poems of Ayub Khawar

poems of Ayub Khawar 

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A POEM BURIED IN SNOW

In a square cottage in the middle

Of a snow covered terrain

I sit wrapped in a worn-out blanket of the night

And there,at one corner

Is placed a tray made of burnt clay

On it, flickers an appalling lamp.

The shrill of the sand laden wind

Gush through the slits of the door

At another corner, pegged deep, dark silence

That sheathed the flickering glow

From the daring eyes of the wind.

But, still I do not know

What sunk down in the snow

Was it me or the dying flame of the lamp.

...

(THE 13TH POEM OF THE SERIES OF POEMS FROM THE BOOK "SYMPHONY AND OTHER POEMS"

 NOW THIS BOOK IS GOING TO BE PUBLISHED FROM VISHWABHARATI RESEACH CENTRE INDIA.)

THE TREE

(Generations of Mystics Died Down)

O! Reverend Banyan,

Beneath your roots,

From which abyssal the glow of

Spiritual moist you soaked,

To fill the green vacuum of your veins,

Your shadow, in every season,

Used to be cool as motherhood,

A strange mystery resided,

In your bulky extended branches,

There was a peculiar wind,

That used to wrap itself,

In the branches filled with sap

And the morning always opened her eyes,

In your oscillating lap.

In the silence of noon,

That peculiar wind,

Swinging with your hanging roots,

Fastened with arms of your thick branches

It joshed the lake clinging around your ankles,

And humming the gray silence of evening

Used to grant a mystical spell,

To your dark green leaves,

Spotted with yellow flecks,

Such a spell that had a secret link,

Between grief and bliss,

In the drack nights,

The moon and stars used to sit in the lap of your roots,

Seeking links between grief and bliss,

Until the next dawn.

What kind of lure had your umbrella-like branches?

That saints and mystics of all religions,

Squatted around your stem of enlightenment,

And quenched their hearts and souls,

With the natal-drinks of negation and self-realization,

They cleaned,

And whitened more and more their inner-selves,

They scratched the skin of falsehood,

By tasting essence of the truth: immaculate and modest,

They took terrestrial fragrance,

And peeped through the sieve of sky,

Twinkling mysteries circled them,

With the ring of light,

In this ring every glowing moment had several centuries.

O! Reverend Banyan,

Where did those centuries turned to ashes?

That were filled with blue, green and yellow lights,

Of your existence,

And why have the generations,

Of those mystics and saints vanished?

...

 A POEM FROM HIS 2ND BOOK "TUMHAIN JANAY KI JALDI THI"

Whether It Is You

Just for a while descend down

Stairs of this poem,

And peek into me and your own inner-self,

If you aren’t the asset of my soul

Then who is at last?

When you converse with a dewy tone,

It seems as if you stitch my heart,

Like a fresh dream,

You make each wire of my soul fragrant,

With the colour of poesy.

O! My sweet,

It seems as if you go through ablution

With the wetness kneaded in the touch of my lips,

While sinking down into gurgling pulsations

From each channel of my heart,

If you aren’t the asset of my soul

Then who is at last?

You are of course.

You are who let me drown into fragrance,

Of your anchal,

Into the warmth of rainbow,

Of your colourful phalanges,

And into abysses of the lakes,

Of your dream like eyes.

If you aren’t the asset of my soul

Then who is at last?

You are of course.

Just for a while,

Descend down the stairs of this poem,

And peek into me and your own inner-self,

Where I stand and where you do,

You stand at a little distance

Still and motionless,

Why are you so engrossed?

Whether it is you!

(Poet..........Ayub khawar

Translator.......Muhammad Shanazar

All rights Reserved.)

....

A POEM FROM HIS THIRD BOOK "TUMAIH JANAY KI JALDI THI"

Hello

It is a little earlier than the dawn,

There is an illusion in the air,

Of the sparkle of glow-worms,

And the tongue has the tang of green dreams,

It is a lovely time when the wind

Wearing green anchal strolls

Placing feet upon the hem of fragrance,

And passes like a mystery

By the washed leaves and fresh twigs of the trees,

This lovely time is the moment,

Of a discourse with you,

But still silence stands

Like a sentinel by the telephone bell;

Arms of the watch pierce like daggers in my chest,

The thorn of time has choked my throat,

Just a single “Hello”

Sunk in the taste of intimacy

Each pore of my existence waits for

O! The soul of my entire passion,

In the arcs of my hollow chest,

Why pulsation of my heart has halted

Like a telephone bell?

Why the desire to talk to me has frozen,

In the phalanges of your hands,

Awake the desire to talk,

In the pores of pink petals,

Dial the number,

So that halted pulsation

In the chest should begin to move on,

May the bell ring,

Then for the long time,

To the farthest end,

In whispers,

Drizzling of the dew and fragrance,

Should begin to pour down.

(Translation.....Muhammad Shanazar

POEM... Ayub khawar

All rights Reserved)