Modern Poetry of Pakistan Read online

  Ghazal: He Is Charming but Not Perceptive

  He is charming but not perceptive

  my physician has no remedy for me

  Many questions stir upon my tongue but

  there is no worthy petition for me

  My heart is anxious even in your presence

  Contentment too is not suited to me

  The days I once spent in your company

  not even their charm is left to me

  The heart and eye are passing through strange stages

  I long for dawn, but no yearning for life is left in me

  I fear my desire for you may not last

  days have passed without even a hint of sadness for me

  Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja

  Ghazal: When I Learned to Write

  When I learned to write

  first of all, I wrote your name

  I am the absolute patience that

  took upon itself the weight of trust

  I am the exalted name to which

  angels and jinns bowed in prayer

  Why did you not take my hand

  when my feet strayed from the path?

  Whatever I have found is yours

  whatever I have lost is also yours

  I spent a lifetime without you

  people will say that you were mine

  O sender of the first rains

  I thirsted for a glimpse of you

  Translated from Urdu by Mehr Afshan Farooqi

  JAMILUDDIN AALI

  A Gecko’s Mind

  A gecko’s mind is embedded in our brain—

  the spark of Abu Lahab, Father of Fire?

  An ancient intelligence

  a legacy of creeping, crawling things, they say

  but one that, even today, is an unavoidable part of our brain

  I am not such a worshiper of rhyme and meter

  that caught between fear and devotion I stretch matters and say

  it’s only a story

  I’ll say what is generally claimed, that it’s a legacy ¦

  The sensible all call it the Reptilian Complex

  although other organisms are located in the brain too

  But that, and those nets of evolutionary marvels

  from whose tangles it is difficult today to escape—

  well, not in a thousand, but perhaps in a hundred thousand or a billion years

  it will all be unraveled ¦

  My subject today is the gecko’s brain:

  since I can find today no escape

  from storms of devastation and terror in my own city and homeland

  this strange, unruly prison house of aggression and infernal conjunctions

  this hot, poisoned wind of tyranny and oppression

  this proprietary lust ¦

  They say that all brutality humans exhibit comes from this

  that, in the stages of evolution, a close connection exists also between man and many species of beast

  There is no conclusive evidence as to whether humans are a separate species or part of the same chain

  but, based on their logic, research, and experimentation, this deduction is inevitable

  that I should live in these complex, expanding circles of reasoning

  drink up the wine of the world’s scientific creeds

  This is not how it really is

  They say that this malice, bewilderment, and hatred

  this flaring up at the least excuse

  this half-hidden, half-manifest evolving story of those very stages—

  that person is not aware of creation’s history who doesn’t acknowledge this ¦

  So now, my question—

  I don’t care that it has been asked before, for my approach is original ¦

  When evolution has secured for us the honor of the best of creatures

  so is it determined that in future ages this part of our brain will remain affianced to the devil’s deceptions?

  Today we are love and beauty

  many virtuous qualities

  within our reach and grasp, advance from excellence

  to excellence Numberless mysteries are beginning to disclose themselves to us

  that once lay hidden, veiled from consciousness

  although even now there is no knowledge—just learning and information

  But we are not bereft of the ability, the wisdom, to know

  Thousands of fertile opportunities lie ahead

  Whether they be destinations or pathways, they are before us ¦

  These awe-inspiring discoveries of genetics

  this sweeping current of multidimensional breakthroughs every minute

  this splicing of a hundred possibilities in sperm and egg—

  the heat of these pursuits

  so, will we then not find, over the next hundred thousand years or so, some means

  by which we can disable in our brain, indeed expel from it every trace of the gecko’s mind

  and afterwards, from fuel of love and striving and high action, burn, eternally fortunate, such colorful lamps

  that end the flames of Abu Lahab’s primeval broil of contentiousness

  and bestow upon man the grace to become human? ¦

  The beginning is the beginning and not the end that this journey between the two stretches out so long and wondrous—

  no thought, idea, or thing within this changes ¦

  God is merciful. Why would He wish, dear heart,

  that to the end Satan should remain thus attached to man?

  That faith should never triumph over sin?

  Why would He wish that some remain misguided to the end

  who, upon dying, are sent straight to Hell? ¦

  If, as some say—

  a thing that fascinates modern scholars,

  although I still don’t agree with them—

  the origin is no origin and eternity no eternity

  there never was a beginning and there will be no end

  then there is no dispute over good and ill with anyone—

  it is up to each to say whatever is in the heart

  bubble, gecko, man, evolution, call it what you will.

