The Flower

A sage with true deep eyes told me once,
with conviction and austere appearance,
‘That if one wants to be in youth and bliss,
sans sorrows and sans his ways amiss.
so that on his face, the day he dies,
any line of discontentment shies.
Search for this flower in mystic wink,
In lilac a tint of saffron pink.
You don’t find it in day or night,
but some time in their peaceful fight.
Blossoms then but don’t know where,
far or near or here or there.
And no one gets to miss it twice,
so take it not a throw of dice.
But don’t get caught in illusions, though
in highs and low some many grow.
Mind the signs if caught in mistrust,
true colors cease to erupt.
Don’t ever look for, when in run
its magic seeks oblivion.
And its leaves are very elusive too
Like thorns numerous and never true.
If you find it, in no way hurry,
there itself your glee can bury.
With little water on its root,
with tender hands then you uproot.
Plant it in your dwelling very soon.
In peace you wait for the fore coming boon.’
I see it in all of my dreams,
wandering in varying realms.
But I don’t seek it when awake,
may it find me and let me take.

My Script

A character added to the drama of life.
My part arrived when I first cried.
A taradiddle of new joys and strife,
with diminutive amendments I can guide.
True powers rest with the director's side,
who enjoys being the audience too,
makes me play with the script in hide.
Sends some fellow artists to me , to boo,
more of them vexing and come to rebuke.
Which keeps me somewhere always blue,
but he commands me to keep playing truce,
and search for someone in affectionate milieu.
With my feat I do not want to rue,
yet not make my show exaggerant,
and only play in spirits true,
with keeping no liabilities and decant.
I wish I could see what in it is redundant.
Does my script, unpredictably vivacious,
Or if it is ordinarily expectant,
depicts, who makes it totally conspicuous?
This stage today seems very perilous.
My tenure on it is foggy and prospects obscure.
Yet some fellows demand a dance, marvellous.
I return to the drama, hoping I endure.

Look!

Shrieks or silent weeps,
Shadows light or bright,
Leaps or if she sneaks,
Humming or a lady dynamite,
Jaggery or an orange sour,
Hide-seek or a green kite,
May she negate or be noticer,
Look! She assists or pedals fight?

The King and The Gardener

A king once made a splendid castle,
in a clime of befitting choice.
For some days away from usual bustle,
to be with daughters and rejoice.

Located near a dingle’s bottom,
of a river in euphonious verse
Turned into golden paradise in autumn
With some golden maples and conifers

With marvellous gardens in his vision
surrounding the castle all around,
asked the wardens of his prison,
‘If a parole can be found?’

Soldiers once plundered his orchard.
Grapes and Apples and Oranges,
Tried to fight when could not guard
And was sentenced for, whom he resisted.

Earned him his freedom, his proclivity.
Very unaware of his quiet rage
In his silence and sensitivity
he has always known his master’s ways

An unknown nook was happy, though
Hid his ire in a silent lowered gaze,
The king became an undeclared foe.
to be conserved for opportune days.

But destiny played a different hand
Could not keep his angers long
The serene place and its magic wand,
He forgot all that happened wrong.

Eventually grew in him an intimacy,
for the youngest daughter of the king
The love overcast over anger’s prophecy
The gardens bloomed during this fling.

When she saw it atop the hill
Her name in blue lilies in the garden pond
Could not prevent him or her from him
From hiding places and being vagabond.


The days went past and really fast.
The garden swelled up in all its beauties.
They hoped the spring would forever last
He loved her evermore but carried duties.

In the eagerness when the king arrived,
to ask from him her love of life.
Ran with craze as if she jived
A bush of roses fetched strife.

Asked her how her forearm bruised .
Without foresight, truthfully she replied
All the roses stood amused
The conjured gardener was exiled.

Now the people have a lot to say
He helped him and in return, he stung.
Says, the King of the daughter in dismay
Never keep a gardener young.

Monsoon

I wonder who first called it so,
perennially evasive its origin. Though
little Arabia has its zam-zam, sufficient.
Indian summer dries even Ganges shallow.

Not only a word, to which this country kneels
Change it a bit and it all appeals,
Rain Soon ! Rain soon !
Rainbow of the country, it alone conceals.

Carried by the South-west winds,
Kerela is the first, as it sings.
Its month of advent is of the same moral.
Usually May ends and the monsoon rings.

The oblations though rarely evenly benign
Those extreme climes are never fine.
Statistics expose all its repute,
thousands and somewhere only nine.

Not only this, it pampers brawls.
On cricket grounds, slip big footballs.
The villages hail it in festive dance,
Collared cities make noses when mud sprawls.

Not all like it alike in villages too.
The farmers want it apt, so they woo,
But the potters like it if delayed,
else the product and profit turns into goo.

God knows, where he wants? Curse or boon?
I only know of this spineless monsoon.
And this year too he has held it up,
So I pray, ‘Dear God! Send it soon.’

My Pains

Nothing is perfect, so I am not.

Although I love my profusions a lot,

for they make me what I am,

still they assemble to make a sham.

However, more is my love for my vacuums.

Among all of my flower urns,

thorny ones draw my concerns,

and not my greener ferns.

The portions I am yet to paint

or the areas painted faint.

I love them more, the colors complain

I know but cannot soothe their pain,

as mine are prettier than theirs, a lot,

as they whisper to me what I am not.

