Optimism

I write poems
they don't get published
but they will

I'm waiting for a letter with good news
maybe it will arrive the day I die
but it will come for sure

the world's not ruled by governments or money
but by people
a hundred years from now
maybe
but it will be for sure

           2 September 1957
           Leipzig
           Nazim Hikmet

शिशिर सिम्फनी का अंश - 1

अब सीख गया हूँ
बर्फीले समय में
स्लेजगाडी में नाधे गए
सधे कुत्तों की तरह
सावधान सतर्क भागते रहना
और आत्मा से बर्फ के फाहे झाड़ते रहना
और सुनता हूँ
खिडकियों का खुलना कहीं,
अलाव का जलना कहीं,
तारों का टूटना कहीं,
उम्मीदों का और जीवन का पूरा होना कहीं,
मिलना कहीं, मरना कहीं
और जनमना कहीं।

धरती के किसी कोने से उठते

शोर पर ध्यान देना
और किसी एक अकेली चीख पर भी,
आत्मसम्मोहित विद्वाताओं की तमाम किस्मो
और उजरती गुलामियों के तमाम रूपों को पहचानना,
गिलहरी की तरह
अनाज या संवेदना या दोस्ती या प्यार का
हर दाना
दोनों हाथो से थामना,
लंगर डाले नावों के रस्से
रात को चोरी से खोल देना,
अन्खुवो के फूटने की आवाज़ सुनना,
खामोश कर दी गयी ध्वनियो धरती के गर्भ से निकाल लाना,
बवंडरो में,
उन्मत्त घोड़ो की तरह भागना
और ऐसा ही बहुत कुछ
सीखता रहा हूँ लगातार
और ऐसे ही हुनरों में
महारत हासिल करता रहा हूँ।
और सबसे बढ़कर यह कि
मैं लोगों के दुखों और इच्छाओं को
पढ़ सकता हूँ
तुम्हारी आँखों की तरह
और थकान

(वेन गोग की तस्वीर)

भी पढ़ सकता हूँ
और भांप सकता हूँ
भावनाओं का हर दबाया आवेग या संकल्पों के खोलते लावे के
उमड़ने का समय
काफी हद तक
और बचपन से जारी अभ्यास
अभी भी जारी रखता हूँ कि
तरलता आँखों में कभी न आये
उमड़ने की हद तक
और असफल भी होता रहता हूँ।

शशि प्रकाश

Separation isn’t time or distance, it’s the bridge between us finer than silk thread sharper than sword.

 

 Nazim Hikmet

Spirals of time..

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory flight,
And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.


Shakespeare
(LX SONNET)

Heights of Macchu Picchu

Arise to birth with me, my brother.
Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.
tiller of fields, weaver, reticent shepherd,
groom of totemic guanacos,
mason high on your treacherous scaffolding,
iceman of Andean tears,
jeweler with crushed fingers,
farmer anxious among his seedlings,
potter wasted among his clays–
bring to the cup of this new life
your ancient buried sorrows.
Show me your blood and your furrow;
say to me: here I was scourged
because a gem was dull or because the earth
failed to give up in time its tithe of corn or stone.
Point out to me the rock on which you stumbled,
the wood they used to crucify your body.



Pablo Neruda

Fear

Everyone asks me to skip, to tone up and to play football, to run,
to swim and to fly. Fine.

Everyone counsels me to rest, every-
one sends me doctors, looking at me a certain way. What is
happening?

Everyone counsels me to travel, to enter and to
leave, not to travel, to drop dead and not to die.
It doesn't
matter.

Everyone sees the difficulties of my insides surprised
by terrible x-rays. I do not agree.

Everyone picks at my
poetry with inconquerable forks looking, undoubtedly, for a
fly. I am afraid.

I am afraid of everyone, of cold water, of
death. I am like all mortals, undelayable.

Therefore in
these short days I am not going to pay any attention to them,
I am going to open myself up and close myself in with my most
perfidious enemy, Pablo Neruda.



Pablo Neruda

Unfinished poem of Mayakovsky..

I know the force of the words and warning they can sound
i don't mean those which draw front row applause 
But words at which coffins break loose to pound
the ground this way and that with heavy paws 
They must be cast out publishers ignore them
But words forge on tighten their belly-bands 
ring through the centuries and trains come crawling 
to lick and fondle poetry's horny hands 
I know the force of the words They seem a petal flung
Under the heels of dancers just a trifle 
But man possesses backbone, heart and tongue

Mayakovsky
(1928-1930)