Imran's Poetry: 07/28/15

Jul 28, 2015

Thakhan to aglay safar kay liye bahana tha

Ussay to youn bhi kisi aur simt jaana tha

Shayed mujhay kisi se mohabbat nahin hui

Lakin yaqeen sab ko dilaata raha hoon main

Tum meray paas hotay ho goya

Jab koi doosra nahin hota

Aankhon kay deep hi thay meray ikhtiyaar main

So woh jala diye hain teray intizaar main

Main hoon keh mujh ko ab bhi khizaan hi naseeb hai

Tu hai keh saans leta hai her dam bahaar main

Tu hai keh ab bhi pyaar ko kehta hai ik mout

Main ne hamesha zindagi payi hai pyaar main

Qos-e-qazah yeh pyaar ki tootay na umar bhar

Ta hashar hum qaid hain us kay hisaar main

Apni khud-sari pe aa jayein to sun ae jaan-e-wafa

Hum to nazron se sitaron ko gira detay hain

Na ayaan hui tum se , na biyaan hui hum se

Bas suljhi hui aankhon main , uljhi rahi mohabbat

Janay kya badalon kay darmiyaan sazish hui

Jis ka ghar matti ka tha us kay ghar baarish hui

Jo dekhta hoon wohi bolnay ka aadi hoon

Main apnay shaher ka sab se bara fasaadi hoon

Muntazir meray zawaal kay hain

Meray apnay bhi kamaal kay hain

Aik chota gunnah mohabbat ka

Zindagi bhar hisaab leta hai

Jism se khoon tak nichoor leta hai

Ishq jab hijar Orh leta hai

Zindagi ki haqeeqat yehi hai

Zindagi ki haqeeqat yehi hai keh insaan

Pal bhar main haal se maazi ban jaata hai

Dard likhtay gaye Aah bhartay gaye

Log parhtay gaye wah kartay gaye

Umeedein is qadar tootein

Keh ab paida nahin hotein

Thak gaya hoon main saans le le kar

Koi surat nikaal .......... jeenay ki

Saamp das le to ilaaj kay hain imkaan bhout

Das le insaan to her saans bikhar jaati hai

Hosla kis main hai Yousaf ki kharidaari ka

Ab to mehangai kay charchay hain Zulekha'on main

Mujhay talaash karein gay nayi ritton main log

Main gehri dhund main lipta hua jazeera hoon

The health-food diner

The health-food diner

No sprouted wheat and soya shoots

And Brussels in a cake,

Carrot straw and spinach raw,

(today, i need a steak).

Not thick brown rice and rice pilau

Or mushrooms creamed on toast,

Turnips mashed and parsnips hashed,

(i'm dreaming of a roast).

Health-food folks around the world

Are thinned by anxious zeal,

They look for help in seafood kelp

(i count on breaded veal).

No smoking signs, raw mustard greens,

Zucchini by the ton,

Uncooked kale and bodies frail

Are sure to make me run

Loins of pork and chicken thighs

And standing rib, so prime,

Pork chops brown and fresh ground round

(i crave them all the time).

Irish stews and boiled corned beef

And hot dogs by the scores,

Or any place that saves a space

For smoking carnivores.

A conceit

A conceit

Give me your hand

Make room for me

To lead and follow

You

Beyond this rage of poetry.

Let others have

The privacy of

Touching words

And love of loss

Of love.

For me

Give me your hand.

On the pulse of morning

A rock, a river, a tree

Hosts to species long since departed,

Mark the mastodon.

The dinosaur, who left dry tokens

Of their sojourn here

On our planet floor,

Any broad alarm of their hastening doom

Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,

Come, you may stand upon my

Back and face your distant destiny,

But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than

The angels, have crouched too long in

The bruising darkness,

Have lain too long

Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spelling words

Armed for slaughter.

The rock cries out today, you may stand on me,

But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,

A river sings a beautiful song,

Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,

Delicate and strangely made proud,

Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit

Have left collars of waste upon

My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today i call you to my riverside,

If you will study war no more.

Come, clad in peace and i will sing the songs

The creator gave to me when i

And the tree and stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your brow

And when you yet knew you still knew nothing.

The river sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to

The singing river and the wise rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew,

The African and native American, the Sioux,

The catholic, the Muslim, the french, the Greek,

The Irish, the rabbi, the priest, the sheikh,

The gay, the straight, the preacher,

The privileged, the homeless, the teacher.

They hear. They all hear

The speaking of the tree.

Today, the first and last of every tree

Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the river.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the river.

Each of you, descendant of some passed on

Traveler, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name,

You Pawnee, Apache and Seneca,

You Cherokee nation, who rested with me,

Then forced on bloody feet,

Left me to the employment of other seekers—

Desperate for gain, starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the swede, the German, the Scot…

You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the kru,

Bought, sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare

Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the tree planted by the river,

Which will not be moved.

I, the rock, i the river, i the tree

I am yours—your passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need

For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,

Cannot be unlived, and if faced with courage,

Need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon

The day breaking for you.

Give birth again

To the dream.

Women, children, men,

Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most

Private need. Sculpt it into

The image of your most public self.

Lift up your hearts.

Each new hour holds new chances

For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever

To fear, yoked eternally

To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,

Offering you space to place new steps of change.

Here, on the pulse of this fine day

You may have the courage

To look up and out upon me,

The rock, the river, the tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister's eyes,

Into your brother's face, your country

And say simply

Very simply

With hope

Good morning.