  Translated from Urdu by Khurram Khurshid and Waqas Khwaja

  Orthography

  Sovereign Master,

  Pardon my speech impediment.

  In attempting to extinguish the fire in which I burn again

  after all these years,

  all oceans and rivers of richly colored images have shrunk to

  a narrow strait.

  Immersing myself in them, appraising the outcome of my

  diffident thoughts and expressions,

  my practice of art becomes the disgrace of art,

  and the beloved’s cry from the cup of wisdom in numberless

  taverns

  turns out to be but self-indulgence.

  I did not have the courage to tackle all directions—whatever

  genre I pursued,

  like the beloved, betrayed its promise.

  When I rose to beg some signs and symbols from the skies,

  that path, too, led to the street of self-conceit.

  Pardon my speech impediment.

  That treasure hoard of ancestors’ pearls has my respect.

  All those distinctive idioms that like benevolent clouds spread over my age, refuge of those who pursue the fresh and new,

  and are tall, grand emblems,

  generating schools, imbued with a hundred virtues, obligatory elements that command veneration, each a world unto itself—

  not of gleaning from them but of mistakes in imitating them am I afraid.

  Those who rise by profiting from them are accomplished

  beyond compare, beloved by all, marvelously fortunate.

  But those stylists themselves too are most honorable.

  Compared to their treasure troves, what are my sapless, unaccomplished fictions—harvests of ignorance, strangers to art and beauty!

&
nbsp; Respectful, the mere warmth of their footprints on my forehead a blessing, I pass by alone

  and submit, in this rough, rude, tradition-less (that is, my very own) language, my aspiration. ¦

  God, Almighty!

  Grant me at least as many centuries more

  that I may observe, read, reflect, write, accomplish something.

  If there are rewards, I should achieve something worthy of them.

  No, I don’t say that now, or at some future time, I should earn a name for myself,

  but it is possible, with your blessing, that in this world of misdemeanors I may acquit myself blameless.

  These centuries were but the start of the alphabet,

  or bey aleph, without beginning at all. ¦

  I have not yet understood—

  that which was my right and my duty and, from those who come and go, may be an obligation, too—

  how features of so many galaxies, distant realms,

  beyond and visible,

  and others also—how they form, survive, and circle constantly,

  why the regulation of my life is limited only to the scale of diurnal time,

  why my understanding is confined only to those sparks of light that crumble immediately as they form.

  Sources also tell of nameless, dark, wall-less, door-less black holes.

  They say that these collapsed stars have such a gravitational field

  that it pulls in the very light that passes by—

  and, what is exasperating, they speak of how all this relates to me!

  Asked what that relationship might be, they smile sometimes in mockery, sometimes in helplessness.

  These centuries were but the start of the alphabet. ¦

  As to love’s consummation,

  a state, perhaps, that may itself not be divisible—

  mere suggestions left, whether it will disclose itself, and, if it does so, what its nature will be,

  whether it will come within our apprehension or forever remain beyond reach.

  And, regarding the pearl of understanding,

  that unrewarding anxiety and incertitude, unacknowledged to this day,

  will it lead eventually to some splendorous signification, or will the atmosphere of tumult and misfortune persist to the very end of time?

  Singularity, uniqueness, singularity!

  That one particle of exceptional density whose other name,

  its material form,

  was rendered all energy—

  even knowing this, it is beyond comprehension

  what thing this was.

  What is it, why did it stir to life, why does it keep expanding?

  Will it ever reverse itself? If so, what is likely to bring this about? What shape would it take?

  Singularity!

  And in all this timeless time and spaceless space, how might my life be implicated?

  For I, too, am a living individual, and because I am living, I must in some way be implicated—

  yet in this incertitude or certainty, in this existence and life, I am blameless indeed as well.

  By the legacy of Adam! I am unhappy with him, too.

  These centuries were but the start of the alphabet. ¦

  A thought arose

  that cried out loud:

  Having come this far, you still desire your reward?

  Henceforth too, then, you will be remembered as one who lusts after what you desire, accomplishment is not for you.

  Orthography?

  Taxonomies, galaxies, orbits, circles, holes, their mysterious powers of attraction, the consummation of love?

  Now that the roses and thorns of some minor affairs, a surfeit of short-lived luxuries, occasional tears and pleasures have left you without wine and saqi,

  your destitute brain longs for the privilege of understanding galactic secrets?

  Fool, it is not within your power to vanquish the summit of desire!

  Look at what is engraved in bold letters on the wall of Eternity!

