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be-KHudee le ga'ee kahaaN ham ko

be-KHudee le ga'ee kahaaN ham ko
der se intaZaar hai apnaa

rote phirte hain saaree-saaree raat
ab yahee rozgaar hai apnaa

de ke dil ham jo ho ga'e majboor
ismeN kyaa iKHtiyaar hai apnaa

kuchh naheeN ham misaal-e-'unqaa lek
shahar-shahar ishtahaar hai apnaa

jisko tum aasmaan kahate ho
so diloN kaa Gubaar hai apnaa

poem by Meer Taqi Meer
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Dot Leedle Boy

Ot's a leedle Gristmas story
Dot I told der leedle folks--
Und I vant you stop dot laughin'
Und grackin' funny jokes!--
So help me Peter-Moses!
Ot's no time for monkey-shine,
Ober I vast told you somedings
Of dot leedle boy of mine!

Ot vas von cold Vinter vedder,
Ven der snow vas all about--
Dot you have to chop der hatchet
Eef you got der sauerkraut!
Und der cheekens on der hind leg
Vas standin' in der shine
Der sun shmile out dot morning
On dot leedle boy of mine.

He vas yoost a leedle baby
Not bigger as a doll
Dot time I got acquaintet--
Ach! you ought to heard 'im squall!--
I grackys! dot's der moosic
Ot make me feel so fine
Ven first I vas been marriet--
Oh, dot leedle boy of mine!

He look yoost like his fader!--
So, ven der vimmen said,
'Vot a purty leedle baby!'
Katrina shake der head. . . .
I dink she must 'a' notice
Dot der baby vas a-gryin',
Und she cover up der blankets
Of dot leedle boy of mine.

Vel, ven he vas got bigger,
Dot he grawl und bump his nose,
Und make der table over,
Und molasses on his glothes--
Dot make 'im all der sveeter,--
So I say to my Katrine,
'Better you vas quit a-shpankin'
Dot leedle boy of mine!'

No more he vas older
As about a dozen months
He speak der English language
Und der German--bote at vonce!
Und he dringk his glass of lager

[...] Read more

poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Not Too Bad

De cottage vas close py der garden gate,
It vas not mighdty hardt to find it,
A couple of gum-trees grew shoost in front,
Und a pig\shty grew shoost pehind it.
Dere vos milk-cows und sheep on der clover-flat
Und a creek vhere der vater ran,
Der misdress of all, vas der Vidder McCaul,
Und I vos her handy man.

Ach, shveet vas der ploom on der orchard-trees,
Und lofely der flowers in shpring;
But, der vidder's daughter. Yemima Ann,
She vas shveeter ash efferyting.
She valked on der ferry ground I lofed,
Und her eyes were so lofely prown,
Dat vheneffer I see dat she looked at me,
Vhy, I felt mineself top-side down.

I lofed mine life ash I lofed dat girl,
Und a vik from her tvinkling eye
Ash I helped her moundt on der old prown mare
Made me feel apout ten feet high.
Vhen she cantered home ash der sun vent down,
Und I lifted her oop to der ground,
Vhen I felt her yoomp, mine heardt vent boomp,
Und I felt apout twelfe feet round.

So I shpeaks to mineself,' I must hafe dat girl,
For mithout her I aint no use;'
So I tole her von day vhat a duck she vas,
Und she tell me I vas a coose.
Den a shearer coomed town from der Lachlan,
Pout ash tall ash a wool-shed toor,
Und he took her avay on a pullock-tray,
Und she neffer comes pack some more.

So I vent, vat you calls, ' clean off your shoomps,'
I crinds oop mine teeth und schvear;
I knocks mineself town mit a pag of shaff,
Und I picks mineself oop py mine hair.
I shvears I could hang and trown mineself,
Und fill mineself oop mit shot too;
Put, shoost vhen I run to get mine gun,
Der vidder, she tole me not to.

She said, ash she fried me some eggs for mine tea,
Und her tears shpluttered in der pan,
'Vas it not goot enough to her daughter lose,
Mithout losing her handy man?
Vas der fish not askh good vhat vas in der sea

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas E. Spencer
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Manden fra Paradiis

Der var engang en Enke -
Dog nei! jeg maa mig først betænke;
Hun havde været det, men var nu gift paany,
Med Een fra Thy;
(Det maae vi ikke glemme).

