Sarcastic Remarks

Poetic mind knows no bounds,
No confining walls of time and space,
Now plunges in to the abyss of past,
Then climbs the stairs leading,
To heightening zones, zenith of future,
Wherefrom he sees, catches visions,
Of encroaching events, pleasant or painful,
Riding on the slimy, slippery back of time.

A winged dream wafted me and placed,
Softly thousands of years far behind,
Beside the circle of shrewd shepherds,
Where the joking folk gathered around,
The reverend, esteemed, glorified figure.

Abased he in the middle of the ring,
Wrapping his head with a faded kerchief,
A woolen bag hung down his shoulder,
Amid the sarcastic smiles with patience,
Suppressing the wrinkles of his worry,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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I Am Faithful To The Earth

Listen!
There grows a magic,
In the farms of my eyes,
Of curiosity of the alien directions.
There descends,
The food on my ears of unheard sounds,
And my feet have to stamp their prints
On the un-ravished dust
Of some un-reflected planet.
My nose is alive with an urge
To inhale fragrance of some alien soil,
And tongue is fasting with a yearn
To taste the dithering juicy fruit
Of shadowy trees rooted in the fertile soil
Of some unexplored planet.

From the Earth to space, I have to lay
A network of the radiant routes.
I have come to you after dowelling
My defiant horse of brilliance;

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Hypocrisy or Sincerity

What sort of hearts your chests contain,
What sort of brains your heads breed,
That you operate upon eyes of the serpents blind,
And you kiss lips of the leprous lions,
You wash their pads, claws and jaws.

You allow dogs to share meals at the same table,
And sleep in the same bed.
You dive into oceans to vaccinate the diseased sharks.
You are anxious to save from extinction
The rare species of turtles and toads.
To prove the maxim, “love begets love”,
You place scorpions on lids of the eyes.
But you produce missile, bombs and bullets,
Devices of the extensive destruction,
And poke humanity into the fire of wars,
Pools of blood fascinate your eyes,
The world is being coloured red,
You raise conflicts wherever you wish,
For royalties, trades of weapons and natural oil.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Way to Homage (A Message for the Pakistani Nation)

The fairest land whereupon we move,
Our children pace with out iron-bands,
Free with priceless blessing of liberty,
Contains beneath crust of soft surface,
Pure blood of the reverend ancestors,
Cries of the innocents, sacrificing sisters,
The cold sighs of the bland mothers,
Who beheld spectacles heartrending,
Their sons were stifled, slaughtered,
And perforated the chests of husbands.
They saw welling out the bleeding hearts,
And shawls of daughters torn to rags;
But determined they to make us secure,
Entrusting us the beauteous motherland,
Enriched with plentiful bounteous blessings.

To pay homage for the deeds dignified,
Let us beautify the land more and more,
By planting roses, scattering coloured petals,
Making the paths fragrant and perfumed,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Daughter Of Eve

Who sorts out scraps of sustenance,
Bending upon the hump of smelly trash,
And picks up the sucked eaten bones,
Stuffs them into spacious juty sack,
Hanging down upon her back,
Or sometimes drags behind toiling,
The load of life, out of breath?

Bare-footed, wearing smeared clothes,
Knotty hair, unwashed since birth,
Has baby kind three years old,
Resembling mother in gait and form,
Half dressed, the thumb in mouth,
Standing among the black crows,
Feeding upon the garbage scattered,
Along the roadside, she wondering looks,
At the running mindless blind beasts,
Speedily pass with the swishing sounds,
And across the road at high mansions,
Shining, painted glaring white,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Complaining Cries

The gushing blows of the future wind,
Bring echoes of the distant voices,
Complaining Cries of the descendants,
Against muddling refined pure nature,

The wailings disturb my sleep at night,
As the ghosts haunt one in dreams,
Bring the dews of anguish on the forehead
And make me old ere the age ripe.

“Oh! Fathers, grandfathers, forefathers,
What heritance we have been bestowed?
Is it a world, God made a thing fair,
Where find we drab treeless mountains,
And clouds dropp black sooty rains,
Waters all around and underneath,
Pungent, too smelly, hard to take,
Futile lands, eroded seas, smoky spheres,
And singed surface remind us Inferno? ”

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Tsunami

From the slumber deep, the Lord Monster awoke,
The subterranean walls, the doors of hovel He broke,
Unleashing the force of mighty muscles, and limbs,
“Intend I to see the world.” to the Vice He spoke.

Then yawned and rubbed His eyes and said good bye,
To the assistants sat loathing in the dark hovel nearby,
With the heavy bulky back He up rose like an Iceland,
Pushing water, rather emptying, throwing to the sky.

He came out, and abased in the sea-water knee deep.
Disturbed waters making commotion began to sweep,
The structures of the houses with the dynamic force,
That instantly turned them into rubble, and trash heap.

The waves travelled engulfing the lands all around,
Some were sucked by waters, some lay on the ground,
They floated, bloated, oscillated with the cold waves,
Some cried aloud, some uttered no voice, no sound.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Daughters

(Dedicated to Atika Iram: My Daughter)
Blessings are the daughters,
Sin is to discard, disdain them;
They make the house alive, vibrant,
A place pulsating, worth living,
When they cling around the neck,
Or greet at the door blot all tedium,
Of the toilsome, tiring, arduous life.

When they play hide and seek,
And confine themselves in the rooms,
Or conceal behind the doors,
Or under the cots, or ride on the backs,
Of fathers making them their horses,
They seem to be the lasting assets,
Or long going, propping companions.

They grow like the trailing creeper,
Or like the boughs of wild prime rose,
Or too green mustard plants,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Who Knows When the Eve Befalls

The shades of my wall have begun,
Merging into the dusky Anchal of Eve,
Only a few moments are left behind.

Only a few moments are left behind,
My fingers will hold the hemmed edge,
Of your memories that take me along,
On the same paths, in the same streets,
Where lies the wealth of forsaken times,
Those spent hours, the consumed life.

Forgetting all agonizing seasons,
The affairs, and the tales of pangs,
The memories will collect, assemble me,
Intake me into the restful soothing soft lap.

And in the gallery of night, all complaints,
Shall be erased from the slates of heart and mind;
But Ah! Again the dawning morn will snatch,
Scratchingly the Anchal from the head of night,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Progress

The folk of my village
Have progressed,
They have made the houses,
On the imported designs,
Much more sophisticated
Than the older ones,
Made of mud and stones,
With very low walls,
Over which the neighbourers
Could pass the saucers
To share the meal.
Now motors hum
Through the streets
Where voices of animals
Goats and sheep
Cows, Bulls and buffalos,
Milk being churned were heard.

Men and women have changed
But the seasons come and go,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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