Modern Poetry of Pakistan Page 13
If you do get another six or seven centuries, how will it help?
It will be the same story,
only this, isn’t it, that whatever it is now, it may be just a little bit different?
But all past destinations themselves suggest
(if you retrace your steps and then come back)—they show you the writing on each particle of dust along the way,
that however many obstacles you cross, still others will lie ahead. ¦
Those in whom you have faith, they themselves admit that this excess of heat will last yet for another six, seven million years or more.
Let this be for those who come after: they, too, have to show up and display their cleverness—
but how long will you and all the other self-absorbed sages remain oblivious to this?
How much further can we take you now?
Singularity. Oneness.
That soul of substance: matter, energy—
those in whom you have faith, they themselves say that it will once more converge to a point,
concentrating and absorbing all its forces,
seize all your galaxies, planets, and perverse systems,
eras and eons, places and infinite spaces.
That which started the journey with a bang,
with a bang it will return.
Turn whatever page of wisdom you will,
you will remain bereft of knowledge to the end.
Doomsday, too, must come. ¦
It may again stir to life after this, and who knows what it may become!
It—or something, someone, greater than itself—may amuse itself with who knows what exceptional patterns and paradigms for new games—
these paradisal thoughts, obsolete or fresh,
the exigency and prerogative to disclose or to conceal—
what will it be called at that time?
Only he who discovers it may tell. ¦
Sovereign Master!
Thought, though a pleasant conversationalist, unsatisfying ultimately, turned out to be an adversary of aspiration—
a little I have understood; still, much I have not.
Show me, in my own mirrors, the image of becoming.
Grant me a few centuries, after all, in which I may learn all the characters and words—
from them I need to fashion a language of my own, an interpretation of this world and the universe.
Whatever the wise have bequeathed me, and whatever else they will give, I accept, but
the world of questions that is in my heart—it may be connected with the past, present, and future, yet still
it is fixed in my own commitment and strife—
it is mad.
But its madness, too, is the story of my limitless quest for you. ¦
These centuries were but the beginning of the alphabet.
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
HABIB JALIB
Code
The flame of which burns only in palaces
Lights only a few on the road to happiness
That flourishes in every shade of expedience
Such a code of life, such dawn without light
I do not recognize, I do not accept
I am not cowed by the hangman’s deck
I too am Mansur, go tell this to the enemy
Why try to scare me with prison walls
The act of injustice, the night of ignorance
I do not recognize, I do not accept
Flowers have begun to bloom, you say it
Wine begins to flow again for lovers, you say it
The gashed hearts are stitched up again, you say it
This open lie, this insult to the mind
I do not recognize, I do not accept
You have plundered our peace and quiet for centuries
Your blandishments will no longer work on us
How can I call you a friend and well-wisher
You are no friend—one may see this or not
I do not agree, I do not accept
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
Political Advisor
This is what I said to him
These that are a hundred million
Are the distillation of foolishness
Their thinking is in deep sleep
Every ray of hope
Sunk irretrievably in darkness
It is true
They are no longer alive
They are unenlightened people
Diseased for life
And you possess
The cure for their disease
This is what I said to him
You are the Divine light
Wise, sagacious
The nation is wholly behind you
Your existence alone
Guarantees its salvation
You are the moon of a new dawn
After you, unremitting night
The few that speak up
Are all troublemakers
Pull out their tongues
Squeeze their windpipes
This is what I said to him
Those who fancied their eloquence
Those talkative ones, are silenced
The land is in peace
An extraordinary difference
Between the past and present
People under your rule
Are confined at their own expense
And he alone is distinguished
Who lies prone at your doorstep
He who asks for refuge
Is freely forgiven
This is what I said to him
Every minister, every ambassador
Is a peerless counselor
Wah, how remarkable!
By your supreme intelligence
Your choice is par excellence
The State’s officers are awake
The masses in deep slumber
And this, your minister
Issues such statements
That those who read them
Marvel at their wisdom
This is what I said to him
China, of course, is our friend
Our life for it, if need be
But the system they have
Don’t ever think of going there
Wish it well from afar
These hundred million asses
Whom we call the masses
Should they dream of ruling us?