— En Aftenstund, da Manden ei var hjemme,
Sad hun med Haanden under Kind,
Selv Theemaskinen var en Smule sovet ind,
(Den ellers sang en Tone, reen og klar,
Og førte tidt ved Bordet den bedste Passiar).
Fra Jordens Taageland,
Fløi Tankerne til hendes første Mand;
Hun kunde ei den søde Sjæl forglemme,
Og ak! den anden var jo ikke hjemme,
— „Du har det godt!" udbrød hun, „fri for Nød
Du sidder i det abrahamske Skjød,
Og seer til os, der i den snevre Stue
Maa plages slemt af Hoste og af Snue!"

Hun taug og faldt igjen i Tanker,
Da hører hun, hvor det paa Døren banker;
Hun skotter hen til Krogen;
„Uh! er der Nogen?"
(Thi hun var bange for — ja det var hele Tingen -
At see en Aand i den, der havde før slet ingen).
Nu banker det igjen, og saa gaaer Døren op — -
Men det er ingen Aand, nei Een med Kjød og Krop!
Det er en Haandværkssvend, der nu har sprængt sit Buur,
Og gaaer fra By til By og seer paa Guds Natur;
Han gjør Visitter kun, for ei at smægte,
Sligt kalder man: at fægte.

Han var, det saae hun nok, en sælle Een,
Der gik i dette Liv paa sine egne Been;
Og som han sagde det, der noget laae i Tonen,
Der rørte Konen.
Hun spurgte ham, hvorfra han kom, hvorhen han gik;
Og Svaret, som hun fik,
Det var: han drog paa Bursche-Viis,
Nu gjennem Tydskland til Paris. -
Da blev hun i sit Hjerte glad,
Hun dækked' op med Øl og Mad,
Og sagde: „Sæt sig dog, og spiis!
Hvad, reiser han til Paradiis?
O, Herre Gud! i dette Land
Der har jeg jo min første Mand;
Hils ham fra mig og fra vor Datter,
Og hils ham ogsaa lidt fra Fatter!"

[...] Read more

poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Kuthaa Baiyaa Pyaraa Dost (Hindi Kavitha)

Kuthaa baiyaa, karthaa kyaa?
Biscoth chubbkar kaatha kyaa?
Maine thumko diyaa thaa
Ka lo, ka lo kuthaa yaar!

Kuthaa baiyaa, kaathaa kyaa?
Biscoth thumko lagthaa kyaa?
Cheeni jaisaa meeta kyaa?
Ka lo, ka lo kuthaa yaar!

Kuthaa baiyaa, kahathaa kyaa?
Jeeb sae jameen chaattha kyaa?
Chaaya ko thum choomtha kyaa?
Ka lo, ka lo kuthaa yaar!

Kuthaa baiyaa chaahathaa aur?
Mere pass sirf ek hi thaa;
Usko thumko diyaa thaa;
Dookaan se kareednaa phir.

Kuthaa baiyaa, kayaa kyaa?
Paani peena uske baadh;
Na tho hichki aayegaa;
Daddy aisa kahatha thaa.

Kuthaa baiyaa saaf rahana
Na tho mummy peetegi
Jab thum bhoonkne lagthe ho,
Dushman dar se bhaagtha hai

Kuthaa baiyaa pyaraa dost
Khel-koodh mein ‘always first’!
Bachchon ki suraksha- ‘best’
Kabhi kabhi lena ‘rest’!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 12-5-2007

poem by John Celes
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Gazal Badi Ajeeb hai ye Zindagi in hindi by deepak kumar deep

Badi ajeeb hai ye zindagi,
khushi ek pal ke liye
dukh verson baras ke liye
koi sukh chahta hai is jeevan me
to usse dukhon ki bhari bori hi mil jati hai
jahan foolon ke milne ki aaasha hai
wahan katon ki sej bich jati hai
Badi ajeeb hai ye zindagi.....................

Kuch satya kuch ghooth
Kabhi aasha kabhi nirasha
kabhi sawpno ko pane ki lalasa
inhi me ulagh kar rah gayi hai zindagi
Badi ajeeb hai hai ye zindagi................

Kabhi jati kabhi varn
Kabhi bhasha kabhi dharm
viwadoke ghere me hai aaj ki sanskriti
kaise kahen, kya yahi hai zindagi?
badi ajeeb hai ye zindagi...........

Pyar doge pyar milega
satkar doge samman milega
mehanat se har chij hai sambhav
kam se chori hai dukh ka anubhav
ham jaisa hain sochte nahi hai aisi zindagi?
fier bhi log kahte hain,
badi ajeeb hai ye zindagi.............

