Written by
Alec Derwent (A D) Hope |
Reading the menu at the morning service:
- Iced Venusberg perhaps, or buttered bum -
Orders the usual sex-ersatz, and, nervous,
Glances around - Will she or won't she come?
The congregation dissected into pews
Gulping their strip teas in the luminous cavern
Agape's sacamental berry stews;
The nickel-plated light and clatter of heaven
Receive him, temporary Tantalus
Into the Lookingglassland's firescape.
Suckled on Jungfraumilch his eyes discuss,
The werwolf twins, their mock Sabellian rape.
This is their time to reap the standing scorn,
Blonde Rumina's crop. Beneath her leafless tree
Ripe-rumped she lolls and clasps the plenteous horn.
Cool customers who defy his Trinity
Feel none the less, and thrill, ur-vater Fear
Caged in the son. For, though this ghost behave
Experienced daughters recognize King Leer:
Lot also had his daughters in a cave.
Full sail the proud three-decker sandwiches
With the eye-fumbled priestesses repass;
On their swan lake the enchanted icecreams freeze,
The amorous fountain prickles in the glass
And at the introit of this mass emotion
She comes, she comes, a balanced pillar of blood,
Guides through the desert, divides the sterile ocean,
Brings sceptic Didymus his berserk food,
Sits deftly, folding elegant thighs, and takes
Her time. She skins her little leather hands,
Conscious that wavering towards her like tame snakes
The polyp eyes converge.... The prophet stands
Dreading the answer from her burning bush:
This unconsuming flame, the outlaw's blow,
Plague, exodus, Sinai, ruptured stones that gush,
God's telegram: Dare Now! Let this people go!
|
Written by
Victor Hugo |
("Booz s'était couché.")
{Bk. II. vi.}
At work within his barn since very early,
Fairly tired out with toiling all the day,
Upon the small bed where he always lay
Boaz was sleeping by his sacks of barley.
Barley and wheat-fields he possessed, and well,
Though rich, loved justice; wherefore all the flood
That turned his mill-wheels was unstained with mud
And in his smithy blazed no fire of hell.
His beard was silver, as in April all
A stream may be; he did not grudge a stook.
When the poor gleaner passed, with kindly look,
Quoth he, "Of purpose let some handfuls fall."
He walked his way of life straight on and plain,
With justice clothed, like linen white and clean,
And ever rustling towards the poor, I ween,
Like public fountains ran his sacks of grain.
Good master, faithful friend, in his estate
Frugal yet generous, beyond the youth
He won regard of woman, for in sooth
The young man may be fair—the old man's great.
Life's primal source, unchangeable and bright,
The old man entereth, the day eterne;
And in the young man's eye a flame may burn,
But in the old man's eye one seeth light.
As Jacob slept, or Judith, so full deep
Slept Boaz 'neath the leaves. Now it betided,
Heaven's gate being partly open, that there glided
A fair dream forth, and hovered o'er his sleep.
And in his dream to heaven, the blue and broad,
Right from his loins an oak tree grew amain.
His race ran up it far, like a long chain;
Below it sung a king, above it died a God.
Whereupon Boaz murmured in his heart,
"The number of my years is past fourscore:
How may this be? I have not any more,
Or son, or wife; yea, she who had her part.
"In this my couch, O Lord! is now in Thine;
And she, half living, I half dead within,
Our beings still commingle and are twin,
It cannot be that I should found a line!
"Youth hath triumphal mornings; its days bound
From night, as from a victory. But such
A trembling as the birch-tree's to the touch
Of winter is an eld, and evening closes round.
"I bow myself to death, as lone to meet
The water bow their fronts athirst." He said.
The cedar feeleth not the rose's head,
Nor he the woman's presence at his feet!
For while he slept, the Moabitess Ruth
Lay at his feet, expectant of his waking.
He knowing not what sweet guile she was making;
She knowing not what God would have in sooth.
Asphodel scents did Gilgal's breezes bring—
Through nuptial shadows, questionless, full fast
The angels sped, for momently there passed
A something blue which seemed to be a wing.
