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Best Poems Written by Fayaz Bhat

Below are the all-time best Fayaz Bhat poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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An Indian Boy

That Indian boy, unwashed, in rags, and black,
(India is, as in Art we say Nobel Laureate; in Might they call it ‘Nuclear State’)
Walked by the Dal-lake’s breezy bank,
Playing an unknown song on flute;
Carrying balloons on a bamboo stick,
Flying high in air,
And around his shoulders a worn dirty bag—
Contained flutes.
The naughty school boys irritated him, 
Punched the balloons
And searched in the bag.

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Mini World

Mini-World
===========
Meadows evergreen, streams which roar;
Singing sitting on trees, flying high birds.

Dense dark woods— old lions growl;
The wild pastures, leopards race.

I own a moon, sun, stars, and a sky,
And I can summer in winter, and spring after summer.

Tens of thousand, big busty, in rows,
My wives, milking buffaloes in long herds.

Winning women-singers, 
And blind old musicians attend my court;
In winters’ long nights,
Sing the old fairy-story-songs, a young shepherd’s wooing his beloved.

I visit the folks living afar, in dusk;
They serve us tea, present the swords- dance.

O my Lord in the heavens! O Lord of the lords! 
Allow me!
I own— that Mini-World!

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A Feeling For My Cousin

Thirteen books! And you are in class one,
And the answers to the difficult questions
Are my brother, long!

In the bushy country near the low hills,
Kids, calves spring in delight;
Cows and goats graze whole days.
The cowboys enjoy warm sun, 
Wild meadows, cool blows of air!
My boy, you have to be indoors all-day,
Behind wide walls, airtight and high!
And ah! Grassy school-ground be guarded by numb tutors.

I see the suffering of your tiny soul…!
My boy, a bird with trimmed wings,
Can’t fly in the fair sky?
A hobbled horse can’t race in a pasture;
Fastened tight with tie,
You can’t shout open in the open outdoor.

How can a caged parrot like
Even if given golden grains—
You are returning your tiffin, always half-eaten.

I will hug your beating baby-heart
And rub long with my chest;
Kiss your fear-laden face;
Help you lifting the hefty bag;
And shed a tear afterward…
This is what I can do for you, my boy-brother,
Everyday.

Details | Fayaz Bhat Poem

Written In Indian Election Time

Oh God!
When this state be free
And an independent kingdom again!
India, a hypocrites’ country, is a Power,
And although we are famous for being straightforward
But, a small nation, in Arms and Weopens we are very weak.
Otherwise, now tired of Double-talk Dialogues and humiliating 
Invitations for Talks,
We’d make it, in a violent war in air.
And an another aggressive Muslim state,
Pakistan (land of the pure!) has kept us captive, there, 
Across the nonsensical border,
And gifted a part, of us, to its Mongol friend!

And Shame on their living! 
These petty politicians in this Indian election time
Are frequenting this forgotten village street.
Some scared of a villain Indian minister,
Others, licking her feet, a widow woman politician.
While others immature, in the nights' dark,
On the roadside walls, are propagandizing for Pakistan.

Ah Alas!
All great politicians are gone,
Like prophets, painters and poets,
These modern high standard schools 
Can not create.

Details | Fayaz Bhat Poem

A Teacher Should Have Teacher-Like Qualities

They sit gossiping 
around on chairs
Under shady walnut
Sh! Sh! Backbiting! 
Abusing! Loud laughing…
having fun!
A proud young man 
newly appointed
Abused his pupils in 
anger
When I in innocence 
interrupted him
And reminded of his 
class,
For the poor pupils I saw 
were waiting
Opening their books on 
their bags.

Another one, a Master, I 
saw was pulling his 
inferior female 
colleague’s arm
And dragging her in…!

A lecturer kissing his girl 
students on cheeks, 
whispering in their ears, 
and 
embracing…!

A broad shouldered tall 
teacher would kiss and 
bite
The plum-cheeks of my 
fair-looking class-
fellows,
One among now is a KPS 
officer!

An old lame teacher,
A drinker, abused the 
pupils all the time,
Often sitting cross-
legged, lighting a cigar.

O! Let’s stop it here… 
but a sick Sikh 
headmaster
Now I see had been 
highly communal
Would beat at prayer-
time
The poor pupils 
sweating in sun,
Without seeing  the 
wooden-slates
And beating with willow-
twigs their soft thighs.

Thanks to the highly 
disciplined modern 
schools
In private sector
But the curriculum be 
child centered
And not fatiguing and 
boring.

O O!  Recently I have 
heard of the teachers 
Who gave me a 
humiliating nickname,
One is shouting and 
hurling stones at people,
Another is dumbfounded, 
hardly talking to any one.
 
Whom have you hired 
teachers...?
Drivers and Boucher—
I wonder and I ponder…
But, let I at least protest.

