Ghazals +
Ghazal of the Star
A ghazal in English written and performed by Chris Mooney-Singh, from Indian City
I don't know where I walk, the journey is very far,
yet you pass across my face like the transit of a star.
As the moon lantern floats like paper on the river
you appear before me bringing the news from a star.
Is day and night just a shifting of the veils,
is my body simply light sent out of your star?
Just as the shadow peeps from behind its mango tree
you jump right out of me like the pole star.
Why is nothing clearer at this late hour,
was I born to be lit by the flame of a star?
Just as the music stops, the future will be uncertain,
but when day comes I won't forget you, my star.
I don't remember how I arrived here tonight,
yet waiting in the stars I know there is a star.
yet you pass across my face like the transit of a star.
As the moon lantern floats like paper on the river
you appear before me bringing the news from a star.
Is day and night just a shifting of the veils,
is my body simply light sent out of your star?
Just as the shadow peeps from behind its mango tree
you jump right out of me like the pole star.
Why is nothing clearer at this late hour,
was I born to be lit by the flame of a star?
Just as the music stops, the future will be uncertain,
but when day comes I won't forget you, my star.
I don't remember how I arrived here tonight,
yet waiting in the stars I know there is a star.
Courtesy: Cory Morse • Associated Press
Ghazal of the Ghazal
You've stumbled upon an old house: now go inside the ghazal.
Persian rugs adorn the floor thrown down astride the ghazal.
A skein of incense winds its scent around an inner courtyard.
It signals guests to leave egos with shoes outside the ghazal.
Each blood-red rose rubs like a nose upon the window pane:
they are old loves from beyond the grave, so replied the ghazal.
The neck of Saqi's wine jug and the mini-skirted candle
are pouring out old grief and pain. Love-wax has dyed the ghazal.
Hyperbole and slapstick start to donkey-bray a hazal.
The party animals sober up, then mount and ride the ghazal.
The opening matla emcee-spiel says, welcome to this mehfil;
then the closing maqta's parting shot must cast aside the ghazal.
The beher is the ceiling fan with metred speed-control.
Qafia rhymes are silk designs, radif has tied the ghazal.
The AA, BA, CA code means: two mishras make one sher.
It was emailed to the Web - it's gone worldwide - the ghazal.
Now a post-modern albatross hangs around the ghazal's neck.
Grand ghazal days and newbie ways need not divide the ghazal.
Ghazals show how hope and fear stroll helpless by her house.
Up on the roof, her back is turned: ah, she's denied the ghazal.
Madmen, winos, lovers, rivals drink their pints with a passion
waiting for some friend to show; meanwhile they chide the ghazal.
Rumi, Hafiz, Ghalib and Mir? They're dead, says Mr Muzzle.
No. Two-door shers are secret lairs. Just open wide the ghazal.
A ghazalkar just loves to hear he's sung the ghazal of ghazals.
Wah-wah! is our wine he quaffs as he sells with pride, the ghazal.
Although this Aussie has his doubts of serving re-fried ghazal,
Bonehead in the backroom toils to make bone-fide the ghazal.
Notes for the Persian/Urdu Terms here
Fourteen Day zikr-e-ghazal
Persian rugs adorn the floor thrown down astride the ghazal.
A skein of incense winds its scent around an inner courtyard.
It signals guests to leave egos with shoes outside the ghazal.
Each blood-red rose rubs like a nose upon the window pane:
they are old loves from beyond the grave, so replied the ghazal.
The neck of Saqi's wine jug and the mini-skirted candle
are pouring out old grief and pain. Love-wax has dyed the ghazal.
Hyperbole and slapstick start to donkey-bray a hazal.
The party animals sober up, then mount and ride the ghazal.
The opening matla emcee-spiel says, welcome to this mehfil;
then the closing maqta's parting shot must cast aside the ghazal.
The beher is the ceiling fan with metred speed-control.
Qafia rhymes are silk designs, radif has tied the ghazal.
The AA, BA, CA code means: two mishras make one sher.
It was emailed to the Web - it's gone worldwide - the ghazal.
Now a post-modern albatross hangs around the ghazal's neck.
Grand ghazal days and newbie ways need not divide the ghazal.
Ghazals show how hope and fear stroll helpless by her house.
Up on the roof, her back is turned: ah, she's denied the ghazal.
Madmen, winos, lovers, rivals drink their pints with a passion
waiting for some friend to show; meanwhile they chide the ghazal.
Rumi, Hafiz, Ghalib and Mir? They're dead, says Mr Muzzle.
No. Two-door shers are secret lairs. Just open wide the ghazal.
A ghazalkar just loves to hear he's sung the ghazal of ghazals.
Wah-wah! is our wine he quaffs as he sells with pride, the ghazal.
Although this Aussie has his doubts of serving re-fried ghazal,
Bonehead in the backroom toils to make bone-fide the ghazal.
Notes for the Persian/Urdu Terms here
Fourteen Day zikr-e-ghazal
Ghazal of the Puzzle
The system sucks: can't click, can't knit with it.
Round peg, square slot. I'm quite unfit for it.
The family tree that let me branch away
has split its trunk. No one can sit in it.
The yellow cab and Asia jet-trail said:
go look, then make some literature from it.
Is life is a tour, a cure, or comic skit
and where's the script, the wit who's written it?
Do the fate-lines lead, or does the brain send mice
to run the maze, these dimwit days in it?
Still banging hard on Heaven's Gate, Bonehead?
Your door's the floor. Sit still, submit . . . to it.
Round peg, square slot. I'm quite unfit for it.
The family tree that let me branch away
has split its trunk. No one can sit in it.
The yellow cab and Asia jet-trail said:
go look, then make some literature from it.