Manav jeevan ek baar hai mita
nahi milta hai barambar
har manav se pyar karen
nafrat ko de dutkar
Krodha chod dhairya apnayen
paap chod punya kamayen
ye dharti hai dharam ki
jitni marji fasal ugayen
Ek baar yatan kar dekhen-
Hai khusnasheeb ye zindagi
nahi hai ajeeb ye zindagifir bhi log kahte hai,
badi ajeeb hai ye zindagi.........

poem by Deepak Kumar deep
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Juleaftenen (Christmas Eve )

Hvo minnes ikke
et vær, han tror, ei himlen mer kan skikke?
et vær som om hver sjel, fra Kains til den,
Gud sist fordømte,
den jord forbannet, fra helvete rømte,
som fristet dem å svike himmelen?....
Et vær, hvis stemmes
forferdelser ei mere kan forglemmes?
Thi alle tenkte: det må være sendt
for min skyld ene;
orkanens tordner meg kun meg de mene;
min synd er blitt åndene bekjent...
Et vær, hvis styrke
kan lære prest og troende å dyrke
demoner i det element, hvis brak
den gamle høre
fra barnsben kan i sitt bemoste øre
et skyens jordskjelv, luftens dommedag?
Et vær, som rystet
den sterkes hjerte i dets skjul i brystet,
et himmelvær, hvori sitt eget navn
han påropt hørte
av ånder, stormene forbi ham førte,
mens hver en tretopp hylte som en ravn? Men ravnen gjemte
seg selv i klippen, ulven sulten temte,
og reven våget seg ikke ut.
I huset sluktes
hvert lys, og lenkehunden inneluktes....
I slikt vær, da får du bønner, Gud!

I slikt vær - det var en juleaften -
da natt det ble før dagens mål var fullt,
befant en gammel jøde, nær forkommen,
seg midt i Sverigs ørken, Tivedskogen.
Han ventedes til bygden denne side
fra bygdene på hin, for julens skyld,
av pikene med lengsel, thi i skreppen
lå spenner, bånd og alt hva de behøvde
for morgendagen, annen dag og nyttår.
Det gjorde lengselen spent, men ikke bange;
thi ennu hadde "Gamle-Jakob" aldri
dem sviktet noen jul: Han kom så visst
som juleaftenen selv.
"Tyss! var det atter stormen,
som hylte gjennom grenene? Det skrek.
Nu skriker det igjen." Og Gamle-Jakob
fluks stanser lyttende for annen gang.
Nu tier det. Thi stormen øker på,
som fossen drønner over den, der drukner.
Han vandrer atter. "Tyss! igjen en lyd!"

[...] Read more

poem by Henrik Wergeland
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School V/s College

Na hoti ye B. Tech, na hoti ye MD ki sheetey
Yaad aate hain yaaro, lamhe wo beetein

School ki wo masti yaad aati hai har pal
Yaad aata hain mujhko beet gaya jo kal

School mein jaate the padne hum saare
College mein jaate hain attendance ke maare

Teacher ko maante the tab hum guru
School mein jaate hi padhai shuru

Yahaan to chalti hai humari sarkar
Dooston ke sang maani kabhi na haar

School mein padte waqt hota tha competition
Yahaan aakar puchhte hain kab aayega math ka solution

School mein pocket mein hota tha pencil n rubber
Yahaan to class notes ki bhi nahi hai khabar

School mein jaate the hum sab padne, ghar pe sab kuch batana hain
College mein jana to girl friend dekhne ka ek bahana hain

School mein jaate waqt, har roj hote the paise
Yahaan purse to hain, lekin nahi hain paise

School mein hamesha jaane se pahle bag check kia
Yahaan to jo marji mila, wahe kagaj utha lia

Pen jeb mein hua nhi, ungli se kaam chalaya hai
Jisne ki hain college mein masti sukh to usne hi paaya hai

School mein hoti thi full attendance, yahhan to 60 ke liye bhi rote hain
Par sach bataun yaaro college mein hi sapne poore hote hain

poem by Ankit Gupta
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Phagoon Ki Raasta Khoi Hawa

Kya dhoondhte hai?
Kyoun dhoondhte hai?
Kise dhoondhte hai?

Sara jahan hai..
Kabi mutthi me,
To kabhi
Kadmo tale,
Phir bhi jaane kya chahte hai?
Na jaane kis ki khoj me rehta hai,
dil bechara.

