Ik Prem Pujaran. [A poem in Hindi ]
Ik prem pujaran
Liye vyakul man
Tadpti aatma
Aur dukhta tan
Nikli ghar se
Ik aas liye
Kuchh sahmi si
Kuchh ghabrati
Kabhi lajati aur kabhi todti
Vidroh se har bandhan
Aa pohanchhi jahan basti thhi chhah
Man to thha ik prem ka sagar
Tan mangta aalingan ka sukh
Par premi na samjha pujaran ka dukh
Shaied samjha bhi
Shaied apne hi dukh mein lein ho
Bhool gaya pujaran ke dukh ko.
Utaijit ho chhal pada pujaran ke sang
Kahan kidhar koi thhah na thhi
Itne bade sansar mein mano
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poem by Om Chawla
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Ode to an Indian Classical Dancer
O thou fair nymph of art, dance
Dance that world may dance with you.
In thy grace is mirrored the grace
Of thy nation's heritage;
In thy gait is depicted the majesty
of thy God's incarnates;
In thy grimaces are revealed
The wrath of gods, the misery of thine own folk;
In thy curves are betrayed the curves
Of thy nations sculptural art.
Art hath taught thou to blend-
What time hath failed to destroy-
In thy grace gait and grimace
The invocations to the Gods
Of thy miserable countrymen.
Miserable countrymen? I begin to doubt
May be, may not be so
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poem by Om Chawla
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Cry of a Soul
What passion it was
anger or lust
who knows what
that turned him into a beast.
Stifling her throat, lest she cry
he infringed her modesty.
With her senses numbed
she sank into oblivion.
Like a loath, she lies ever since
vegetative she has been since:
she- who chose
to nurse our wounds and soak our tears
with tender smile and hands of care.
Now like a loath there she lies.
She cannot stand or even stir
neither eat nor even drink,
speechlessly, in space she stares
it's all hollow, nothing is there.
' She is in coma' doctors announce.
' Alive, she is' judges pronounce.
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poem by Om Chawla
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Speak O Withered Leaves, Speak.
Cover her eyes, her stony looks,
She is dead;
And ring the bell for she is dead
Where one age ends the other begins
-the long dark distracted night.
How could she die, a fairy and so young
O want what more misery can thou wring
Two crusts of bread and a form erased.
O withered leaves wert thou a rose?
Could beauty be more beautiful
I cans't say my fancy fails.
How could I describe thee
Which part were more beautiful
Speak o speak utter but few words
But no; thou woulds't not speak
And I hear no more thy sweet voice.
O breathless breast thou woulds't heave no more,
But once did heave more beautifully
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poem by Om Chawla
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