Silent was all in Jezreel and Ur—
The stars were glittering in the heaven's dusk meadows.
Far west among those flowers of the shadows.
The thin clear crescent lustrous over her,
Made Ruth raise question, looking through the bars
Of heaven, with eyes half-oped, what God, what comer
Unto the harvest of the eternal summer,
Had flung his golden hook down on the field of stars.
BP. ALEXANDER.
|
Written by
Denise Levertov |
Those groans men use
passing a woman on the street
or on the steps of the subway
to tell her she is a female
and their flesh knows it,
are they a sort of tune,
an ugly enough song, sung
by a bird with a slit tongue
but meant for music?
Or are they the muffled roaring
of deafmutes trapped in a building that is
slowly filling with smoke?
Perhaps both.
Such men most often
look as if groan were all they could do,
yet a woman, in spite of herself,
knows it's a tribute:
if she were lacking all grace
they'd pass her in silence:
so it's not only to say she's
a warm hole. It's a word
in grief-language, nothing to do with
primitive, not an ur-language;
language stricken, sickened, cast down
in decrepitude. She wants to
throw the tribute away, dis-
gusted, and can't,
it goes on buzzing in her ear,
it changes the pace of her walk,
the torn posters in echoing corridors
spell it out, it
quakes and gnashes as the train comes in.
Her pulse sullenly
had picked up speed,
but the cars slow down and
jar to a stop while her understanding
keeps on translating:
'Life after life after life goes by
without poetry,
without seemliness,
without love.'
|
Written by
Les Murray |
Sleeping-bagged in a duplex wing
with fleas, in rock-cleft or building
radar bats are darkness in miniature,
their whole face one tufty crinkled ear
with weak eyes, fine teeth bared to sing.
Few are vampires. None flit through the mirror.
Where they flutter at evening's a *****
tonal hunting zone above highest C.
Insect prey at the peak of our hearing
drone re to their detailing tee:
ah, eyrie-ire; aero hour, eh?
O'er our ur-area (our era aye
ere your raw row) we air our array
err, yaw, row wry - aura our orrery,
our eerie ü our ray, our arrow.
A rare ear, our aery Yahweh.
|
Written by
Tanwir Phool |
Muhammad(SAWAWS) Rah-e-Haq dikhaanay ko aa'ey
GunaahoN sey ham ko bachaanay ko aa'ey
Sharee'at ki mash'al jahaaN maiN jalaa kar
Zilaalat ki Zulmat miTaanay ko aa'ey
Du'aa ki Khuda sey , hidaayat dey in ko
Jo Taa'ef maiN kaafir sataanay ko aa'ey
JahaaN maiN shaqaawat kaa thaa daur dauraa
Woh(SAWAWS) RaHmat kay moti luTaanay ko aa'ey
Gunahgaar ummat ko jab roz-e-maHshar
Rasool-e-Khuda(SAWAWS) baKhshwaanay ko aa'ey
Yahi Phool kahnay lagaa , meray Aa'qaa(SAWAWS)
Mujhay pairhan maiN chhupaanay ko aa'ey
(Poet : Tanwir Phool)-(Naat from "Anwaar-e-Hiraa" published in July,1997)
Link about Naat : http://www.thefullwiki.org/Naat
You may read more poetry of Tanwir Phool at these links :
http://www.urdubandhan.com/bazm/viewforum.php?f=33
http://www.urdubandhan.com/bazm/viewtopic.php?f=8&t=7438
http://urdunetjpn.com/ur/category/tanwir-phool/
|
Written by
Tanwir Phool |
For Tanwir Phool's poetry see these links:
http://www.urduyouthforum.org/designpoetry/Tanwir_Phool_designpoetry.php
http://urdunetjpn.com/ur/category/tanwir-phool/
http://forum.urdujahaan.com/viewtopic.php?f=18&t=4969
*****************************************************************************
RUBA'I
Jo lamHa guzartaa hai who keya detaa hai?
