -
stating the blunt truth is always too
shocking to be said in the "never-to-exist":
unsaid, that is nonetheless said -
without ever encouraging the minotaur's
plague of chasing, and the erosion
of memory -
       it's hard to keep track of lies -
as hard as it must be to forgive oneself
to memorise forgetting,
   as is the opposite scenario of forgetting
to memorise: in the case of alzheimer's...
blunt: sure... the disease of telling lies,
and mismanaging chronology of "this said
unto that actor / that said unto this actor"
and the multiple version of etc.
hey... didn't lord greville janner suffer
from dementia? the most obvious aversion
toward reality is not from the satanic
ritual of "eating the fruit" of
the dichotomy (differentiation) /
dualism (integration) of good & evil...
that's but one act alone -
problem is: to pursue the continuum of
the original sin: lie -
could a crow ever lie that it's not a crow
with a croak?!
  could a dog ever lie that it's not a dog
with a bark?!
dementia is a disease of compulsive liars...
      who lost the plot,
or, to be honest: never had a plot
to begin with: merely: a juggling act.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
i once used to frequent museums and galleries... but then i came across forests and graveyards... ancient yard of arts... and then i found the hands of a 2nd sculpture: the nearest i've been to god in terms of seeing a visage... i've already heard what i need to hear: a choir descending in church... give this works a second pair of hands: and call them less weathered: but more moulded by a second attempt: more than a mountain might need a tornado, or the deserts be resurrected into mountain ranges by time! i know, necro-sculptures are certainly not Elgin marbles... but at least when adoring these statues i am not bound to listen to ******* lawsuits about ownership: the dead own them... nor am i sick from the stuffy air of incense of a museum imitating church practices... just the common sickly sweet rot of autumn infuses them... and i know: even if they were made from marble: i'd rather watch them being "revised" in the immediate sense, than have to ascribe a human topor to them, being left so mutilated, without those slight diversions they have kept intact.

wątpliwości obdarują człowieka myślą: wert ein zweite eisenvorhang: früher immunität zu die schwarzplage.

  that is my single most important observation:
did these people, my supposed past
really concern themselves with perfecting
sanitation? the map of the black plague looks:
mighty odd!
      there's that "bit in the middle"
where it's akin to me buying take-away food
  one half a year from the local turk
selling the "speciality" of fish & chips:
i feel ill, i fill gloated, bloated...
    no offense to the turk selling me the food:
i like the idea that turns into a practice
of actually like washing my hands like
a surgeon before cooking the food
i am about to eat: prior giving thanks
to a father about putting saliva than
apples on a table before me...
            it really makes more sense being
able to cook your own food
than taking a short-cut...
     i ******* hate take-away food:
i will bloated like i just ate a puffer-fish
alive...
      i woudln't eat from a restaurant...
and thanks to somone like
Paris Hilton: i'm pretty sure i would
be fine having eaten her pooch munch;
hand on my heart + scout's honour:
i'm sorry...
            i rather cook my own food than
take it easy and visit a restaurant...
       i might ******* in the meantime,
  i might pick-my-nose...
    but at least know that i would be most
likely to wash my hands with bleach...
    i know i will wash my hands
my my proper way...
                 maybe it's the deep-fried staple
of all the good food being in need
of an oil bath:
     but i'll scrub down proper and
have to answer for:
    did i see it proper?
   if it wasn't cooked 4 x 4:
     i guess i can only assert but one
vector, eye, in a menu of paid
compliments.

     - the following extract ought
to be filed under: almost 2 months ago
it made: sense perfecto! -

- there are two strands of thinking,
one by immersion and the other by
"digression" (trans-metaphor,
id est snowball effect that can't be stopped,
colloquial: lack of a better word,
post scriptum bloom spontaneity;
verb-verb complex), the former immerses
itself in quantifiable rigor,
god the non quantifiable, s-
-elf-reductionist inertia of one,
**** qua deus est chimera, alt. **** insapiens.

