Poem : Temporary

लिखने के लिए धुँध में डूब जाना पड़ता है ..

कोहरे से पानी का घूँट माँगते माँगते

प्यास को अपनाना पड़ता है..

मछलियों के लिए फेंके हुए जाल में फँस कर ..

एक आख़िरी लम्हा कुरेद कर

ज़िंदगी को विदा करना पड़ता है..

मारना पड़ता है अपने अंदर का भगवान..

 

अंत में जब आती है वो कश्ती

जो दरिया पार करा दे ..

कश्ती से कहीं ज़्यादा फ़िर

दरिया बेहतर लगने लगता है ..

 

उस दरिया में बहते हुए लम्हे

क़लम की आँखों में लबरेज़ हो कर..

एक कोरे काग़ज़ के चेहरे पर

उतरते जाते हैं..

Instagram: @ShairaKaSalaam

Partners in Poetry : Gayatri & Me

What is art? It is nothing but a spool of inspiration thread, moving between one bead of expression to another. When two poets collaborate, one thing is certain. They will create something that essentially impossible to separate. It is this non-separation that has created a coherence in the world of poetry. 

Here Gayatri, an outstanding poetess and writer, translates one of my poems “The Ghosts”. Adding her flamboyance and unique word usage, she crafts a poem that not only resonates with mine but supersedes in effect. 

I present you ..


वोह साये द्वारा Gayatri M

कुछ अधूरी नज़्में ज़हन में घर किये बैठी है …
ठंडे गोश्त सी नाचती है आँखों के आगे  ..
खोखली हैं,
घूरती है अपने अधूरेपन को रीतती  .. 

सुन्न कर देती हैं मुझे ,
पहले डर से ,
फिर शब्दों की टूटी बैसाखियों की मार से,
बीराने मे, घूरती रहती है,
ठंडी, आसमानी, खाली आँखें  ….

चुनी गयी हूँ मैं,
अधजली लकड़ियों में चिंगारी फूंक, पूर्णाहुति के लिए
चाँद सितारों का मखमली आसमां बिछाया मैंने , उनके लिए ,
पहाड़ों का सीना, बहती नदियों का छलकता स्नेह अम्बार ,
और सदियों पुराने कठोर पत्थर जिलाये है, उनके  लिए। 

यायावर सरीखे साये हैं सारे,
मेरी काव्य गगरी में समाते ही नहीं,
सैकड़ो की तादात में जीमते जाते हैं ,
मेरे घर की भट्ठी में गर्माहट पाते नहीं। 

साम दाम दंड भेद, सब जतन किये..
सामने आओ, बात करो मुझ से,
तुम्हारा हाथ पकड़ ले चलती हूँ
गिरजे की चौखट तक,
जहाँ सब कलंक,सब खलिश मिट जाती हैं।   

ठहाका लगाती हैं अधूरी नज़्में,
एक दूसरे को ताकती हैं ..
और बन जाती हैं..
बर्फ के बड़े-बड़े, रौबदार टुकड़े..

साये चले गये हैं  शायद।
बर्फ से धुंआ उठ रहा है.
मैं अतीत में सर घुसाए बैठी हूँ,
शब्द जल रहे हैं वहाँ
पर धुंए का नाम-ओ-निशान नहीं। 

राख हो गए है सवाल सभी,
मायूस, उठ रही थी मैं,
कि लबों पर अचानक,
कोयले दहकने लगे अशार के खुद ही।  

श्रापित हूँ..
और यह श्राप ही आशीर्वाद है मेरा।
फफोले बन के उगल देती हूँ कड़वे सच को,
डगमगा जाऊं तो कर देना,
भूल-चूक-माफ़ी। 

सफ़ेद फाहे बना कर आसमां में
नज़्म गुब्बारों की तरह छोड़ दी है मैंने
और मैं सूफियाना मिजाज़दारी में
कल के सायों से माफ़ी मांग रही हूँ..

शीशा शिकस्त हो चुके हैं
साये पुराने सारे अब
ताम्ब्र -काजल भरे सपनो के फ्रेम में क़ैद .. 

और फिर..
मस्त  मलंग हो कर ,
नाचने लगते हैं बन के दरवेश वो मेरे साथ। 


The Ghosts By Anuradha Sharma

There are some stark unresolved poems in me ..
Like ghosts they manifest before me ..
Then stare at me coldly to complete them..

They paralyze me.
First in fear.
Then in utter incompetence to put them in words.
In the stillness, the stare turns cold & blue.

The ghosts have chosen me to be their vessel of deliverance.

I offer them a play-field of moons & star..
And of mountains & thousands drops of river.
And of doomed rocks from eons ago.

But they refuse to flow in these vessels of everyday poetry I have.

The ghosts start to multiply.
My home has no hearth it seems.

I negotiate.
Remove the veil & reveal yourself.
In return I will get the church of white to bless holy ink on their sins.

The poems laugh..
They all look at each other & laugh.
And turn into ice.

Big. Solid. Blocks of ice.

The ghosts have left.
The blocks of ice are burning.
It is my turn to stare as some words appear through clear soot less burning.

The words too are ashes.
I was just going to give up on them ..
when I found them sitting on my lips like burning coal lumps.

Cursed. I am blessed with a curse.
To speak the coldest of all truths with the burns in my mouth.
Sorry if I be irresolute.

I release these poems back into clouds
and whirl just like Sufis do..
asking the ghosts for forgiveness.

The ghosts go back inside the mirror
framed with coppery  kohl dreams..

and then..
they start whirling with me..

No One

No one to hug..
No one to kiss..
No one to find..
No one to miss..