You are “faith,” they, “error”
I pray for only this
That you, my President, should rule forever
This is what I said to him
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
Everyone Else Forgot How to Write the Word of Truth
Everyone else forgot how to write the word of truth
It was left to me to write of dissent and disobedience
Much advised not to write of injustice as injustice
I have not learned, my dear, to write by permission or license
I have the desire to seek neither reward nor praise
It is merely a habit to write on behalf of the forgotten masses
Since I never wrote a paean even forgetfully for the king
Perhaps this is one virtue that has taught me how to write
What greater praise can I have than this
That the affluent are unhappy at what I write
Faced with the calamity of fortune I quite forgot
To write of cypress-like beauties as the apocalypse of youth
Whatever the king’s companions may say Jalib
Maintain this color of yours, and, just as you do, write
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
MUNIR NIAZI
Cry of the Desert
Pitch-dark all
around heavy, rolling clouds—
She says, “Who?”
I say, “I”—
“Open this heavy door,
let me come inside”—
After this, a lingering quiet
>
and the roar of hurtling winds
Translated from Urdu by Alka Roy
I Always Wait Too Long
I wait too long to do anything
to say what needs to be said, to make good a promise
to call out to someone or urge someone back
I wait too long
to help someone, to reassure a friend
or go down timeworn paths to reach someone
I wait too long
to find solace in strolling through changing seasons
to remember someone, to forget someone else
I wait too long
to save a dying person from some grief
tell them that the truth was something else
I always wait too long
Translated from Urdu by Alka Roy
Love Will Not Happen Now
Stars that glint
in awestruck eyes
trysts in the splendor
of rain and clouds—
not now, but in desolate hours
of the melancholy heart,
love will not happen now
but later
when these days have passed.
It will happen in remembering them.
Translated from Urdu by Alka Roy
MUSTAFA ZAIDI
Meet Me for the Last Time
Meet me for the last time so that burning hearts
may turn to ashes and make no more demands,
that the torn vow is not sewn up nor the wound of desire bloom,
breathing remain steady, not even the candle’s flame endure,
just so much conversation that passing moments may come and count the words,
if hope raises its eyelids, its eyes be blotted out.
This time there is no expectation that this tryst
will lead to another—
no time now for passion or frenzy, for parables and storytelling,
no time for renewal of love or for complaints.
In the city of mishaps the merchandise of words is lost.
If one must mourn now, how can one shape one’s lament?
Until today I shared with you many ties of nerve and sinew,
when tomorrow starts, what will that relationship be called?
Never again will your cheek and face glow, come!
Doors and walls are mournful at this time of parting, come!
Never again will we be, nor pledges, nor denials—come!
Meet me one last time.
Translated from Urdu by Amritjit Singh and Waqas Khwaja
Mount of the Call
Come, my people, proceed to the mountain of revelation!
How long will you continue to be confounded by new gods?
You must be tired of revelry in dens of desolation.
Days, everywhere, decline in the same manner—
in every city people go about like shades,
harboring a secret fear in their hearts,
carrying on their backs caskets of their own haunting,
in self-mortification, in the shame of public places.
You too are a part of the crowd’s isolation,
you too a wandering seeker, looking toward the skies.
Consider, yourself, what you received from each and every door,
whether or not your supplication was successful.
Who were they that persecuted you in your own streets?
In the wilderness of indigence, where did day break or dusk fall?
Who disturbed the sleeping harbingers of sorrow?
Who explained to you matters of discovering pleasure in pain?
Who brought you to the travails of love?
Where will you go now—what is native, and what foreign, land?
Everywhere signs point in the same direction,
one’s voice is scattered among other voices,
one’s pride is vexed, always on guard.
Only when consumed in flames does one discover the ashes of feeling,
in the fire of time find the smoke of fleeting moments.