Prefix proxy, all hyphen additions pre/post;
ars poetica shames itself with rubric & rigour;
poetry as the resurrection of chaos
via versus IKEA poets: who think poetry
requires an academic manual, art (per se)
as the "relaxation" tool of semi-autistic doctors,
hindering 7 pillars a near infinite supply of hues;

science makes the incremental judgement
and yet so many nouns are missing.
Revisionist: the "big" Q (?) - bang, ****,
what's the difference: non vox in vanus.

Modern "philosophers", if not mere spinster
hide behind word-pillars, using if not "refining"
words on their primitive 1st derivative,
one dimensional formality, absolute,
whereby words become crutches, rather than pillars.

Hence the bombast and lack of fineze.
Yet ask the etymological question as to
why a word's zenith must be kept unchallenged,
hence the stressors (in italics) and
hence the subsequent abyss.

Every word can unravel and heed toward
its own history of non-cause,
but a champagne-happenstance.
Look into grammatical complex akin
to verb-verb dichotomy within the nouns *****,
subsequently Madonna.

With a cctv crow perched on my shoulder,
glued to the mono-lingual Arab of
the Riyadh greenhouse perks and demise,
black gold gluttony,
would be muhammedan avatars of the forgotten
celibacy abiding by merely adhan sustenance.
The Arab, jinn or dajjal, or he with one eye
or he with one tongue?

The greatest display of art is geological,
in that eternal marrow of once moulded by hand,
thus given into Eloise (god of wind),
twice the sermon of mourning upon
the weathered faces and rigid genuflex limbs,
penitent gargoyles and saints akin;
not sheltered in museum of last upheaval
cherished by gluttonous suitors
and postcard frozen envy;
grave watchmen of mortality's final dynamo:
procrastinating in idle mourning,
sepia exiled as the currency franca,
moulding by day, harvesting moss by night,
yet still perpetually lullabying a teasing
chance of crux signum of unfolding hands
to butterfly flutter risen; eventually the instilled:
not yet.

Yet they do not belong neither in shadow
or bubblegum paralysis to seize a chance at
grimace before the epileptic paparazzi seizure;
weathered stone, time, scythe in hand,
pads from a master anonymous to a Rodin and then,
rather time & the Chinese five winds,
moulded repentant galore slowly itching away,
pinch by pinch by the irritable constancy
toward a crab gravity:

   what do you call a man who earns a living
from young women? Alfons.
   - and what do you call a man who earns
a living  from old women? Rydzyk.

I take it must be a healthy observation,
for are not graveyards the other,
less pomp and yet more grandiose exemplars
of the kept artefacts?

How few are know in the latter as fabled scribes,
procrastinations of life among dry quills?
No these statues belong here, in the museum of air,
wind and rain, with the hands of the elemental
artist's work ad continuum ex ****.

**** in analogue, home ex analogue contra populis
(while watching pigeons squadron - "x" -
against the stiffening of limbs against ale cold);
with only a pair of eyes to travel, man, alone,
perpetually seeking an alternative avenue:
that perpetual en masse cul de sac tsunami
of all mortal venture: reason vested in the motto:
not asked for: enigma in **, enigma non ex ****
(complexes, systems, traffic);
enigma diem est non carpe
(an enigmatic day is not worth seizing,
since what is best unlived,
is best translated into what ought to be written);

note to don Juan:
had I lived such a bountiful life,
I wouldn't have bothered writing a book,
laying a brick stacked in puzzle upon
a wall would have sufficed;
boorish clausure, inevetible glass of mud,
a riddle Hardy upon Liszt divulged
with feminine weakness:
I'll adore a peacock' s feather in a hat,
prior to and forever through.

believe me when i say:
     i will always trust the turk the barber...
   i will actually trust no other ethnicity
of a man to call himself a *barber

if he isn't the latest ottoman fashion from
Istambul...
      because?
    please! show me the forest for me
to aspire to lumber-jacking hacking
     that imaginary forest into a british library!

i did ask for Königratte: and they sold me:
the soul can never be sold unless in the priesthood...
in defence of Thespians:
             or those who sells their shadows...
i don't know what is worse...
eh: why not face it:
    a polish girl will always prefer
Adam Mickiewicz...
   while the ex pat immigrant polish boy
will always rather cite Julian Tuwim...
   or as the ancient saying goes:

siała baba mak, nie wiedziała jak,
       a tu chłop powiedział: i to było tak...

ihr menschen, wirklich würdig sein
  ein zweite eisenvorhang...

     if i din't know: i wouldn't be asking
you to reply in german for
          me using english grammar...

