URDU POETRY

The Government of Jack Boots. habib jalib (with punjabi translation)

2009-10-19T22:06:00.001+06:00

English Version

If the dacoit had not had
The village guard as his ally
Our feet would not be in chains
Our victory would not defeat imply
Mourn with turbans round your necks
Crawling on your bellies, comply
Once the jack boot government is up
It’s hard, to make it bid good-bye

Punjabi Version

پنجابی ترجمہ

ڈاکوں دا جے ساتھ نہ دندا پنڈ دا پہرے دار

آج پیران زنجیر نہ ہندی جیت نہ ہندی نہ ہار

پگان اپنے گل وچ پا لو ترو پیٹ دے بہار

چھڈ جائے تے مشکل لہندی بوٹاں دی سرکار

What Does Pakistan Mean?.by habib jalib

2009-10-19T22:01:00.002+06:00

English Version

Bread, clothes and medicine
A little house to live in
Free education, as may right be seen
A Muslim, I, too, have always been
What does Pakistan mean
There is no God, but God, The Rab-al-alameen

For American alms do not bray
Do not, the people, laugh away
With the democratic struggle do not play
Hold on to freedom, do not cave in
What does Pakistan mean
There is no God...

Confiscate the fields from the landowners
Take away the mills from the robbers
Redeem the country from its dark hours
Off with the lordly vermin
What does Pakistan mean
There is no God...

Sind, Baluchistan and Frontier
These three are to Panjab most dear
And Bengal lends them splendour
Anguished should not be their mien
What does Pakistan mean
There is no God...

This, then, is the basic thing
For the people, let freedom’s bell ring
From the rope, let the plunderer swing
Truly they speak, who the truth have seen
What does Pakistan mean
There is no God, but Allah...

Urdu Version

اردو ترجمہ

روٹی کپڑا اور دوا
گھر رہنے کو چھوٹا سا
مفت مجھے تعلیم دلا
میں بھی مسلمان ہوں واللہ
پاکستان کا مطلب کیا
لا الہٰ ال الله

امریکا سے مانگ نہ بھیک
مت کر لوگوں کی تضحیک
روک نہ جمہوری تحریک
چھوڈ نہ آزادی کی راہ
پاکستان کا مطلب کیا
لا الہٰ ال الله

کھیت وڈیروں سے لے لو
ملیں لوٹروں سے لے لو
ملک اندھیروں سے لے لو
رہے نہ کوئی عالی جا

پاکستان کا مطلب کیا
لا الہٰ ال الله

سرحد سندھ بلوچستان
تینوں ہیں پنجاب کی جان
اور بنگال ہے سب کی آن
آے نہ ان کے لب پر آہ

پاکستان کا مطلب کیا
لا الہٰ ال الله

بات یہ ہے بنیادی
غاصب کی ہو بربادی
حق کہتے ہیں حق آگاہ

پاکستان کا مطلب کیا
لا الہٰ ال الله

A palace of wax by Kishwar Naheed

2009-10-06T21:18:00.000+06:00

Before I ever married
my mother
used to have
nightmares.
Her fearful screams shook me
I would wake her, ask her
"What happened?"
Blank-eyed she would stare at me.
She couldn't remember her dreams.

One day a nightmare woke her
but she did not scream
She held me tight in silent fear
I asked her
"What happened?"
She opened her eyes and thanked the heavens
"I dreamt that you were drowning".
She said,
"And I jumped into the river to save you".

That night she lightning
killed our buffalo and my fiance.

Then one night my mother slept
And I stayed up
Watching her open and shut her fist
She was trying to hold on to something
Failing, and willing herself to hold on again.

I woke her
But she refused to tell me her dream.

Since that day
I have not slept soundly.
I moved to the other courtyard.

Now I and my mother both scream
through our nightmares.

And if someone asks us
we just tell them
we can´t remember our dreams

The grass is really like me by Kishwar Naheed

2009-10-06T21:16:00.000+06:00

The grass is also like me
it has to unfurl underfoot to fulfil itself
but what does its wetness manifest:
a scorching sense of shame
or the heat of emotion?