No one to hold to..
No one to share..
No one to call..
No one to care..

No one to run to..
No one asks why..
No one to show wounds to..
No one to cry..

No one to laugh with..
No one to smile..
No one to be quiet with..
No one stays a while ..

 

(c) Anuradha Sharma

A Canopy Of Umbrellas..

umbrella angels.jpg

I have a dream..
where angels walk with me..
they cajole me..
to my destination..
& beyond..

And on some days..
when my feet threaten to give up..
my dry eyes..
look at the scorching sun..
& complain..

My angels, all hundred of them..
become..
my sacred canopy of..
blissfully quiescent umbrellas..
& smile..

The kohl lined reassuring clouds, then..
leave the heavenly palace..
to fill up my horizon..
with a brimful of hope..
& faith..

 

(c) Anuradha Sharma

Not the way you wanted me to

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I loved you then .. 
But not the way you wanted me to.. 

Frames in front of me.. 
Lie in broken sequences .. 
A part of me.. 
The same way ..

I look outside window .. 
The sun is grey .. 
A glimpse of my .. 
Conversations with you..

The walls are damp.. 
The carpet old.. 
In the flower vase ..
The water cold .. 

There is noise .. 
on the television.. 
And a strange quiet .. 
Inside of me..

There are footsteps.. 
Frozen & regretful.. 
The ones I could not take .. 
Would not take..

The blanket has a story .. 
Not mine.. 
It reeks of grudges.. 
Not mine..

Someone looks at me.. 
I quickly look away.. 
The sorrows have .. 
Turned my eyes blue..

I am the one who left .. 
They say but.. 
They don’t know.. 
I was one who was left ..

There is knocking on the door.. 
I don’t open.. 
I don’t seek.. 
Letters .. & forgiveness ..

Some stories walk us .. 
To our graves.. 
Some stories .. 
Become our graves..

I love you now.. 
Alas.. Still not the way you had wanted me to..

(c) Anuradha Sharma

The Ghosts..

sufi(Hindi Translation By Gayatri : Click Here)

There are some stark unresolved poems in me ..
Like ghosts they manifest before me ..
Then stare at me coldly to complete them..

They paralyze me.
First in fear.
Then in utter incompetence to put them in words.
In the stillness, the stare turns cold & blue.

The ghosts have chosen me to be their vessel of deliverance.

I offer them a play-field of moons & star..
And of mountains & thousands drops of river.
And of doomed rocks from eons ago.

But they refuse to flow in these vessels of everyday poetry I have.

The ghosts start to multiply.
My home has no hearth it seems.

I negotiate.
Remove the veil & reveal yourself.
In return I will get the church of white to bless holy ink on their sins.

The poems laugh..
They all look at each other & laugh.
And turn into ice.

Big. Solid. Blocks of ice.

The ghosts have left.
The blocks of ice are burning.
It is my turn to stare as some words appear through clear soot less burning.

The words too are ashes.
I was just going to give up on them ..
when I found them sitting on my lips like burning coal lumps.

Cursed. I am blessed with a curse.
To speak the coldest of all truths with the burns in my mouth.
Sorry if I be irresolute.

I release these poems back into clouds
and whirl just like Sufis do..
asking the ghosts for forgiveness.

The ghosts go back inside the mirror
framed with coppery  kohl dreams..

and then..
they start whirling with me.

Anuradha Sharma ©

Riparian

the riparian temples..
from eons, await and
welcome..
the holy river..
to wash off the sins..
of millions of..
souls..
alas..
some of them..
would never know..
what they did..
wrong..

Meaning: Situated on the banks of river.

Propinquity

Although,
far far far away they lived..
in their world, the sun..
was always rising..

Although,
her mornings saw sunsets..
that he drew in his evenings..
for her and her alone..

Although,
and the moon she talked to..
every night..

sang morning lullabies to him..

But together, 
more than ever..
they redefined propinquity..

Meaning: 1. Proximity; nearness. 
 2. Kinship. 
 3. Similarity in nature

Rains

It rained and it rained..
first on the day I was born..

Mumma tells me..

It rained, when I was 10..
I read ‘Tom Sawyer’ the entire night..
never slept, but waking up to..
a knowing and some tears of joy..
that books and words are going to be my friends for life..

It rained, when I was 16..
my first heartbreak..
I felt this soft little thing in me..
which throbbed in pain, cried for mercy..
I knew this was going to be my only companion for life..

It rained, when I was 25..
my first farewell to my hometown..
oh how the eyes wept..
matching up to the sky, and I keep..
memories alone I would keep as my true consort for life..

like a violin in the rain,
my leitmotif..
It rained, every time I cried..
and every time life revealed what I held closer..
a little more than before..

Poem: Some Days..

 

Some days I am poetic,
some days I not..
Some nights I am in love,
some nights, without a heart..

Some days I wait by the phone,
some days I unplug the wire..
Some nights I am as cold as ice,
some nights I am simmering in desire..

Some days I scream out loud,
some days I lay quiet in my grave..
Some nights I dance to the truth,
some nights I pretend to be brave..

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Some days I share stories with the trees,
some days I let the nightingale speak..
Some nights I push dreams away,
some nights I just seek..

Some days I look in the mirror,
some days I turn off the gaze..
Some nights I find life in me,
some nights I am lost in the maze..

Some days I drown myself in the questions,
some days I let my answers breathe..
Some nights leaves lay silent,
some nights flowers wreathe..

Some days I smile without reason,
some days I smirk away..
Some nights the water is red,
some nights rainbows are grey..

Some days I heal the world,
some days I belong to the pain..
Some nights I am just a frozen sky,
some nights I cry like rain..