Kyon aasthir hai?
Itna asantust,
Itna vyakul ye mann mera?
Peeneko toh puri dariya hai
Na jaane phir kyoun lout aate hai
Pyase he kinare se
Lekar koi naam anjana.

Kyoun nahi chal paate hai
Un raasto par
Jis par chalta hai jag sara?
Na jaane kyoun bhatakte phirte hai
Pagdandi, pagdandi
Jangal, khalihan sara?

Shayad phagoon ki
Rasta khoyee hawa hain,
Kabhi ek tinke se jala dete hai
tamam umar ki kamaiee,
Kabhi usi tinke koi bana lete hai
Doobte ki parchyee.

Kya dhoondhte hai?
Kyoun dhoondhte hai?
Kise dhoondhte hai?

poem by Anjali Kakati
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Ye Kaisa Rishta Hai

Ye kaisa rishta hai

Ye kaisa rishta hai
jise na nibha paate hai
Na tood paate hai.
Phir bhi janmo tak
Salamat rahe
Yeh dua karte hai.

Ye kaisa bandhan hai
Jise na yaad karte hai
Na bhul paate hai
Saapno me hi sahi
Sang raho
Yeh tammanna rakhte hai.

Ye kaise lou hai
Jise na jala sakte hai
Na bujha paate hai
Sulagti rahe
Dil me sada
Ye saja lete hai.

Ye kaisa rog hai
Jise na dikha paate hai
Na chiipa paate hai
Dard ko gale se laga
Mann me basaye phirte hai.

Ye kaisa rishta hai

poem by Anjali Kakati
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Tentacles of Time

Sadho Ye Murdon Ka Gaon
Peer Mare, Pygambar Mari Hain
Mari Hain Zinda Jogi
Raja Mari Hain, Parja Mari Hain
Mari Hain Baid Aur Rogi
Chanda Mari Hain, Suraj Mari Hain
Mari Hain Dharni Akasa
Chaudan Bhuvan Ke Chaudhry Mari Hain
In Hun Ki Ka Asa
Nauhun Mari Hain, Dus Hun Mari Hain
Mari Hain Sahaj Athasi
Tethis Koti Devata Mari Hain
Badi Kaal Ki Bazi
Naam Anam Anant Rehat Hai
Duja Tatva Na Hoi
Kahe Kabir Suno Bhai Sadho
Bhatak Maro Mat Koi

English Translation

Oh Sadhu This is the Village of the Dead

The Saints Have Died, The God-Messengers Die
The Life-Filled Yogis Die Too |
The Kings Die, The Subjects Die
The Healers and the Sick Die Too ||

The Moon Dies, The Sun Dies
The Earth and Sky Die Too |
Even the Caretakers of the Fourteen Worlds Die
Why Hope For Any of These ||

The Nine Die, The Ten Die
The Eighty Eight Die Easily Too |
The Thirty Three Crore Devatas Die
It's a Big Game of Time ||

The Un-Named Naam Lives Without Any End
There is No Other Truth ||
Says Kabir Listen Oh Sadhu
Don't Get Lost and Die ||

poem by Kabir
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Der Drummer

Who puts oup at der pest hotel,
Und dakes his oysders on der schell,
Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell

Der drummer.

Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore,
Drows down his pundles on der vloor,
Und nefer schtops to shut der door!

Der drummer.

Who dakes me py der handt, und say,
"Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day?"
Und goes for peesness righdt avay?

Der drummer.

Who shpreads his zamples in a trice,
Und dells me, "Look, und see how nice"?
Und says I gets "der bottom price"?

Der drummer.

Who dells how sheap der goots vas bought,
Mooch less as vot I gould imbort,
But lets dem go as he vas "short"?

Der drummer.

Who says der tings vas eggstra vine, —
"Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine," —
Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine?

Der drummer.

Who varrants all der goots to suit
Der gustomers ubon his route,
Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot?

Der drummer.

Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt,
Drinks oup mine bier, and eats mine kraut,
Und kiss Katrina in der mout'?

Der drummer.