Details | Fayaz Bhat Poem

Remembering In My Parents Prime

Remembering in my Parents’ Prime
========================
Ah! This snowy still night, at bedtime;
Reminds me of the picnic pictures,
I as a boy would imagine,
Dad and mom must have had a great time
In icy Gulmarg.
Raising her veil, slightly smiling and awfully shy,
 A classic Kashmiri countrywoman.
He as a sixties-seventies Bollywood actor,
Clean-shaven, twirled his mustaches,
Dresses in a long woolen coat and tie.
And I in her lap with a scowly face
Seeing at the photographer,
With my finger in my mouth
And, belly half-naked.

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An Erotic Poem

Do tell me!
When he is out on a 
night--
Dead doctor!
I will leave in twilight
And reach there
Your window
In late night.
We will hurried and 
scared kiss-- 
Deep and long kisses
In damp moonlight
Of the early spring.
Then as an ancient 
Arabian robber 
blackamoore
I will run holding 
hard to my chest
Your body of gold
Stumbling with the 
stones
Climbing the fences
Jumping over the 
thorns and shrubs
To the remote 
country 
By the dense forest.
And as an ape-man 
had picked a 
western woman 
visitor
In Gulmarg
And held her as his 
woman for some six 
months
We will sex whole 
days in the den
And in the nights 
Outside
In the bushy pasture.
I will pull your brown 
curly hair doggy
And slap your thick 
thighs
And, you will moan in 
gratification loud and 
aloud
As a witch in a wild 
place practicing craft
Or a whale in sea at 
mating-time.

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To My Baby In the Womb

Hear my baby!  I am your dad!
Kissing you here and kissing you there…
Your flowery face, your little chin,
Your eyes, eyebrows, fingers and feet.
Hugging you softly hard,
Rubbing tenderly your tiny head.
My eyes are filled...!
And I am feeling heavy at heart,
For I feel I cannot carry on any more
Like this!
I give in! Weary, with the faith, 
Now my sickened soul shall find its solace 
In the God’s garden-abode.

My dear babe! I’d wish I live long… 
At least as long, you grow into a tall man.
And you marry
An Arabian singer-dancer;
Or a European noble lady 
Professing Art.
You write what I couldn’t,
And you write in an unknown—
Harmonious meter and rhyme.
And I take my sweet grandchildren walk
In the dew-wet mornings 
To the forest-side meadows.

And you my baby doll!
You shall set up a farm in the country 
In the fir-forests’ lap.
And rear goats and sheep.
You work dreamy day-night
In the company of old saintly shepherds;
And you marry the one you clandestinely admire—
Who comes into your dream 
And plays with your tress.
The widower shepherd’s only son—
Long haired, honest and brave,
Has almond eyes and the aroma of roses. 

(under construction...)

Details | Fayaz Bhat Poem

An Indian Boy Ii

An Indian Boy  II
-----------------------------

That another Indian boy, little boy,
Oh! In rags, unwashed, walking barefoot those roadside footpaths.
Call the Indian scientist sinners
And proud profane politicians
And show them the scene…
Is waiting silently outside the busy shops, 
Carrying a soiled sack, 
And quickly collecting the trash, 
The kind shopkeepers throw out at him.
“I would help him by a note but
He would become a beggar.
I would rub with my hands his head, 
Kiss his little hands, or would hug,
But, it would make him a lovesick—I felt fear.”

I have an idea after a solemn assessment,
 To end this menace, this war weapons race:
“Let all the countries have a Common Defense Center.”
And if any Iraq ever tries to occupy any Quait,
Shall meet a necessary catastrophe!
And its officers like the keepers of hell—
Just faceless—callous and impartial,
Shall order Israel to leave Palestine;
And tell India, Pak, China to leave Jammu Kashmir 
And that in a week’s time
And they all shall comply with—humbly.
Sick Russia won’t eye at its tiny neighbors
And great U.S.A will feel a lot freed of 
Its huge duties and responsibility.
And then economy shall grow and unemployment shall go,
Borders will shrink and diminish down,
Poverty will be past and progress will be fast
And, prosperity will prevail
In there the forests and there down the vale.

Details | Fayaz Bhat Poem

Nice To Meet You

I had heard of Black-
beauty
From highly learned 
men
And, a twiggy oily 
figure!
I have always 
appreciated.
City-women walk in 
style
Wear stylish and 
talk in style,
A Cow-boy shall 
always commend!
But I have 
somewhere read,
An Indian American 
poet to his
Syrian wife wrote
An unknown love 
poem!
Blaming her of 
dating once
A Muslim friend.
Therefore ere we 
may walk together 
any more,
Tell me, for instance!
Have you visited 
that saint’s shrine?
There, near your 
abode,
The fort’s on the 
Rocky Mount;
Climbed those 
hundred-fifty stony 
stairs?
                                     Yes!
Many many times, in 
that sweet nonage
With grandma.
And nowadays on 
almost all Sundays
In the evenings, with 
my mom.

Ah! Ah!
Then you must have
 Fed the wild-
pigeons’ flock, corn;
Helped the lame, 
blind beggars with 
coins, and rice;
In the festivals’ 
nights
Served the waking 
worshipers—coming 
from the far villages 
in country,
Fried in ghee, the 
rice,
And in Samovar—
Kahva!

Yes, my dear Yes!
I have, I have, I 
have.