POETRY of Mirza GHALIB

[Jannah]

Koee Umeed Bar Nahin Aatee

koee ummeed bar naheen aatee
No hope comes my way
koee soorat nazar naheen aatee
No visage shows itself to me

maut ka ek din mu'ayyan hai
That death will come one day is definite
neehd kyon raat bhar naheeh aatee?
Then why does sleep evade me all night?

aage aatee thee haal-e-dil pe hansee
I used to laugh at the state of my heart
ab kisee baat par naheen aatee
Now no one thing brings a smile

jaanta hoon sawaab-e-taa'at-o-zahad
Though I know the reward of religious devotion
par tabeeyat idhar naheen aatee
My attention does not settle in that direction

hai kuchch 'eisee hee baat jo chup hoon
It is for these reasons that I am quiet
warna kya baat kar naheen aatee?
If not, would I not converse with you?

kyon na cheekhoon ki yaad karate hain
Why should I not remember you?
meree aawaaz gar naheen aatee
Even if you cannot hear my lament

daagh-e-dil gar nazar naheen aata
You don't see the anguish in my heart
boo bhee 'ei chaaraagar ! naheen aatee
O healer, the scent of my pain eludes you

ham wahaan hain jahaan se hamko bhee
I am now at that point
kuchch hamaaree khabar naheen aatee
That even I don't know myself

marte hain aarzoo mein marne ki
I die in the hope of dying
maut aatee hai par naheen aatee
Death arrives and then never arrives

kaaba'a kis munh se jaaoge 'Ghalib'
How will you face Mecca, Ghalib
sharm tumko magar naheen aatee
When shame doesn't come to you

[Jannah]

Yaak zarrah Zamiin Nahiin Beakaar Baagh kaa
Yaan Jaadah bhiee Fatilah haiey laale ke Daagh Kaa!

No particle of earth in the Garden is useless
Here, even the worn out walking path serves as an opening to the Red flowers!
---

BuLBuL ke Karobaar pah Heain Khandah Haiee GUL
KEHTEY HAEIN JISS KO ISHQ, KHALLAL HAI DAMAGH KAA

The Flowers are laughing at the Nightingale's routine!
What we call LOVE, is BUT the confusion of the mind It is not a rational state!
---

Sau Baar Band-e-ISHQ se Azaad Ham Hue
Par Kyaa Kareen Kih DIL hii Aduu hai Firaagh kaa!

Hundreds of times I have freed myself from the bonds of LOVE
But what Shall I do if my own HEART is the enemy of my freedom and drags me back into the same bondage!

[Jannah]

 Ghalib auur Ishq     
     
Arz-aey niyaaz-e Ishq ke qaabil nahin rahaa
Jiss Dill pah Naaz thaa mujhe vuh Dill nahin rahaa

My Supplications of love are no longer worthy of my Beloved
The Heart, in which I took great pride, is there no more!
---

Go Main Rahaa Rahin-e-Sitaam Hai Rozgaar
Lekin Tere Khiyaal sey Ghafil nahin rahaa

Though I remained involved in managing the tyrannies of living
I was, however, never oblivious of your thought and memory.
---

Bedaad-e Ishq sey Nahin Daartaa, Magar Asad
Jiss Dill pah Naaz thaa mujhe vuh Dill nahin rahaa!!!

Not afraid of bearing the tyrannies of Love, but then Asad!
The Heart, in which I once took great pride, that heart is no more now!

[Jannah]

Not Ghalib but references him.. sigh.

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HER DAUGHTER
"charred dove, nightingale still burning": Mirza Ghalib [Urdu poet]


Baghdad, April 8, 2003

Four years younger than mine
her daughter lies under the rubble.
She stands at the edge of it,
watching the men lifting one stone,
another, till out of the crater
they gently lift somebody's
body, a body she now
sees is female. She tries to recall
what her daughter was wearing,
but no scrap of clothing remains
on it. Whose body is it ? She sees
no face. She sees no head.
At the edge of the crater she stands
while they swaddle the body in blankets
a neighbor has brought. Through
the blasted streets she calls
a name that gets lost
in the rattle of gunfire, a name
no one hears as they pull
from the rubble her daughter's
head, hair twisted round like
a root-wad, not blonde
like my daughter's, not waking
up as my daughter will be, being safe
on this morning in Teas, beginning
to brush her hair after her shower,
her face in the mirror as perfect as
as always I see it, the fair skin
she wishes had South Asian
dusk in it, not southern
sun from the field of her mother's
line, as she examines
the scar on her temple,
the chinshe believeslooks
not quite smooth
enough, while her fingers
scroll over its surface
as if they are translating
Urdu, word after
unsteady word of a ghazal
that she must recite
today, all the while fearing
her voice will fail
even as she tries
to fill up the silence
with Ghalib's desire
to see, lost in the blaze
of the mirror
that holds her,
the face of the Beloved.

KATHRYN STRIPLING BYER, the poet laureate of North Carolina), in 'The Atlantic Monthly, November 2005 issue.