Who, ven he gomes again dis vay,
Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dee Coming Man

I Vant some invormashun, shust so qvickly vot
I can, How I shall pring mine Yawcob oup to been der
coming man, For efery day id seem to me der brosbect look
der harder To make dot coming man imbrove ubon dot going
fader. 'Tvas beddher he vas more like me, a Deutscher
blain und rude, As to been abofe hees peesnis und grown oup to
been a dude.
I doil'd oxshbect dot poy off mine a Vashington
to be, Und schop mit hadchets all aronndt ubon mine
abblcdree, So he can let der coundtry know he echmardter
vas- as I, Und got scheap adverdising dot he don'd could
dell a lie : Mine Yawcob lets der drees alone undil der fruit
dhey bear, Und dhen dot feller he looks oudt und gets der
lion's share.
Some say 'tvas beddher dot you teach der young
ideas to shoot; Veil, I dink dis aboudt id : dot advice id vas no
goot! Dot poy vonce dook hees broder oudt nnd dhey
blay Yilliam Tell, Budt Yawcob vas no shooter —he don'd do id
pooty veil; Dot arrow don'd go droo der core, budt id vent
pooty near — Shust near enough to miss id und go droo hees
broder's ear.
He dravels mit hees buysickle in efery kind off
redder, Und dough he vas a demperance poy, somedimes
he dakes a "header": I don'd know shust oxactly vot dot vas—'tis vorse
as bier— Shust like he shtrike a cyglone und valk righdt
off on his ear ! I ask von time aboudt id, budt dot poy he only
grumble, Und say I beddhcr try id vonce, dhen maybe I
vould "tumble."
Dot Yawcob says dot ve vas boor, vmd he vants
to be richer, Und dot der coming man must been a virsd-glass
pase-pall pitcher ; He say he must be "shtriking oudt und try nnd
"make a hit," Und dells me I vas "off mine pase" vhen I makes
fun off it; Vhen I say he soon must baddle hees canoe "oudt
on der schwim," He say dot von off Hanlan's shells vas goot
enough for him.
Dot Shakesbeer say aboudt der son dot's brofligate
und vild : "How sharper as a serpent's thanks vas been der
toothless shild!" (I got dot leedle dwisted; I mean dot thankless
youth He cuts hees poor oldt fader more as a serpent's
tooth.) Und dhen der broverb dells us dot der shild he
must obey, Und dot eef you should shpare der rod you shpoil
him righdt avay.
Vell, Yawcob he vas pooty goot—I guess I don'd
gomblain, I somedimes vish, mineself, dot I vas been a poy
again. I lets him blay mit pase-pall, und dake headers
vhile he can. I prings him oup mit kindness, und I risk der
coming man. Let neighbor Pfeiffer use der shtick, vhile Otto
howls und dances ; I'll shpoil der rod und shpare der shild, I dink,
und dake der shances.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Yawcob's Dribdlations

Maybe dot you don'd rememper,
Eighdeen — dwendy years ago, How I dold aboudt mine Yawcob —
Dot young rashkell, don'd you know, Who got schicken-box und measles;
Filled mine bipe mit Limburg scheeze; Cut mine cane up indo dhrum-schticks,
Und blay all sooch dricks as dhese.
Yell! dhose times dhey vas been ofer,
Und dot son off mine, py shings! Now vas taller as hees fader,
Und vas oup to all sooch dhings Like shimnastic dricks und pase-pall;
Und der oder day he say Dot he boxes mit " adthledics,"
Somevheres ofer on Back Bay.
Times vas deeferent, now, I dold you,
As vhen he vas been a lad; Dhen Katrine she make hees drowsers
Vrom der oldt vones off hees dad; Dhey vas cut so full und baggy
Dot id dook more as a fool To find oudt eef he vas going,
Or vas coming home vrom school.
Now, dhere vas no making ofer
Off mine clothes to make a suit For dot poy — der times vas exchanged;

"Der leg vas on der oder boot;" For vhen hees drowsers dhey gets dhin,

Und sort off "schlazy" roundt der knee, Dot Mrs. Strauss she dake der sceessors
Und she cuts dhem down for me.
Shnst der oder day dot Yawcob
Gife me von elecdric shock, Vhen he say he vants fife-hundord
To invesht in railroadt schtock. Dhen I dell him id vas beddher
Dot he leaf der schtocks alone, Or some feller dot vas schmardter
Dake der meat imd leaf der bone.
Und vhen I vas got oxcited,
Und say he get "echwiped" und fooled, Dheri he say he haf a "pointer"
Yrom soom friendts off Sage und Gould; Und dot he vas on " rock bottom;"
Had der "inside track" on "Atch "
Dot vas too mooch for hees fader,
Und I coom oup to der scratch.
Dhen in bolitics he dabbles,
Und all qvesdions, great und schmall, Make no deeferent to dot Yawcob —
For dot poy he knows id all. Und he say dot dhose oldt fogies
Must be laid oup on der shelf, Und der governors und mayors
Should pe young men — like himself.
Yell! I vish I vas dransborted
To dhose days off long ago, Vhen dot schafer beat der milk-ban

Und schkydoodled droo der schnow. I could schtand der mumbs nnd measles,

Und der ruckshuns in der house; Budt mine presendt dribulations
Vas too mooch for Meester Strauss.

poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Marts

'Livets Frihed, Jordens Baand,
Kamp imellem Form og Aand.'