  It says the likes of you shall never have the wealth of reflection and tranquility—

  lie rotting in the prison house of death and superfluity! ¦

  Sovereign Master!

  God Almighty! ¦

  A thought arose, vexed this time:

  Show some shame, at least, in the perverse desire for a new opportunity from the wasteland of ambition.

  The sanguinary tales of the free-spirited, that striving of the eminent departed—

  you don’t have quite their stature, don’t try to imitate them.

  For the moment, acknowledge only this:

  In orthography, too, were recorded the modulations of the art of elocution—

  you have yet not learnt the melody of the first word.

  Life on this piece of earth remains dominant in all your themes—

  a life that is transient.

  Thousands of centuries pass, and still it is a brief and unfinished tale.

  And yet willful arrogance sparks in you the obsession to prove

  that something of the immortal there is in you. ¦

  It was enough for you to attach yourself to life’s buried and unburied treasures—

  words, lusts, campaigns, logic, peace, beauty and love, superstitions, revelation, invention,

  all those constraints, those crutches, all those metaphors, sad and joyous,

  now prosperous, now devastated—

  among them, in your struggle for and delusion of immortality, nourish yourself on mere morsels of fame and respect.

  Now you are exceeding yourself,

  walking the sky from your place on earth!

  Well.

  But don’t gorge yourself on more than you can digest—

  let your ardor and restlessness sink to the bottom of your brain.

  If the grief of self-indulgence and obscurity takes hold—this is difficult, but you can at least try—

  those moments that are left you, dedicate them to the peace or the madness that circulates within them.

  Who knows what you may gain if the indifferent one disputes and reasons!

  Who knows what he may conceal or disclose?

  Singularity, it is an enigma,

  a mysterious flow,

  into which, according to experts of both worlds, you too will be absorbed—

  perhaps the movement of a single neutron will make you one with it.

  If it exists,

  in whatever form or body,

  it may perhaps fulfill its own goals through you. ¦

  O plain speech and wisdom, prosper, prosper, prosper! ¦

  The thought turned away,

  but turned back again, and this time it neither cried nor spoke in vexation but most calmly remarked,

  You have no monopoly over this striving, this conversation,

  or over any impatient stream of longing born of some fount of oneness.

  Many, mute and eloquent, have come parched with thirst, many more will come—

  if you drink up every drop, how will they slake their thirst?

  But O man of the world, what fleeting vision will these curtains of self-deluding comfort part to offer your active understanding?

  You are concerned only about prolonging your own life,

  in the midst of fatigue and weariness you seek only your own invigoration. ¦

  If you are truly burning with ambition, then look also at those flames

  that fire the heart of curiosity and exploration generation after generation.

  Who knows what customs and precepts, ancient and illustrious,

  world-reigning,

  shatter immediately, helpless and delighted, at the first jolt of a new insight, experiment, or discovery?

  And how many wayward, willful, and isolating worries and problems still remain, even in the face of this era’s quickened assault?

  Even in such conditions, no one claims that this assembly of the world’s sages, much like Solomon’s legions, has the means to ove
rcome them—

  new targets within old perplexities, this period’s customs and practices, exempt from laws, are stages of discontinuity

  that are at times autonomous, at others a part of regulation.

  For instance, propagation

  and all its manifestations—

  are they merely billows without a cause,

  unregulated elements of the sea of space?

  Or some lovers of the shore after their own kind and fashion?

  What are they? Are they headed somewhere or only hurtling along without destination?

  Singularity. Oneness.

  That soul of substance: matter, energy—

  why only that?

  Is there some other reality, a sign from the invisible, manifest?

  No one knows what its mysteries are—

  its negations and affirmations lie only in the flow of its own nurturing, passions, and ruminations.

  But this speculation persists in its freshness:

  Whatever it is, it is some saga of incompletion or of ecstasy!

  You should know only this, from the time it began, if it exists at all, it exists only for itself, or it belongs to everyone.

  Never before did it belong to just one, nor will it ever.

  Come, understand that your life, afflicted or pleasant, however it may be, from first to last belongs to it.

  What is often said, embrace it: please your heart and, when the time comes, die!

  Nor abandoning your heat of reflection and doubt, and curiosity’s similar unruly, crude,

  whirling sparks in the rose garden of art

  (much reviled in the smug assembly of the certain),

  breaking up those pretty flowerbeds prepared with such love and labor,

  cause the flowers of their enchanting contentment to be set aflame,

  nor melt away your delicate corporeal form,

  nor, in your mind, which is already tiring, get knocked around from door to door. ¦