A Rebuttal Of Fate

We are built
to be eroded
with the blows of time.

Now when I lose a piece
here or a chunk there,
I hold it tight, the treasure of

love, kept in the safety of heart
sealed with ego;

just don’t hand time
the stilettos of your lashes
to exhume it.

Preserved, this love
will mock the vicious ways
of our fate,

that crumbs us to death
after luring us to life.

Its been re written in light of Cav’s and a few others’ suggestions. I hope its better this time around;

We are built
to be eroded
by the strokes of time.

Time chiseled
to amputate the idols
I sculpted in my dreams;
now it wants to lacerate
my chest, looking
for the reservoir of love
kept in the safety of heart.

Just don’t hand time
the spears of your lashes
to exhume my love–

preserved, it will
mock the turns
of our sadistic fate

interested only in
keeping our ruins intact
after granting us
a handful of breaths.

Faraz Kaisay Bhulaoo’N Teray Firaaq Ka Ghum!

Yesterday, August 25th was the first death anniversary of the revolutionary poet Ahmad Faraz. His absence still confounds the logic, for his words, his magic is all around us. We felt an overwhelming presence of the spirit of Faraz in the recent Lawyers Movement and his pugnacity is always cited where there is a struggle against the forces of evil.

Like his resistance poetry, his tributes to the Holy Prophet (S.A.W) too are filled with the concern he felt for his downtrodden people struck hard by the illegitimate forces of the State as well as exploited by the Political jugglers in the visage of religious clerics. Below here is one such Naat that angered the dictatorial regime of the time to an extent that Faraz was jailed for reciting it in a forum at a gathering in Karachi.

مرے رسول کہ نسبت تجھے اجالوں سے

میں تیرا ذکر کروں صبح کے حوالوں سے

نہ میری نعت کی محتاج ذات ہے تیری

نہ تیری مدح ہے ممکن مرے خیالوں سے

تو روشنی کا پیمبر ہے اور مری تاریخ

بھری پڑی ہے شب ظلم کی مثالوں سے

ترا پیام محبت ہے اور میرے یہاں

دل و دماغ ہیں پر نفرتوں کے جالوں سے

یہ افتخار ہے تیرا کہ میرے عرش مقام

تو ہمکلام رہا ہے زمین والوں سے


مگر یہ مفتی و واعظ یہ محتسب یہ فقیح

جو معتبر ہیں فقط مصلحت کی چالوں سے

خدا کے نام کو بیچیں مگر خدا نہ کرے

اثر پزیر ہوں خلق خدا کے نالوں سے

نہ میری آنکھ میں کاجل نہ مشکبو ہے لباس

کہ میرے دل کا ہے رشہ خراب حالوں سے

ہے ترش رو مری باتوں سے صاحب منبر

خطیب شہر ہے برہم مرے سوالوں سے

مرے ضمیر نے قابیل کو نہیں بخشا

میں کیسے صلح کروں قتل کرنے والوں سے

میں بے بساط سا شاعر ہوں پر کرم تیرا

کہ با شرف ہوں قبا و کلاہ والوں سے

Come, Relieve me!

So we are over the profusely humid pashakal, sawan, barsat or monsoon of the current season. I cannot recall the mid of an Islamabad summer to be as hot and humid as this one proved to be. I lost a few kilos in sweat, the hard gathered weight that I’ve been trying to accumulate through rigours in the gym of late. But I’m relieved since the breeze has started to blow cooler, taking with it the mid summer suffocation.

Suffocation I wish, was an accessory associated only to a weather condition; it broods in one’s mind too!. I hope for a similar breeze to caress through the corridors of my mind, for the cobwebs are densening.

The Dual Challenge — A Repost

Below here is the repost of a poem I wrote sometimes back. It has become quite a norm when we celebrate the independence of Pakistan amid the perils to the very unity of our dear homeland courtesy a plethora of internal and external threats. Yet our hopes remain intact to see the vibes of passion and love oozing out of a common Pakistani for his/her country, every year on the 14 of August. This year too is no different; while we’ve largely succeeded in flushing out the nuisance of Talibanisation, we are yet to bring to the fold the fringe elements in Baluchistan. If cured with sincerity the ailments to our unity can be treated with the remedy of ‘the just distribution of revenue as per the sources of production in a Federating unit’. Though it would be naive to look at the scenario in total black and white, yet our history is replete with instances of troubles emerging out of the poor distribution of wealth. Its the cry of the time not to repeat the blunders we’ve made in the past, for they become history who don’t learn a thing from the history itself.

مرے خدا مجھے اتنا تو معتبر کردے

میں جس مکان میں رہتاہوں اس کو گھر کردے

Happy Independence Day To The Nation Pakistan! 🙂

A Dual Challenge:

The honest toilers; our ancestors,
collected the stones thrown at them,
and the mud slung at them, to build a house.
They mixed the ingredients with their
sweat and their blood; the color of love
To make it a home.

A few seeds of mistrust evolved into trees of
contempt in the hearts of the second generation.
And with the help of neighbors
they themselves erected a wall of separation.

The nameplate of my home which used to
read, ‘unity’ is rusted and withered since long.
Suspicion crept into our yard and settled
in every corner of the square as if
measuring a division.

I can hear the footsteps of aliens fast
approaching our home, and I’m faced
with a dual challenge; of repairing the
storm lashed doors and of wiping all
the germs of contempt.

I’ll keep the forces of ‘division’ at bay
‘Its a negative process’ said a mathematician.

A Translation From Pushto ..

In Pushto by Rahim Khan Majrooh

Translation by Aadil Omer

The events of the last connection

of our relation were so sudden,

so ephemeral that I couldn’t sense it.

I can’t remember what we talked about last

except the words that you uttered,

‘I leave you to the protection of God,

‘You leave me to the protection of God.’

In a state of shock, I couldn’t believe

our parting even when a lot of days lapsed.

‘Nay! It cannot happen!’ I said

‘Our ways can’t be separated!’I thought.

Then the time withdrew its hand

of generosity from that of mine.

Then the fate separated its hand

of companionship form that of mine.

Then the universe of light and color

turned dull and dour.

Then the pines of the florid land

of my thoughts caught fire.

Then, the houris of the paradise

of my dreams turned to freaky vampires

of the streets of lonesomeness.

Then, a peculiar scene formed my backdrop.

As though someone drew the ground

from under my feet; I was hung in the air

like a pi-pal tree, grown within a wall.

From thereon, love,

neither smile visited my lips

nor sleep stayed in my eyes.

True, I’m alive but just like a corpse;

Like the pieces of a widow’s bangles

shattered in pain.