"marti" poems
Tum bhi na bhoologe,
Kabhi mai bhi na bhooloonga,
Kabhi tum yaad aaoge,
Kabhi mai tumko yaad aaunga,
Jindagi yun hi gujar jayegi,
Shayad intjaar ji karta rah jaunga,
Pyar mai umse karta hu,
Tum bhi to mujhpe marti **
Kabhi tum lautkar aana,
Tumhe har pal mai chahunga,
Kabhi khamosh hota hu,
Kabhi tum chup rahti **
Bina tere mera ye dil har pal rota hai,
Ab intjaar nahi hota,
Kabhi to paas aa jao,
Pyar kar lo tum mujhse,
Mai bhi khud ko bhula doonga,
Tumhe har pal mai chahunga,
Tumhe har pal mai chahunga,
Bina tere kabhi khud ko khush na rakh paunga,
Jab teri yaad aati hai,
Aanso bahne lagte hai,
Aankhen dukhne lagti hai,
Saanse rukne lagti hai,
Dil me toofan uthta hai,
Khud ko mai khine lagta hu,
Kabhi to paas aa jao,
Mera kya haal hai dekho,
Tumhare bina shayad ab aur na rah paunga,
Tumhe mai pyar karta hu,
Tumhe mai har pal chahunga....
I love u
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 7:52 AM UTC
Kyun sham thaharti nahi tab tak,
K tu aa na jaye kareeb jab tak,
Kyu raat dhalti nahi tab tak,
K tu meri ** na jaye jab tak,
Ab to bina wajah hi kai baar dil dhadakta hai,
Lekin kyun saanse meri rukti nahi tab tak,
K tujhe khud me mahsoos na kar loo jab tak.....
k banjar hua ja raha hu mai bina tere,
ku akhiri ehsaas tootne se ruk jata nahi tab tak,
k akhiri armaan poora mera hi na jaye jab tak,
kyu jindagi me tofaan koi aata rahta hai,
kyu baki nahi rah jaati jan mujh me tab tak,
k tu har pal mujhme na simat jaye jab tak......
bojhil mera dil ku thak jata hai,
rota hai,
ghabrata hai,
aansoo bahata hai,
kyu jindagi thokar mujhe marti nahi tab tak,
k koi mera mujhko samet le aoni bahon me jab tak,
bekhabar bejubaan dil mera ku dard bayan karta nahi tab tak,
k koi aayat khuda ki tujhse roobaru hoti nahi jab tak.......
kyu gair koi mujhe dard de jata hai,
kyun mere liye khuda sab bhool jata hai,
kyu har kisi k rooth jane par tu pyar mujhe karta nahi tab tak,
k aankhen band ** jaye meri par ehsaaas tera mujhme rah jaye jab tak,
k saanse agar na bhi chale,
par jikr tera chala rah jaye jab tak........
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 8:31 AM UTC
Havana, I arrive
in the sweaty thickness of July
caliente y picante
steamy sidewalks, steamy women
chocolate brown, tan and
black against the lemon-yellow walls
strolling through La Plaza de Armas
slurping thick café through weathered lips
in La Plaza de Francisco de Asis
dancing on the pregnant gray stones in La Plaza Vieja
timba, rumba, salsa and son
Cristo, Maria, Yemaya and Obatalá
Havana, I arrive
in the intoxication of your breath
between the acrid fumes
of insecticides and 1957 Chevy's
stepping past the dark grime of your slums
streets plush with tight round bodies
beautiful and sensuously swaying
I arrive snaking past the converted palaces
con las turistas ricos
and the buy-me-a-dress-and-a-ring ******
with their enchanting full-tooth smiles
and undulating earthquake-tremor hips
I hear your beat
the machine-gun laughter of your feet
on the hot cobblestones
with the jinateros and street musicians
chants of Santería drifting from pane-less windows
Havana, I smell your heat
under salty faded sheets
smell the long, tobacco-stained nights
with your hips swaying
to the pale drops of ***
spilt from red lips
and the red drops of blood
spilt from your revolutionaries
spilt from the gorging of Machado and Baptista
and 500 years of foreign dominion
In Paseo de Marti
banners of Che Guevara
flapping in the moist tear-laden breeze
Fidel, cigar in hand
tirelessly raging in black and white
on a Russian 1960's TV
Cuba, I can see the green in your eyes
the peeling-paint bedroom dreams and
dirt-poor joy of your richness
laughing out the despair and desperation
dancing out the oppression and the paucity
the aching of your past
the battles of Castillo De Los Tres Santos
of the revolution
of living
and as I stand on the steps of El Capitolio
looking out at the decaying grandeur
I understand why
I will be back
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
I am here today, but i may not be tomorrow - a hitchhiker i picked up somewhere between Bennington and Marlboro Vermont
The library at Packer's Corners had
the smell of damp and old
as a lush august climbed the faded
wide wooden planks outside
and we schemed our
nightly dinner theatre performances.