The grass is also like me
As soon as it can raise its head
the lawnmower
obsessed with flattening it into velvet,
mows it down again.
How you strive and endeavour
to level woman down too!
But neither the earth's nor woman's
desire to manifest life dies.
Take my advice: the idea of making a footpath was a good one.

Those who cannot bear the scorching defeat of their courage
are grafted on to the earth.
That`s how they make way for the mighty
but they are merely straw not grass
-the grass is really like me.

Anticlockwise by Kishwar Naheed

2009-10-06T21:15:00.000+06:00

Even if my eyes become the soles of your feet
even so, the fear will not leave you
that though I cannot see
I can feel bodies and sentences
like a fragrance.

Even if, for my own safety, I rub my nose in the dirt till it becomes invisible
even so, this fear will not leave you
that though I cannot smell
I can still say something.

Even if my lips, singing praises of your godliness
become dry and soulless
even so, this fear will not leave you
that though I cannot speak
I can still walk.

Even after you have tied the chains of domesticity,
shame and modesty around my feet even after you have paralysed me
this fear will not leave you
that even though I cannot walk
I can still think.

Your fear of my being free, being alive
and able to think might lead you, who knows, into what travails.

Talking To Myself by Kishwar Naheed

2009-10-06T21:14:00.000+06:00

Punish me for I've written the significance of the dream
in my own blood written a book ridden with an obsession
Punish me for I have spent my life sanctifying the dream of the future
spent it enduring the tribulations of the night
Punish me for I have imparted knowledge and the skills of the sword to the murderer and demonstrated the power of the pen to the mind
Punish me for I have been the challenger of the crucifix of hatred
I'm the glow of torches which burn against the wind
Punish me for I have freed womanhood from the insanity of the deluded night
Punish me for if I live you might lose face
Punish for if my sons raise their hands you will meet your end
If only one sword unsheaths itself to speak you will meet your end
Punish me for I love the new life with every breath
Ishall live my life and shall doubly live beyond my life
Punish me for then the sentence of your punishment will end.

We Sinful Women by Kishwar Naheed

2009-10-06T21:11:00.000+06:00

It is we sinful women
who are not awed by the grandeur of those who wear gowns

who don't sell our lives
who don't bow our heads
who don't fold our hands together.

It is we sinful women
while those who sell the harvests of our bodies
become exalted
become distinguished
become the just princes of the material world.

It is we sinful women
who come out raising the banner of truth
up against barricades of lies on the highways
who find stories of persecution piled on each threshold
who find that tongues which could speak have been severed.

It is we sinful women.
Now, even if the night gives chase
these eyes shall not be put out.
For the wall which has been razed
don't insist now on raising it again.

It is we sinful women
who are not awed by the grandeur of those who wear gowns

who don't sell our bodies
who don't bow our heads
who don't fold our hands together.

Censorship by Kishwar Naheed

2009-10-06T21:09:00.000+06:00

In those times when the camera could not freeze
tyranny for ever

only untill those times
should you have written
that history
which describes tyranny as valour.

Today, gazing at scenes
transferred on celluloid
one can guage
what the scene is like
and the sound
when trees are uprooted from the hillsides.

whether you are happy or sad
you must breathe
whether your eyes are open or closed
the scene,its imprint on the mind
does not change.

The trees that stands in the river
alway remain wooden
cannot become a crocodile.

For a long time now;
we have stood
on the rooftops of stories
believing this city is ours

The earth beneath the foundations has sunk
bu t even now we stand
on the rooftops of stories
assuming life to be
the insipid afternoon's wasted alleyways
with their shattered bricks
and gapping fissures.

