ریزہ حرف / Reza-e-Harf -----A review:

Steeped in classical flavor of Urdu traditional poetry, Mohsin Naqvi's poetry pulsates with the resistant themes he lived through. He had been engaged on various fronts, political, religious, sectarian, literary, against various detractors. His poetry resonates with all these tensions, making it strident and forceful. The very choice of his words evokes the passions he has been grappling with.<br />In the book reviewed here, Reiza-e-Harf (The Crumb/s of Letters/words) all these traits of his poetry are reflected. Nostalgia for the past times, friends, lands, beloveds and the elegiac lamentation of the ordeals his compatriots has been going through are the simmering themes of this collection. Penned some years before his death, this collection is eerily prescient, talking of the lurking assassinators, the waiting gallows, the curbs on speaking the truth. But beside these resistant themes, all the traditional themes of Eastern poetry also suffuse his poems and ghazals in a poignant and potent voice. All the colors of love, beauty of the beloved, aching despairs of unrequited love seethe in his poetry. And added to all this, Naqvi's diction, his inimitably apposite choice of words shows that his art is deeply anchored in the classic heritage of Urdu poetry. 

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The Beloved( Janan) By Ghani Khan- An English Translation:

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Two love-lit eyes, awash with hundreds of colours,

Drenched my world with colours and lights.

They made me taste, in this very world, draughts of the heavenly wine,

 Life strode into dreams, and my world got awash with dreams.

Scoops of an armful moonlight, you strew in the dust at my feet,

Guided me to my Lord aloft secrets of love.

You let tumble mounds of stars into my arms,

Hearken I songs of houries in the music of your melodies,

Guided me to my Lord in the deep secrets of Love.

( Rendered into English by Aslam Mir on 04.07.2020)

A Thousand Splendid Suns, Kabul and Saib Tabrizi:

The title of the best selling novel 'A Thousand Splendid Suns' by Afghan-American author Khaled Hosseini comes from a line in the Josephine Davis translation of the poem "Kabul", by the 17th-century Iranian poet Saib Tabrizi (1592-1676):

نظرگاه تماشایی است در وی هر گذرگاهی

همیشه کاروان مصر می آید به بازارش

حساب مه جبینان لب بامش که می داند؟

دو صد خورشید رو افتاده در هر پای دیوارش

"Every street of Kabul is enthralling to the eye

Through the bazaars, caravans of Egypt pass

One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs

And the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls"

Here is Persian Text of relevant part of the poem which has been translated into English, one translation is by Dr Josephine Barry Davis and the translator of the second is not known. ( The translations have been taken from the website: allpoetry.com.

 ( The full text of the original Persian can be found at the website: nosokhan.com 

 