*
Mægtigt Vaarens Pulse banke,
Dog er det saa kold en Tid;
See, imellem Form og Tanke
Viser sig den store Strid;
Aaret giver i det Mindre,
Hvad i Secler Verden gav,
Hvad du seer, hvor Stjerner tindre,
Og i Oldtids sjunkne Grav,
Livets Frihed, Jordens Baand,
Kamp imellem Form og Aand.
*
Jorden.
Ton høit i Tidens Kamp mit stolte Qvad!
En Verden være mig mit Nodeblad,
Urbjergene, som dybt grundfæsted' staae,
De er' de sorte Streger, sat' derpaa,

Og hver Forstening, hvert et Lag deri,
Er Noden til den stolte Melodie.
Hvert Mammuthsdyr, hver Blomst i Stenen bundet
Os synger om et Liv, som er forsvundet,
Om Tidens Stræben, Tidens snevre Baand,
Om Kampen mellem Formerne og Aand.

Hvo sprængte Himlen med sit Stjernetal,
Den vidtudstrakte Ymers Pandeskal,
Den høie Himmelhvælving i sin Skranke -
Hvo, uden Aanden med sin Flamme-Tanke?
Copernikus gav Jorden Liv og Gang,
Stolt alle Sphærerne i Rummet sang,
De gamle Former bort som Avner fløi,
Og Verden blev saa navnløs stor og høi.

Den vilde Søgang bryder stolt hver Skranke,
Og Klippen brister, som den skjøre Planke,
Sø bliver Land og Landet atter Sø,
Men dobbelt skjøn sig reiser Ø ved Ø,
Det indre Liv sig lader ei betvinge.
See! Skovene fra Jordens Muld fremspringe,
Fixstjernens Skjær naaer ned til Jordens Bugt,
Skjøndt Secler svinde i dens snare Flugt,
Men Rummet ei kan Kraftens Straale dæmpe,
Forgjæves Titans Børn mod Himlen kjæmpe.
Brænd Byer af, riv ned med Tiger-Kloe,
Strøe Salt i Gruset, at ei Græs skal groe! -
Dog reiser Aanden atter Steen ved Steen,

[...] Read more

poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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New Year Poem- Saal Naya Ho Deepak Kumar Deep

Is duniyan ki reet purani
baad subah ke hoti shaam
rang birangi is duniyan ka
hona ek din kam tamam.

Suraj chanda sabhi hain badle
badle dharti aur aasman
Jisam hain badle rab na badla
issi ko kahte hain bhagwan.

Prabhu amar aur avinashi
Iska kabhi bhi nash na hota
Issi se raushan duniyan sari
Bin iske prakash na hota.

karwat li hai waqut ne jab jab
Satyug, treta dwapar aaya
har yug me ye rup badlta
jaisa jab bhi samay hai aaya.

ho laddu kitna bhi tedda
par hum aam usse na kahte hain
jab raam ek hai is duniya ka
fir bhram me hum kyon rahte hain.

Apne bhi badal hain jaate
jab saya dukh ka aata hai
nirasha, dukh, takleef me
bas ye hi sath nibhata hai.

failao daman issi ke aage
sab issi ke mang ke khate hain
par murakh aur agyani log
kha ke iska isko aankh dikhte hain.

satguru pura rab dikhlata
har yug me ye aata hai
aaj bhi aaya ban hardev
aur gyan uzzala failata hai.

Aao satguru ke charnon me
ye hi rab dikhlayega
bhed tughe jo raam khuda me
uska bharam mitayega.

saal naya ho sabkikhatir
uzzawal aur mangalkari
bhukh garibi na ho kahi pe
deep, sukhi ho duniya sari.

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poem by Deepak Kumar deep
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Halke Halke se

Ye hume halke halke se
Kya hone laga hai?
Kora kagaz humara
Rangoo se bharne laga hai,
Ya humari nazre hi rangeen ho chali hai?

Hum badal rahe hai,
Ya aaina badal gaya hai,
Kuch din huai
Bada raas aane laga hai.