Is life is a tour, a cure, or comic skit
and where's the script, the wit who's written it?
Do the fate-lines lead, or does the brain send mice
to run the maze, these dimwit days in it?
Still banging hard on Heaven's Gate, Bonehead?
Your door's the floor. Sit still, submit . . . to it.
Courtesy: Studio album by Biffy Clyro
Ghazal of the Chase
So long the chase. You could not meet her,
nor strike her name out to delete her.
Now see the bird on the conifer:
its neck fluffs up, replete with her.
From soft to loud, the voices purr.
As if in tongues they say: repeat her.
Obsession is the accelerator.
It is your one-way street to her.
You've done your time with mental puja.
Pen and pad cannot complete her.
You want to meet her? Smash the altar.
No face should share the love-seat with her.
She has not called. Please, cap your anger.
Time will keep her. Don't hot-seat her.
Ascension, Bonehead—how much further?
One day, you'll make white-heat with her.
nor strike her name out to delete her.
Now see the bird on the conifer:
its neck fluffs up, replete with her.
From soft to loud, the voices purr.
As if in tongues they say: repeat her.
Obsession is the accelerator.
It is your one-way street to her.
You've done your time with mental puja.
Pen and pad cannot complete her.
You want to meet her? Smash the altar.
No face should share the love-seat with her.
She has not called. Please, cap your anger.
Time will keep her. Don't hot-seat her.
Ascension, Bonehead—how much further?
One day, you'll make white-heat with her.
Courtesy: Dark-eyed Juncos roosting in dense conifer
http://blog.allaboutbirds.org/2013/12/26/
Ghazal to Ishq
Courtesy: http://wrybread.com/india/page41.html
There is a Silk Road hamlet known as Ishq.
My words can't clone the gong's long drone at Ishq.
I've wasted time on donkey trails to where?
I should have called on the ghazal-phone to Ishq.
Don't wilt, don't wait for that private line to ring.
Your own fast pulse is the dial-up tone to Ishq.
I've stepped inside a roadside mirror maze.
Each face proclaims: I am on loan from Ishq.
The lips I kissed and left were casual trails.
They've led to you . . . hey, let's postpone this Ishq.
I should not groan at slaps, pot shots, sharp jibes.
It's just those wake-up! fir-cones thrown from Ishq.
Sticks and bricks may smash my rival's bones,
yet anger is no stepping stone to Ishq.
This Ishq-ness is HQ beneath the breast,
and the tranquil eye of the lust-cyclone is Ishq.
I crave the turning word, the high head-tone,
to dervish-whirl and be 'in the zone' at Ishq.
Try all the trails, Bonehead, don't risk your Ishq.
You climb alone through pine-cologne to Ishq.
My words can't clone the gong's long drone at Ishq.
I've wasted time on donkey trails to where?
I should have called on the ghazal-phone to Ishq.
Don't wilt, don't wait for that private line to ring.
Your own fast pulse is the dial-up tone to Ishq.
I've stepped inside a roadside mirror maze.
Each face proclaims: I am on loan from Ishq.
The lips I kissed and left were casual trails.
They've led to you . . . hey, let's postpone this Ishq.
I should not groan at slaps, pot shots, sharp jibes.
It's just those wake-up! fir-cones thrown from Ishq.
Sticks and bricks may smash my rival's bones,
yet anger is no stepping stone to Ishq.
This Ishq-ness is HQ beneath the breast,
and the tranquil eye of the lust-cyclone is Ishq.
I crave the turning word, the high head-tone,
to dervish-whirl and be 'in the zone' at Ishq.
Try all the trails, Bonehead, don't risk your Ishq.
You climb alone through pine-cologne to Ishq.
courtesy: http://wrybread.com/india/
Ghazal: Me
translated by Chris Mooney-Singh and Savinder Kaur
from the Urdu of Khawja Mir Dard, 1720-84
Shuffling feet smash down, the world-dust flies around me,
years gone galloping, where did you dump, impound me?
Hey rose, pack up your petals and I will shred my nest
so the seller can't snip you, nor garden-workman hound me.
She resides without a word, behind my doors or pores,
while this feral-tongue is fire jabbering to expound me.
A cold hand's caught this heart, a hand that has crushed stone.
A pure callousness and its burial fog have crowned me.
I remember how the orchard was a hideout for reflection.
And now? It's Sorrow Grove. Sad Corner, why compound me?
I've jumped up glad, astounded—hearing, at times—a sound,
but face to face, once love-stuck eyes—recant, confound me.
Minute by minute—see—the crumbling dust of Dard,
yet Khizr cleaves the sand-dunes—another round for me.
Khizr: mythical figure of Islam: the desert guide, knowledge-bearer.
Ghazal: Mujhe
Khawja Mir Dard
Raundhe hai naqsh-e-pa ki tara khalq yaan mujhe,
Ai umr-e-rafta chhor gayi tu kahan mujhe?
Ai gul tu rakht baandh uthaaun main aashian,
Gulchin tujhe na dekh sake, baagh baan mujhe.
Rahti hai koi bin kiye mere taeen tamaam,
Jun shama chhorne ki nahin yeh zaban mujhe.
Pathhar tale ka haath hai yeh gaflat ke haath dil,
Sang-e-giran hua hai yeh khwaab-e-giran mujhe.
Kuchh aur kunj-e-gham ke siwa suhjta nahin,
Aata hai yaad jab ke woh kunj-e-dihaan mujhe.
Jata hun khush dimaagh jo sun kar use kabho,
Badle hai wohin nazren woh dekha jahaan mujhe.
Jata hun baske dam-b-dam ab khaak mein mila,
Hai khizr-e-rah Dard yeh reg-e-rawaan mujhe.