We Are All Dr Faustus...,Parveen shakir

2009-09-08T12:34:00.000+06:00

In a way we are all
Dr Faustus.
One from his craze
and another helpless from blackmail
barters away his soul.
One mortgages his eyes
to trade in dreams
and another offers
his mind as collateral.
All that one may need sense
is the currency of the day.
So a survey of life’s Wall Street says
that among those with the buying power these daysself-respect is very popular

Steel Mills Worker...,Parveen shakir

2009-09-08T12:33:00.001+06:00

Black ghost
born of sperm of coal
at hellish temperatures.
His work now to keep shovelling
coal into the burning furnace.
For this
he gets extra wages and special diet,
and no work beyond the four hours
at a time. Perhaps he
does not know that he has signed
a suicide pact in full knowledge.He is the fuel for this furnace.

Hot Line,Parveen shakir

2009-09-08T12:31:00.000+06:00

How he used to complain to me!
So many people
come between us
we cannot talk.
In the season’s first rain,
first snow,
full-moon nights,
evening’s mild fragrance,
morning’s blue cool,
how helpless!
How the heart aches!

Today between him and me
there is no third.
There can be contact
with a slight movement of the hand.
But how many seasons have passed
since hearing that voice.
It is not hard for me to call upon him,
but the truth is
the voices and the accents
do not have the same tones.
The tune is the same but the heartsare not close enough.

Pink Flowers,Parveen shakir

2009-09-08T12:30:00.000+06:00

Pink flowers blossomed
in the season I met you.

With your attentions they are opening again,
though these wounds had healed already.

How long could the columns support
these houses shaken to their foundations?

That old strangeness came back,
as if our meetings had been done.

The body was still hotfoot with its infatuations,the feet bruised on the way.

A Message,Parveen shakir

2009-09-08T12:28:00.000+06:00

It’s the same weather.
The rain’s laughter
rings in the trees, echoes.
Their green branches
wear golden flowers
and smile thinking of someone.
The breeze is a scarf, again the light-pink.
The path to the garden that knows us
is looking for us.
The moment of moon-riseis waiting for us.

Kanras,Parveen shakir

2009-09-08T12:27:00.000+06:00

The eyes downcast,
the tone enervated,
sentences uttered in fragments,
lashes covered in dust
and sunburnt face.
Bowing his unkempt head has come a long lost friend.
The heart is tempted to take hold of his hand,
to rush immediately to kiss his brow,
and never allow him to go back alone.
But deep within me someone whispers:
all this is feigned, phantasm, facade,
Don’t ever believe!Don’t ever believe!

Your Attitude.,Parveen shakir

2009-09-08T12:18:00.000+06:00

Your attitude toward me has been like
a seasoned diplomat’s toward a young journalist
—every statement heedful of its implications
and possible repercussions,
every word carefully weighed
(the issue lost in the quagmire of quotations).
Nothing that he says should turn out to be
an arrow recoiling on himself(which he may have to repent).

TAJ MAHAL , SAHIR LUDHIANVI

2009-08-22T13:12:00.000+06:00

Taj-- perhaps a manifestation of love for you!

Maybe you venerate this colourful vale!

My darling! let's meet somewhere else --
What place do poor have in the royal courts?
Roads which are sealed by the monarch's stamp,
how could loving souls tread on such paths?

My love! hidden behind this proclamation of fidelity,
you ought to have seen the facade of royal grandeur.
So easily lured by the tombs of dead kings,
cast also a look on our gloomy abodes.

Innumerable people in this world have been in love,
who says they didn't carry genuine feelings?
They simply lacked the means for their display,
because they were also poor -- like you and me.

These buildings and tombs, forts and castles,
symbolic pillars of greatness by the despotic kings,
are cancerous sores on the breast of our earth,
soaked in them is the blood of our fore-parents.*

My darling! those people must also have loved,
whose skill has bestowed beauty upon this ediface.
The tombs of their own beloveds went unmarked,
no one ever lights a candle on their graves.

This garden, Jumna's¤ bank -- this lovely palace,
these engraved walls, arches and the recess!
An emperor, by merely relying upon his riches,
has mocked at the love of poor people like us.

My darling! let's meet somewhere else.

BLOOD IS AFTER ALL BLOOD ,Sahir Ludhianvi

2009-08-22T13:09:00.000+06:00

Cruelty is after all cruelty –
when it inflates, it dissipates.
Blood is after all blood –
when it drips, it coagulates.