Dekhte hai, nayano me
Kajal khoob bhane laga hai,
Ye humare nayan badal gaye hai
Ya phir kajal hi badal chala hai.

Tum sang,
Choori ke chand lamho mei
Jee lete hai aapni,
Aarso ki jindagi,
Ye lamhe jindagi ban chale hai,
Ya jindagi lamho mei simat chalee hai.

Tum me hum me hai janmoo ka phasla
Tum parayee,
Hum ek doosri duniya me base basayee.
Ye kya hone laga hai?
Janmoo ka phasla kam ho raha hai,
Ya, tamam janm ise janam me mil gaya hai.

Tum parayee hokar bhi,
Aapne se lag rahe ho.
Ye parayee aapne ho gaye hai,
Ya hum khud se parayee ho chale hai.

Ye hume halke halke se
Kya hoone laga hai…..?

poem by Anjali Kakati
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Do [Two] Ghazalein [ in Urdu]

-1-
Yeh zeest ke gham hain pyaloon mein na simtain ge
Oak se peete raho jab tak na dum nikley.
Ahsas toa hai tere dukh ka par aye dost main karoon kya
Duaien be-assar hain aur haath nahien kuchh mere.
Aaie jo laghzish-e-paa dikha na koi jo mujhe thaamey
Kahne ko toa rishton ka ik hajoom tha sang mere.
Musarat jo bhari jeevan mein ik bachhey ki kilkari nein
Paaband kiya siyaad nein go laakh hum tadpe.
Vaisey toa parvar nein bahut kuchh hai diya lekin
Mayusi ka yeh aalam hai mayusi hai sang mere.
-
-2-
Miltay hain jo dukh ahsasaat se janmein hain
Kisi aur ko dukh de kar rahat ko na tum dhoondo.
Go har shakhs begaana hai dukhoon mein ghira hai
Baaiss kisi ke dukh ka tum toa nahien sochho.
Dard ki tashadad se go umad aiengey aansoo
Palkon ko bana baand iss sailab ko tum roko.
Zarorat hi aadhaar hai rishton ki pakad ka
Tum toa iss tashkeek se hatt kar zara jee lo.
-
Jhoot aur fareb panaptey hain nafrat ki bunyaadon par
Rishton ki imarat kabhi in par nahien khadi hoti.
- [2012]

poem by Om Chawla
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November

'Tredje Reeb ind! - - Op at beslaae Mersseilet! -
Ha, alle Djævle, hvilken Nat! -'

*
Nøgent, øde Sted paa Jyllands Vestkyst.
(Det er Nat og Maaneskin; Skyerne jage hen over det oprørte Hav).

En Skare onde Natur-Aander mødes, de leire sig i Sandet.

Den Første.
Her November har sin Throne,
Hvilken deilig Dandseplads!
Storm og Hav er vort Orchester.
Hør dog, hvilket lystigt Stykke!
Mine Been er Hvirvel-Vinde;
Kom, imens de Andre sladdre
Om de natlige Bedrifter.

Den Anden.
Dette Sted især jeg ynder.
Om en herlig Spas det minder!
See I [rettet fra: i] der det løse Qviksand?
Det er flere Aar nu siden,
Men som nu, just i November,
Kom en lystig Brudeskare;
Klarinet og Violiner
Klang heel lysteligt fra Vognen,
Hvor med Silkebaand om [rettet fra: um] Haaret,
Bruden sad, saa ung og deilig.
Med en Taage jeg dem blænded',
I et Nu de svandt i Sandet.

Den Tredie.
Det er kun i forgaars siden,
Jeg mit Eventyr har prøvet.
Nyligt havde Stormen lagt sig,
Havet hvilte som et Klæde.
Stille laae et Vrag derude,
Alt dets Mandskab længst var borte,
Kun en Mand og tvende Qvinder
Endnu stode der forladte,
Men der laae en Baad paa Dækket,
Stor og bred; de der dem satte.
Manden bortskar [rettet fra: bortskjar] alle Touge,
Undersøgte Alting nøie,
Haabede, naar Vraget sank,
Baaden, frelst fra Dybets Hvirvler,
Let dem bar paa Havets Flade.*
Men eet Toug sig for ham skjulte,
Livet hang ved dette ene.

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poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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The Rivals

Look heah! Is I evah tole you 'bout de curious way I won
Anna Liza? Say, I nevah? Well heah's how de thing wuz done.

Lize, you know, wuz mighty purty —dat's been forty yeahs ago —
'N 'cos to look at her dis minit, you might'n spose dat it wuz so.

