The Prison
I was beaten with a stick,
Long, thin and wet,
For doing nothing ill.
As the coach-man does,
When his horse draws
But obeys not.
The boys rich and mischievous,
Flattered the builders,
Made them please,
Oblivious to the wall between,
Made friends with them.
While the others, rough and poor,
Amid the high walls of prison,
With the pebbles, hard and round,
Under the banyan tree played,
With dust on their heads.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Cuscuta
Written By Sughra Sadaf
Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
Some unknown pangs
Gripped, caught my giant like existence,
All gloom of the world has contracted
In my inner-self; but it all happened
In such a way that all springs of your love,
And showers of your fondness,
Altogether
Can not remove my pangs at all,
Can not recover me from pain at all,
But you must know there waits yet behind,
Remedy of your spitefulness.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Mare
The mare is one,
Numerous are the riders
To ride on,
They ride on turn by turn,
By whipping her
Through the glades,
Forest and desert,
And all paths of wilderness,
Sometimes on serpentine routes
Through the mountains,
Caring least her needs,
Except a change of saddle,
They make on each ride.
After having ridden the beast
They go aboard,
Wait for their own next turn again,
Leaving her behind in trouble and pain.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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When Snow Melts
When the hot winds blow and trees beep,
The snow clad peaks melt as if they weep,
The icy water trickles, falls gushing down,
From the rocks crimson, grey and brown,
It merges, mixes, flows through the streams,
Passes through the plains fulfilling dreams,
Water then converges itself into an ocean,
Whereupon remain trade-ships in motion
Armadas move, linger to settle the clashes
Launching missiles with smoke and flashes.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Season Of Separation
He inquired,
“Were all dreams shattered? ”
I responded,
“No there left some behind.”
He inquire again,
“Since when have you been conversing to yourself? ”
I responded,
“It is a gift bestowed by aloofness.”
He said,
“What have you done with bright eyes,
Rosy cheeks and golden facade? ”
I answered,
“There rests in my inner-self the season of separation.”
By Fakhira Batool Translated By Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Happy Birth Day
(On The First Birthday Of My Grand-daughter Eliza Zainab)
It is the wish of my soul, heart and brain
May you have happy day time and again,
Till the sun shines, till the world goes on.
May you never taste a moment of pain,
And you ever meet, not a loss but a gain.
Till the sun shines, till the world goes on.
May ever wrap you roses and perfumes,
Instead of tormenting smells and fumes,
Till the sun shines, till the world goes on.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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What A Small Poem It Will Be!
I have written a lot yet it seems
Nothing has been penned,
I have to sketch yet
The countenance of my dream,
And grip its realization in close palm,
Because the heart still palpitates,
And pain resides in there,
Dust of the past moments jab the eyes,
Someone’s memories make the lashes sodden,
And shehnai still weeps.
I have to write yet on water,
And all around will be the tale of separation,
What a small poem it will be…
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Modes Of Love
Who can forget,
Pages of the bulky book of life,
Even though
They are torn to pieces.
The first colour that awoke in the eyes,
The first name that my lips liked,
The village and an unpaved
Path of that village,
The first spell of love,
An undreamt dream in your eyes,
And lowering my eyes of in shyness,
Innocent confession in my denials,
While saying “Yes” my impulsive “Nots”
Who an forget,
All these modes of ‘Love’.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Son
Out of the heap of smoldering ashes,
An old woman with the moisty lashes,
Making furrows long she did search,
The burnt bones: the victims of clashes.
Bursting into tears she did place,
Them upon her eyes and embrace,
Burning herself into the melting fire,
The wretch mother in vain did trace.
She did weep, groan and moan,
That she remained behind all alone,
Suppressing sighs, placed upon eyes,
Thinking, it might be her son’s bone.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Dream Of Some Other Soil
The sky of my own share
Has wreathed Himself
With the cover of monotony;
And my eyes,
In the azure page of the sky
Has written boredom
In the eye-sight.
Now these eyes,
Dream of some other soil,
Some other season,
Somewhere here around
In the neighbourhood of my Earth,
There lays some hidden route
That I seek for,
And waits for inaugural gathering,
For some unseen world.
Written by Dr. Jawaz Jaffri translated by Muhammad Shanazar
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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