Paths lose themselves continually in silences,
torches travel toward the wind on their own.
How much longer, hashish nights of storytelling and incantation?
The lust for sex, and the evening of promise, how much longer?
How can the body’s wall sustain the mind?
How much longer can the bedchamber support the weight of pain?
For eyes that have been so long deprived of sleep,
how much longer the drugged cheek and heavy eyelash?
How many more days will the body’s thirst call you
to song and flirtation, to vain and trifling graces?
All night long lamps in shops stay lit,
while the heart, that barren island, remains plunged in darkness.
But in every corner of this island,
the self’s chapter of talismans remains open.
Within one’s self are found the ruins of one’s debasement,
and within one’s self the mountain of revelation.
Only in this mountain’s embrace is redemption possible,
otherwise, man remains encircled by mere objects,
until from them, too, he turns his eyes
toward his faith, toward his God.
Come, my people, proceed to the Mount of the Call.
Translated from Urdu by Amritjit Singh and Waqas Khwaja
AHMAD FARAZ
Siege
My enemy has sent this message
that his forces have surrounded me.
On every tower and minaret of the city’s wall
his soldiers stand with bows ready.
That electric power has been shut off
whose heat used to stir a fire in this body of clay,
dynamite planted in the waters
of the stream that once flowed toward my street.
All talkative mouths now suffer broken bones,
all rebels are consigned to the gallows.
All sufis and renunciants, all elders and imams,
in hopes of favor frequent the hall of the social elite.
To take their oaths of allegiance, the guardians of law
like hunched supplicants sit along the way.
You sang praises of the pride of writers and poets,
but those stars of talent’s sky are now arrayed before you:
at one signal from a royal courtier these beggars of discourse
abase themselves in hordes before your very eyes.
Just look at the worldly assets of these qalandars of faith;
who is beside you, look about and around!
This, then, is the condition, if you wish to preserve your life:
put away your tablets and pens in the field of gallows,
otherwise, this time, the target for the archers
will be none but you—so leave your self-respect by the wayside.
Seeing this stipulation drawn, I asked the envoy,
Is he not aware of the lessons of history?
When night martyrs some flaming, glorious sun,
morning sculpts another one for the dawn.
So this is my answer to my foe:
I have neither desire for favor nor fear of consequence.
He takes great pride in the might of the sword.
He has no idea of the pen’s eminence.
My pen is not this burglar’s covetous hand
who cuts a hole in the roof of his own home.
My pen is no companion of this midnight thief
who casts a noose on houses plunged in darkness.
My pen does not extol that preacher
who keeps a register of his devotions.
My pen is not the scales of the judge
who wears a double mask upon his face.
My pen is a trust from my people,
my pen is the tribunal of my conscience.
That is why, whatever I wrote, it was with my soul’s eloq
uence—
that is why the bow bends with such ease, my tongue straight as an arrow.
Whether I am cut down or remain secure, I believe
that someone at last will break this siege.
By my life’s allotted afflictions I swear
my pen’s journey will not end in despair.
If love’s disposition has not experienced helplessness,
then high status is blindness and the measuring of shadows.
Translated from Urdu by Waqas Khwaja
Why Should We Sell Our Dreams?
We maintained the ascetic’s way
but were never so needy
as to sell our dreams.
We walked around carrying our wounds in our eyes,
but when were we ever two-faced vendors in the marketplace?
Our hands were empty,
but never like this
that we hawked
our despoiled condition
with fireflies of words,
calling out in streets:
“Dreams for sale! Dreams!”
O people!
When were we so abject?
Why should we sell our dreams,
in longing for which
we had lost even our eyes?
Out of love for
and devotion to which
we had snuffed the candles of all temptations?
True, we, the voiceless,
are deprived of roof, and terrace, and door.
Very well, ill-fated, we are without accomplishment or skill.
But why should we sell the fables of our skies
and the moon and stars of our earth?
Bidding buyers,
you have brought your heaps of paper,