خوشا عشرت سرای کابل و دامان کهسارش  

که ناخن بر دل گل می زند مژگان هر خارش   

  خوشا وقتی که چشمم از سوادش سرمه چین گردد 

شوم چون عاشقان و عارفان از جان گرفتارش

ز وصف لاله او، رنگ بر روی سخن دارم

نگه را چهره ای سازم ز سیر ارغوان زارش

چه موزون است یارب طاق ابروی پل مستان

خدا از چشم شور زاهدان بادا نگهدارش

خضر چون گوشه ای بگرفته است از دامن کوهش؟

اگر خوشتر نیامد از بهشت این طرف کهسارش

اگر در رفعت برج فلک سایش نمی بیند

چرا خورشید را از طرف سرافتاده دستارش؟

حصار مارپیچش اژدهای گنج را ماند

ولی ارزد به گنج شایگان هر خشت دیوارش

نظرگاه تماشایی است در وی هر گذرگاهی

همیشه کاروان مصر می آید به بازارش

حساب مه جبینان لب بامش که می داند؟

دو صد خورشید رو افتاده در هر پای دیوارش

به صبح عید می خندد گل رخساره صبحش

به شام قدر پهلو می زند زلف شب تارش

تعالی الله از باغ جهان آرا و شهرآرا

که طوبی خشک برجا مانده است از رشک اشجارش

ناز صبح واجب می شود بر پاکدامانان

سفیدی می کند چون در دل شب یاسمین زارش

به عمر خضر سروش طعن کوتاهی ازان دارد

که عمری بوده است از جان دم عیسی هوادارش

نمی دانم قماش برگ گل، لیک اینقدر دانم

که بر مخمل زند نیش درشتی سوزن خارش

گلوسوزست از بس نغمه های عندلیب او

چو آتش برگ، می ریزد شرر از نوک منقارش

درختانش چو سرو از برگریزی ایمن اند ایمن

خزان رنگی ندارد از گل رخسار اشجارش

خضر تیری به تاریکی فکند از چشمه حیوان

بیا اینجا حیات جاودان برگیر ز انهارش

تکلف بر طرف، این قسم ملکی را به این زینت

سپهداری چو نواب ظفرخان بود در کارش

نوای جغد چون آوازه عنقا به گوش آید

خوشا ملکی که باشد شحنه عدل تو معمارش

فلک از آفتاب آیینه داری پیشه می سازد

که گرم حرف گردد طوطی کلک شکربارش

چو از هند دوات آید برون طاوس کلک او

خورد صد مارپیچ رشک کبک از طرز رفتارش

نباشد حاجت سر سایه بال هما او را

سعادت همچو گل می روید از اطراف دستارش

بلند اقبالیی دارد که گر بر آسمان تازد

به زور بازوی قدرت کند با خاک هموارش

ز بس در عهد او دزدی برافتاده است از عالم

نیارد خصم دزدیدن سر از شمشیر خونبارش

رباید تیزی از الماس و سرخی از لب مرجان

نماید جوهر خود را چو شمشیر گهربارش

خدنگش را مگو بهر چه سرخی در دهن دارد

ز خون دشمنان پان می خورد لبهای سوفارش

سری کز جنبش ابروی تیغش بر زمین افتد

که برمی دارد از خاک مذلت جز سر دارش؟

عنان باددستی چون گذارد رایض جودش

اگر صد بادپا باشد که می بخشد به یکبارش

چه گویم از بلندیهای طبع آسمان سیرش

به دوش عرش کرسی می نهد از رتبه افکارش

الهی تا جهان آرا و شهرآرا به جا باشد

جهان آرایی و آرایش کشور بود کارش

Translation I
by Dr. Josephine Barry Davis

Ah! How beautiful is Kabul encircled by her arid mountains
And Rose, of the trails of thorns she envies
Her gusts of powdered soil, slightly sting my eyes
But I love her, for knowing and loving are born of this same dust

My song exalts her dazzling tulips
And at the beauty of her trees, I blush
How sparkling the water flows from Pul-I-Mastaan!
May Allah protect such beauty from the evil eye of man!

Khizr chose the path to Kabul in order to reach Paradise
For her mountains brought him close to the delights of heaven
From the fort with sprawling walls, A Dragon of protection
Each stone is there more precious than the treasure of Shayagan

Every street of Kabul is enthralling to the eye
Through the bazaars, caravans of Egypt pass
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs
And the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls

Her laughter of mornings has the gaiety of flowers
Her nights of darkness, the reflections of lustrous hair
Her melodious nightingales, with passion, sing their songs
Ardent tunes, as leaves enflamed, cascading from their throats

And I, I sing in the gardens of Jahanara, of Sharbara
And even the trumpets of heaven envy their green pastures.

Translation II


Oh, the beautiful city of Kabul wears a rugged mountain skirt,
And the rose is jealous of its lash-like thorns.
The dust of Kabul's blowing soil smarts lightly in my eyes,
But I love her, for knowledge and love both come from her dust.

I sing bright praises to her colourful tulips,
The beauty of her trees makes me blush.
How sparkling the water flows from Pul-i-Mastaan!
May Allah protect such beauty from the evil eye of man!

Khizr chose Kabul to Paradise,
For her mountains brought him near to heaven's delights.
The fort's dragon-sprawling walls guard the city well,
Each brick is more precious than the treasure of Shayagan.

Every street in Kabul fascinates the eye.
In the bazaars, Egypt's caravans pass by.
No one can count the beauteous moons on her rooftops,
And hundreds of lovely suns hide behind her walls.

Her morning's laugh is as gay as flowers,
Her dark nights shine like beautiful hair.
Her tuneful nightingales sing with flame in their notes,
Fiery songs like burning leaves, fall from their throats.

I sing to the gardens, Jahanara and Sharbara.
Even the tuba of Paradise is jealous of their greenery.

 

Majzoob: To The Butterfly : ( English Translation of Majzoob's Poem: Taroogi Ta تاروګي ته):

Majzoob: To The Butterfly:

( English Translation of Majzoob's Poem: Taroogi Ta تاروګي ته):

In the gentle vernal breeze, always bobbing up and down,

In a wild search of flowers, you fleet about in the fields,

Oblivious to all worries, like a child you prance about.

In a meadow of fresh flowers, you glide about,

Like a hourie strutting about in paradise,

Like drifting stars, twinkling here and there.

Your only concern is darting from flower to flower,

Peeping into the hearts of flowers, how strange is your job!

How ecstatic your soul must be! How lucky you are!

The flower, always, holds up the mirror of dew for you,

Fluffing up her bosom, longing to hold you in her embrace.

Her heart tingling with desire for you, but unable to voice her wish.

 Must have you clasped and tickled countless yellow mustard flowers,

Must have viewed and counted the spots deep in the tulips!

God Knows! How many beauties you must have you kissed in your age short!

Despite savouring these delights galore, tight-lipped you are,

Holding a  pack of secrets, you don’t confide in anybody,

All your delights, all your raptures, you lodge deep in your heart.