My Sleep

Onto the bed I leap.
‘What have I done to reap?’
‘A prize or a penance?’
Grows on the bed, a lance !
Then ideas come to dance.
then from the bed I leap,
and oozes out my sleep.

Colours

Are all forever lull
Depressing and dull
Seemed to me then once
‘Are old their stunts!’

Lured some new,
Fresh like dew.
Seemed to me then once,
‘Brighter are my runs.’

Two or three
Saprkled in glee
Seemd to me then once
‘Uselessly stuck to dumbs !’

Neglected, they shied
In dissolved pride.
Seemed to me then once
‘Hold them all to guns! ’

Contemporary !
Lovely as cherry !
Seemed to me then once
‘I invented my funs.’

When into some sun,
A red turned into dun.
Seemed to me then once
'Are they all playing puns?'

Saw one of them, the filed.
Tried to hide, but smiled.
Seemed to me then once,
‘The heart revealed some burns.’

Faster ones, then I tried
But all in sunny ride
Seemed to me then once
How many times, rehearse?

Hundreds came my way
Sounded like, they bray.
Seemed to me then once
‘One comes and then one shuns!’


A day in white and black,
The rest into a sack.
Seemed to me then once
‘With no one am I chums?’

Calling them back, I cried .
Then I reconciled.
Seemed to me then once ,
‘With them my inner hums!’.

Jawab-Shikwa

mahroomi hai jo kiya na kabhi tark-e-watan
safar mein rahein sham-o-sehar kya takte

fitrati musafir bhi agar khuli dhoop ka ho
saye phaila ke yunhi shajar use takte

khaki amad-o-rukhsati ke darmayan se hai bahar
zarra hi banna hai to,laal-o-guhar ko hum takte

masroofiyan uljhanon ki, to ulafaton ki bhi hain
hum bhi yahan khud-sifat aahat ko hi takte

woh milein kahan, mahtab bhi yunhi tarse
saquib ko nahi, sab yunhi use takte.

Shikwa

ab bhala chhod ke ghar kya karte
shaam ke waqt safar kya karte?

wo musafir hi khuli dhoop ka tha
saye phaila ke shajar kya karte?

Khaak hi avval-o-aaKhir thahri
kar ke zarre ko gauhar kya karte?

teri masrufiyatein jante the
apne aane ki Khabar kya karte?

jab sitare(saquib) hi nahi mil paaye
le ke ham shams-o-qamar kya karte?

Parveen Shakir
(***)

Sparrows

This day started with usual chores,
hot and humid, with no force.
My heart had baked all week, My heart!
Pleaded me to shun and dart.
Evaded it and kept on going,
at twelve the body took to yawning.

‘Fill up your belly and get some zeal’,
Yelled to me, my mid-day meal.
Turned to home to have some sap,
less of it and more of nap.
Closed the door to shut off lights,
except a tiny pane behind the eyes.

A pair of sparrow entered the shed,
as soon as I lay down on bed.
For some shadow or a spec of grain,
but my fan for them, a hurricane !
Chirping aloud and hovering around.
Stopped the fan, my eyes went round.

My helmet already marked with the visit,
Soon bored enough and ready to slip,
Chirped amuck searching a slit,
audible in their desperate, scared spirit.
Impaired against the glass and glow,
Knocked and failed by my elusive window.

The queen in her third attempt, was free,
they chirped even more and not in glee.
She perched herself on a nearby fence,
the king hailed to her moreover tense.
The cry being raised to rescue her fellow
seemed to me for the first time, mellow!

It’s not that he ever ceased to try,
or enjoyed crying out his throats dry.
I saw her, I heard her eager evermore
Could not think, what’s coming fore?
She kept on crying in increasing passion
The king was trying in every fashion.

Then came a moment she grew silent
It came to me, ‘may she relent?’
She tweaked a bit then took a flight
With certain poise to bite off the plight
Encircled my glassy window as such,
she knew its measurement, quite much.

A new hope she had already brought.
‘That side sees better’ I hoped and thought.
The chances of freedom still were frail.
She met him like an innocent in jail.
Absorbed in the melancholies and odyssey
I forgot, ‘This I can not see.’

Just then, when I moved to kill the pain,
I saw her sitting on the opened window pane.
Next, she shifted to the window bar
The rendezvous was now not very far.
Sat there and chirped over past fears,
as if announcing the departing curse.


Her mate now clearly knew, ‘where is the way?’
God had listened to them, in cries they pray.
Very soon they touched and fondled
They chirped again, and seemed like yodeled.
My sleep, I don’t know where it blew?
My heavy heart took me to work, as they flew.

My Words

My words know not how to wend,
What message do they want to send.
Some do some and some not at all,
Some fly, some run and some stroll,
and few even find it tough to crawl,
some in amity and some at brawl.
Stirred up in my stirred up nights,
what they don't get to see in lights,
try to catch a glimpse, the guardian knights.
Some of love and care and some of rights,
trying the depths unknown and beating heights,
they sway in mystic sorrows and delights.
How far they go and how grow they tall?
The purpose, I don't know they serve at all.
Whom do they touch, whom do they haul?
At least they find me, when do they call,
and those who mock them and negligent,
it is for them who try to comprehend.

Nobody ever knows everything,
unlike my boss likes to boast,
Still against him I raise a toast,
as nobody ever knows nothing.