The gang congregated disorderly
across the rocky garden before the (stage) barn,
plates and carafes of wine, rapt in the play.
Marti, a painter with knobby hands, salt and pepper hair,
the face of a sage and a speech impediment;
Veranda must have been a muse with her sharp
bohemian features and sleek black bob,
smelling of rosemary and musky Parisian perfume;
Oona, so young and stormy crashed about
those mountains in moods as protean
as Vermont weather and jeans
that were more holes than fabric;
Cootie, in his black goatee and the scent of
cooking oils under his mottled and freckled skin
would squint through the bugs and heat wave haze
to Marco on the pitcher's mound
scuffing his mortorcycle boots into the
sandy tan soil riddled with stones and
laughing with the reckless abandon that
waters the eyes with antifreeze for the soul
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Cultivo una rosa blanca en junio como en enero para el amigo sincero que me da su mano franca.. y para el cruel que me aranca el corazon cardos ni ortigas, cultivo una rosa blanca
jose marti
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC
I cursed His name in vain
As my cousins had in the past
Exalting a new formation
Based upon the new caste
Our dividends made us dry
Allowing floodgates to open
The ephemeral pleasure of power
Giving us an unjustifiable position
As heads were laid in order
Our serpents knew their place
Beneath the Head Dominion
Shooting out more sons
In walls of Green Umber
A regal hypocrisy
Not to be admired
Nor taken for granted
Just for blue profit
In just, for the reason
The Lord told us to do it, upon thee
Leading us to oblivious matrimony
Sights and sounds drowned all out
As we made our double fantasy escape
Forever feeling the post-effects
Of our timely duality
In perpetuum
Donec oblivio
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
Tu nombre es como el crisol
donde se funde la hazaña
tu nombre es como la caña
que endulza con lluvia y sol
de su destino naciente
sólo tu pueblo es el dueño
cual figuraban en tus sueño
por fin es libre tu gente
josé marti pregonero
no moriste en tu pregón
tus versos viven y son
pregones de un pueblo entero
tu isla exporta el verano
y hay flambollán y justicia
la buena tierra nutricia
da frutos para el cubano
tu nombre es como el crisol
donde se funde la hazaña
tu nombre es como la caña
que endulza con lluvia y sol
tan sobrio y tan desbordante
tan bueno y tan orgulloso
tan firme y tan generoso
tan pequeño y tan gigante
tan profundamente isleño
tan claramente cubano
tan latinoamericano
en tu suelo y en tu sueño
siempre nos tienes despierto
con tu constante mirada
con tu suerte despejada
y con tu fe de ojos abiertos
tu nombre es como el crisol
donde se funde la hazaña
tu nombre es como la caña
que endulza con lluvia y sol.
552
Pelytė Zita nukurmėjo po šluota
Mano meilė sūriui saugi
Nom nom
Aš ir vėl likau vieniša marti
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 8:36 AM UTC