She wuz jes de greates' 'traction in de county, 'n bless de lam'!
Eveh darkey wuz a-co'tin, but it lay 'twix me an' Sam.

You know Sam. We both wuz wukin' on de ole John Tompkin's place.
'N evehbody wuz a-watchin' t' see who's gwine to win de race.

Hee! hee! hee! Now you mus' raley 'scuse me fu' dis snickering,
But I jes can't he'p f'om laffin' eveh time I tells dis thing.

Ez I wuz a-sayin', me an' Sam wuked daily side by side,
He a-studyin', me a-studyin', how to win Lize fu' a bride.

Well, de race was kinder equal. Lize wuz sorter on de fence;
Sam he had de mostes dollars, an' I had de mostes sense.

Things dey run along 'bout eben tel der come Big Meetin' day;
Sam den thought, to win Miss Liza, he had foun' de shoest way.

An' you talk about big meetin's! None been like it 'fore nor sence;
Der wuz sich a crowd o' people dat we had to put up tents.

Der wuz preachers f'om de Eas', an' 'der wuz preachers f'om de Wes';
Folks had kilt mos' eveh chicken, an' wuz fattenin' up de res'.

Gals had all got new w'ite dresses, an' bought ribbens fu' der hair,
Fixin' fu' de openin' Sunday, prayin' dat de day'd be fair.

Dat de Reveren' Jasper Jones of Mount Moriah, it wuz 'low'd,
Wuz to preach de openin' sermon; so you know der wuz a crowd.

Fu' dat man wuz sho a preacher; had a voice jes like a bull;
So der ain't no use in sayin' dat de meetin' house wuz full.

Folks wuz der f'om Big Pine Hollow, some come 'way f'om Muddy Creek,
Some come jes to stay fu' Sunday, but de crowd stay'd thoo de week.

Some come ridin' in top-buggies wid de w'eels all painted red,
Pulled by mules dat run like rabbits, each one tryin' to git ahead.

Othah po'rer folks come drivin' mules dat leaned up 'ginst de shaf',
Hitched to broke-down, creaky wagons dat looked like dey'd drap in half.

But de bigges' crowd come walkin', wid der new shoes on der backs;
'Scuse wuz dat dey couldn't weah em 'cause de heels wuz full o' tacks.

[...] Read more

poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Die Schwalbenhode

1.

weh unser guter kaspar ist tot
wer trägt nun die brennende fahne im zopf wer dreht die
kaffeemühle
wer lockt das idyllische reh
auf dem meer verwirrte er die schiffe mit dem wörtchen
parapluie und die winde nannte er bienenvater
weh weh weh unser guter kaspar ist tot heiliger bimbam
kaspar ist tot
die heufische klappern in den glocken wenn man seinen vornamen
ausspricht darum seufze ich weiter kaspar
kaspar kaspar
warum bist du ein stern geworden oder eine kette aus wasser
an einem heißen wirbelwind oder ein euter aus
schwarzem licht oder ein durchsichtiger Ziegel an der
stöhnenden trommel des felsigen wesens
jetzt vertrocknen unsere scheitel und sohlen und die feen
liegen halbverkohlt auf den scheiterhaufen

2.

jetzt donnert hinter der sonne
die schwarze kegelbahn und keiner zieht mehr die kompasse
und die räder der schiebkarren auf
wer ißt nun mit der ratte am einsamen tisch wer verjagt den
teufel wenn er die pferde verführen will wer erklärt uns
die monogramme in den sternen
seine büste wird die kamine aller wahrhaft edlen menschen
zieren doch das ist kein trost und schnupftabak für einen
totenkopf

3.

auf den wasserkanzeln bewegten die kaskadeure ihre
fähnchen wie figura 5 zeigt
die abenteurer mit falschen bärten und diamantenen hufen
bestiegen vermittels aufgeblasener walfischhäute
schneiend das podium
der große geisterlöwe harun al raschid sprich harung al radi
gähnte dreimal und zeigte seine vom rauchen schwarz
gewordenen zähne
die merzerisierten klapperschlangen wickelten sich von ihren
spulen mähten ihr getreide und verschlossen es in steine
aus dem saum des todes traten die augen der jungen sterne
nach der geißelung auf der sonnenbacke tanzten die hufe des
esels auf flaschenköpfen
die toten fielen wie flocken von den ledernen türmen
wieviel totengerippe drehten die räder der tore
als der wasserfall dreimal gekräht hatte erblich seine tapete bis

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poem by Jean Arp
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