Dauraaniya-e-zeest bataa detaa hai
Aie Phool ! ghaTaa umr se ik aur baras
Jaataa huwaa har saal sadaa detaa hai
(From "DhuwaaN DhuwaaN Chehray" published in April,1999)
English translation.
What is given by the moment passed?
It tells one the spent period of his or her life.
Every passing year is saying that one more year is being
decreased / deducted from one's life.
****************
RUBA'I
Tu maaNg sadaa SuHbat-e-bad Khoo se panaah
Saathi jo buraa ho to who kartaa hai tabaah
ShaitaaN se bhalaa'i ki tawaqqu hai tujhay !
LAA HAULA WALAA QUWWATA ILLAA BILLAH
(From "Gulshan-e-SuKhan" published in January,1970)
English translation
You should seek riddance from the company of sinful person.
If the companion is evil-minded ,you will be ruined.
Do you expect beneficence from the Devil?
There is no source of strength save that of God.
(Poet : Tanwir Phool ) http://duckduckgo.com/Tanwir_Phool
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Written by
Tanwir Phool |
Tiri Qudrat ko yaa Rab ! zarray zarray sey a'yaaN dekhaa
Qamar maiN ,shams maiN ,anjum maiN Tujh ko zaufishaaN dekhaa
Who sheereeN Naam hai ALLAH kaa jo RaaHat-e-dil hai
Fanaa jo ho geya Us par, usay hi jaawidaaN dekhaa
Pukaaraa markaz-e-dil sey to paayaa paas hi Us ko
Usay hi BaKhshnay waalaa ,Usay hi MehrbaaN dekhaa
Sahaaraa be-basoN kaa hai , Who mazloomoN kaa Waali hai
Usi kay aastaanay ko panaah-e-be-kasaaN dekhaa
Samajh saktaa naheeN Israar Haq kay aa'dam-e-Khaaki
Na aiesaa falsafi dekhaa , na aiesaa nukta daaN dekhaa
Gulistaan-e-jahaaN maiN Phool ki faryaad Sun yaa Rab !
Tiraa hi Naam lay kar us ko maSroof-e-fuGhaaN dekhaa
(Poet : Tanwir Phool)
You can read more poetry of Tanwir Phool at these links :
http://urdunetjpn.com/ur/category/tanwir-phool/
http://www.urdubandhan.com/bazm/viewtopic.php?f=8&t=7438
|
Written by
Tanwir Phool |
Please see these links for Tanwir Phool's poetry :
http://forum.urdujahaan.com/viewtopic.php?f=18&t=4969
http://urdunetjpn.com/ur/category/tanwir-phool/
G H A Z A L
----------------
Rishta-e-jism-o-jaaN
Raunaq-e-eeN jahaaN
MuKhtaSar hai safar
MuKhtaSar daastaaN
Aie miray ham safar !
Tu kahaaN , main kahaaN
Chand tinkay milay
Ban geya aa'shiyaaN
Maah-o-anjum se hai
Zeenat-e-aasmaaN
Husn hai chaandni
Ishq barq-e-tapaaN
Rahbari aam thi
LuT geya kaarwaaN
Qurb us ka bana
RaaHat-e-aashiqaaN
Phool ! dam se tiray
Saj geya gulsitaaN
**********************
http://allaboutreligions.blogspot.com
|
Written by
John Berryman |
Bats have no bankers and they do not drink
and cannot be arrested and pay no tax
and, in general, bats have it made.
Henry for joining the human race is bats,
known to be so, by few them who think,
out of the cave.
Instead of the cave! ah lovely-chilly, dark,
ur-moist his cousins hang in hundreds or swerve
with personal radar,
crisisless, kid. Instead of the cave? I serve,
inside, my blind term. Filthy four-foot lights
reflect on the whites of our eyes.
He then salutes for sixty years of it
just now a one of valor and insights,
a theatrical man,
O scholar & Legionnaire who as quickly might
have killed as cast you. Olè. Stormed with years
he tranquil commands and appears.
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