ł: remains of the trinitarian formula -
on a basis of a t -
      bottom up or bottom down?
      it's becoming a case for inspector clouseau
looking for handwritting
  in such examples.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
it's hard to wake up from spending
a month in a monastery of a novel
and entertain this...

this... the internet is hardly
a ******* Kandinsky...

but the odd prop comes up
to further the narrative...

off the top of my head...
the question eric metaxas
asks milo yiannopoulos:

do homosexuals
even like fleetwood mac?

ah... now i know what we're
"dealing" with..
cue:

  do heterosexual men
like simon & garfunkel?

really?
i only liked scarborough fair
because it was autumn,
and it was England,
and the wind and the leaves
and the suburban cement:
and i was reading
Dostoevsky at the time:
on the bus, going to school...

i was a teenager:
and naturally androgynous...
what teenager isn't
androgynous:
but some is fixated
on this:
yeah... and by looking
at a baby's face:
you can tell a babe male
from a babe female:
like you can tell a cucumber
from a zucchini...

one *******
leverage after another...

the song cecilia...
esp. after watching a movie
like kramer vs. kramer
or rosemary's baby...
is a "hard-on"...
like...
something from a Cuban
urban fresco...
peacock colors of
architecture...

the question, to reiterate:
do homosexuals like fleetwood mac?
dunno...
do heterosexuals like
simon & garfunkel?

unless they're teenagers,
entrenched in a russian novel...
autumn...
and...
                  i'm actually glad
in seeing Milo humbled...

at least this Icarus didn't die
but fell into the hands
of a lullabying cradle's worth
of hands and conversation...
      
it's hard...
after a month's worth of
engaging with a monastery's
worth of a novel,
reading in silence...

returning to this funfair,
this circus...
well...

        Elvis is still someone
other people adore,
Beethoven is someone
i can only listen to in transit...
a man, a season,
a fancy,
        and...
yes... i compete rather than
cling to a decree to
take the modus operandi
literally...

          a true poet of the flesh:
contra the poet of the mind...
which is me...
imbuing the transaction
of:
            ******* into a glass
of wine, and drinking it...
your flesh my flesh, mine...
you:
        how else...
            to resuscitate...
without agitating
the Hindu polytheistic
   paradox of reincarnation...

best i feud my blood with yours,
hey: yell'ah all the Vatican's
flag base...
          you will not being
reincarnated:
   but i can trickle
in a fervor to agitate the bowl...
and...
   imbue a mirror with
a ripple expanding
upon the face of a freezing
mirror...

this is becoming a ****'s worth
of farce:
   Versailles in their mouths...
but ***** in their minds
and Gomorrah in their hearts!
as long as:
dyslexia is not alleviated,
but sentenced to cipher...
in:

               a *******'s worth
that disregards the original
fate of hitting *****,
polar apart: no...
ping pong will always be
deemed counter-cultural...
what with tennis...
being tennis...
and... a no-sport whenever
the counter-cultural sports
allign at the Olympics...

   the one time you'd like
to spectate the counter-culture
of sport...
and you're still intruded upon
by the mainstream culture
of sport...
every single time i watch
the olympics on t.v.
i am... undermined by
how little time "obscure"
sports are given...
esp. the English
coverage:
who gives a **** about
the sport where the English
will win?!
can i see a sport for the per se
element?!

no... this isn't working...
either the cheap *** isn't working...
or i can't re-engage with
what is a month's worth
away from what was
prior to: my niche...

what ever this is...
this certainly wasn't...
   whatever this is...
whatever it was:
hardly a niche...
more like an iron maiden.
AH...SO THAT’S IT?

frightening Fear
un-saddening the Sadness
& its silences

laying Grief to rest
until with joy it awakens
lullabying Loneliness to sleep

sleep...sleep
doubting Doubt
(I guess)

that’s what
our love is
all about

— The End —