O the floral sprite, have you descended from the Caucasus?

Or sprang up from nearby meadow you little moth?

In your joyous life, you must not have experienced any sorrow!

Listen! O dainty one, listen! Bother a little for me,

With love, transport me with you, up above me,

Joyous you are and be joyful always! Let me jocund in your company!

Getting mired deeper day by day in the swamp of sorrows,

Dulled by the growing tedium of life at every moment,

 The older I grow, the heavier grows the load of sins.

Gone are the days when I was a child like you,

You must remember the times when I was younger, a child,

Nimble,  I sprinted after you in the fields of mustard.

Don’t be mistaken by my youth,  outwardly I might look strong,

You might be beguiled by my appearance but old I have grown,

Heartlessness of the rose-cheeked has wrung the life out of me.

(Rendered  into English by Aslam Mir on 23.6.2020)

Majzoob:An address to Pashto ( An English Translation of Majzoob’s poem’ Pakhtu ta- پښتو ته):

               An address to Pashto (An English Translation of Majzoob’s poem" Pakhtu ta- پښتو ته"):

My Pashtu, O my sweet Pashtu!                          Thy worries have curdled my blood,  Pashtu!

 You have been the co-traveller of Kings,

But they too have been indifferent to you.

The Mughals plundered everything of you,

Stripped you of every attire.

Pathans themselves have scorned you,

 Aloof they have kept themselves from you.

The people of The Cross did  flirt with  you,

But being the foreigners, a stranger they have treated you.

Even the mangiest ones have made fun of you,

They jeer at your mien and looks.

The roses at your bosom wilt in vain,

The Spring passes by in vain.

Nobody owned your graceful body,

Nobody kissed your rosy cheek.

What a pity! Whenever somebody falls in  love with you,

All the world takes him as their foe.

They harass your lovers on one or other pretext,

Some jail your lovers, some fetter them.

Why do you look on helplessly?

Why do you let them torment your lovers?

Don’t you wield the coquetry of the rose-cheeked ones?

Don’t you possess the grace of beauties, the pert?

Get up and muster the qualities of the pretty ones,

Summon up your allure and be vibrant.

 Still, your tresses  can raise storms,

 Still, your eyes can stir up fires.

 I see lightnings flash in your laughing,

 I see tumults stirred up by your every lovely act.

Where are your adoring Qalandaran[i]?

Where are those flame-eyed falcons?

O Jameely (the beauteous one) ! Where is thy Ajmal[ii]?

Where are sons of Khushal[iii], where is Aimal[iv], a second one?

Go, seek guidance from the Mahdi(the guided one),

Go, get a force  from Amir Hamza[v]

Go,  muster Toofan[vi]( a storm) upon your foes,

Go, let Khushal Khan march upon the Mughals.

  [i]Two poets of Pashtu with pen names of Qalandaran.

[ii] Ajmal Khatak, a great Pashtu poet. His name ( meaning The most handsome one)has a resemblance with the word Jameela(the beauteous one).Majzoob has played on this resemblance in phonetics and meanings.

[iii] Khushal Khan Khattak was a famous Pashtu poet, chieftain and warrior.

[iv] A Pathan warrior who fought against Mughals.

( Translated into English by Aslam Mir on 18.6.2020)

The Fire ( English Translation of Ghani Khan's Poem "Ore':

When my clay was kneaded, What kind of fire it was consigned into?
The fire, if I don’t put it out, it roasts me alive.
If I try to put it out, it roars into flames anew.
Moulded He all my being out of His spirit,
But let blended some devilish particles t00.
The nearer I got, the thicker He drew veils ,
When I strode to The Heaven, The Hell flung open its gate,
When I got nearer the Hell, somebody shouted me away, ’Beware! Beware!”.
Damn you! O The fire of my heart!
You spoiled the fun of life!


( Rendered into English by Aslam Mir on 17.6.2020)

The Nurse: Ghani Khan's Tribute to The Nursing Community! An English Translation:

The Nurse: Ghani Khan's Tribute to The Nursing Community!
An English Translation of his poem"Nurse".


Tending the ailing, the wretched is not mere a service, it is an act of worship,
Like mother, love and compassion is the very nature of The Eve!
This duel with death, indeed valour and manliness it is,
It is mercy amid fires of pain and a beacon in the darkness!
Every human is a child to a woman, symbol of her beauty and perfection,
If she is scorned, worth of whose else these people have acknowledged,
A herd of benighted asses, they trash into dust every gem.
To be a daughter of the beauty, a mother of the life; God created Eve,
But we, the bards, reduced her to a bar-tender or a flirt,
That wanton Western culture projected her a seductive temptress!
It neither made her a sister nor elevated her to a mother,
Neither letting her espouse the faith, nor this world,
The real forte of The Eve is compassion, affection and serving,
This duel with death is not only service, it is an act of worship!

( Rendered into English by Aslam Mir on 14.6.2020)