It may congeal
On the desert’s chest,
or on the murderer’s sleeve;
On the faulty scales of justice,
or on the links of chains;
On the oppressive sword,
or on the slaughtered corpse.

Blood is after all blood –
when it drips, it coagulates.

One may hide in whichever shelter on likes,
blood itself reveals the executioner’s hide-out.
Conspiracies may cast around the veil of darkness,
yet, every drop of blood carries its own burning torch.

The blood which you tried to suppress in the abattoir,
today has rushed out in the streets and squares –
as a flame, or a battle-cry, or as a stone.
Once blood starts flowing,
the bayonets cannot restrain it.
Once blood lifts its head,
the ordinances cannot constrain it.

What is to be said about cruelty!
What is cruelty’s nature?

Cruelty is always cruelty –
from its beginning to its end.
Blood is after all blood,
It can take so many forms:
forms which cannot be destroyed,
flames which cannot be extinguished,
cries which cannot be silenced.

WAITING,Sahar Ansari

2009-08-22T13:02:00.000+06:00

All night the rain by the window
creeping along the champac
drop after drop sent down the poison.

My eyes kept remembering your face.

In the morning, there was a heap of leaves
on the floor, the face of fallow earth.
A revenge—because I wait for the sun.

VANITY / Vanity Thy Name Is… ,Parveen Shakir

2009-08-22T13:00:00.000+06:00

He is so simple.
His world is so different from mine.
So separate are his dreams
and his preferences.
He says very little.
He writes
this morning I saw
some lovely flowers in the lawn
and thought of you.

I know
I am at that dishevelled stage of life
when my face
is not much like any flower.
But I wish—whatever he says—
I could believe it a while.

WHERE AM I? ,Parveen Shakir

2009-08-22T12:59:00.000+06:00

Where am I
in your life?

In the morning breeze
or the evening star,
hesitant drizzle
or sharp rain,
silver moonlight
or hot noon,
deep thoughts
or casual tunes?

Where am I
in your life?

Down from work,
a weekend’s interval
on a beach,
or an unintended
silken release between your fingers
from serial smoke?
Or a readily replenished,
freshened moment without wine,
or a moment’s leave, anonymous,
between the breaking of one dream
of love and another’s beginning?

Where am I
in your life?

the people of machine,attiya dawood

2009-08-22T12:27:00.000+06:00

To live a respectable life
We the people of big cities
Keep going on like robots.
To keep the home going
We are crushed to fine powder
Under the mill-stone of rising prices.
Home, for which we wove so many dreams,
In the mad race for it,
Our sleep got left behind.
Love and other such fine feelings,
Which are proof of good taste,
We keep them on display in the drawing room.
All the words we speak
Their dates have expired long ago,
The new words in our dictionary
Are miss-prints.We are like the deaf and dumb
We understand each other’s unspoken needs.
Like a well-practiced typist
His fingers move on my body’s key-board
And I give him
The results he wants.

Paths,MUNIR NIAZI

2009-08-22T12:25:00.000+06:00

These paths, these lengthy paths!
Where do they lead to?

To some very ancient palaces --
Where some lost friends meet?

Perhaps, to the dense forests --
To scare us, like a vicious beast?

Or, after a round of aimless wandering,
Just bring us back to where we started!

A Simple Statement ,MUNIR NIAZI

2009-08-22T12:24:00.001+06:00

If Death is all there in the fate!
Then why should we try evading it?

Why in our quest to forget it,
Should we surrender to mere illusions?

Why make some friends -- true or false,
And talk about the dreams -- in our hearts?

Why not just sit alone in the houses,
And then laugh -- like the lunatics do?

The City Buildings,MUNIR NIAZI

2009-08-22T12:22:00.000+06:00

Driven by their own terror,
They encroach,
upon each other.

Early in the Morning ,MUNIR NIAZI

2009-08-22T12:21:00.000+06:00

First, the bangles clinked -- so softly,
Then, she woke me with a tender pinch.
Wouldn't meet my playful eyes!
Just kept on giggling, incessantly.