There’s no poet in Urdu poetry other than Mir Taqi Mir who has a deeper awareness of the individual as the self, the ‘I’ who can’t always be a part of the world of ‘Not I’. There’s this person who listens to no one but himself and of course does his own thing. He’s at no one’s beck and call, not even the beloved’s. Just hear, this Mir:
It’s very hard for you to find someone like me
Yet of course, dear beloved, it’s so easy to kill me
I am the one, do you hear? Who would stop somewhere and die
Is it that you believe it to my vocation always to wander from street to street?
The total world-ness of the two worlds sinks and floats here—
My heart, just a clot of blood, is a flood in itself
Faiz’s sense of deprivation and complaint does not allow him to reach these heights, but he also doesn’t let slip any opportunity to acknowledge his own importance as an individual. Faiz gives us the strength to not regard ourselves as just ‘a repeated letter on the world’s slate’ (in Ghalib’s phrase) that can be erased by anyone at the whim of his will.
The poem that Faiz wrote in memory of Iqbal (Iqbal, Nuskha Ha-e Wafa, p. 85) rings true for Faiz himself:
To our land came a sweet-singing fakir
And lost in thought, he went away singing his melodies
The untrodden paths came alive with people
The dormant fortunes of desolate wine-houses came awake
There were just a few eyes that actually caught sight of him
But his song permeated every heart
Today, when the Word is in danger at the hands of the demagogue, the traducer of the reality of loneliness and pain, when the dignity of the individual is at stake and the freedom of speech much at risk of fast becoming an obsolete concept, we need the poetry of Faiz more than ever before. One is reminded of Eliot:
The Word within the word
Unable to speak a word
Faiz stood for the dignity of man, the holiness of pain, the constructive power of the word and the sanctity of individual belief. He will always be needed, and that is his triumph and our tragedy.
POEMS SELECTED FROM
Naqsh-e Fariyaadi
1
View (1)
Doors, windows and rooftops, crushed under the weight of silence
A stream of pain flowing from the sky
The story of the moon’s light filled with sorrow and grief
Roiled in the dust of the highways
A dim darkness in bedrooms
The feeble tune of the sitar of existence
Singing elegies in soft tones
2
Beloved, Don’t Ask Me for the Love That Was
Don’t ask me to love you the way I did before, my love
I’d imagined life to be bright and glowing because you were in it
What cared I for sorrows other than the joys of pining in your love?
It’s your beauty that keeps springtime intact upon the world
What else remains to be sought in the universe but your eyes?
I would conquer fate, were you to be mine
I had thought of it like this, if only like a passing fancy
There are other sorrows in this world than love
There are other pleasures than lovers’ meeting
The dark oppressive shadows of countless centuries
Woven into the narratives of the wealthy
Bodies being traded, clandestinely or brazenly
Roiled in the dust, soaked in blood
My glance cannot help falling on those things too
Your beauty remains an attractive proposition, but, no!
There are sorrows other than love in this world to care for
Other pleasures than the joy of union with the beloved
Don’t ask me to love you the way I did before, my love
3
Ghazal
Having Lost the Two Worlds to Your Love
Having lost the two worlds to your love
There goes someone after his night of sorrow
The wine-house deserted, the wine casks and glasses sad
The spring sulks and refuses to come
ever since you went away
We were given a chance to err but just for a few days
I know the kind of nerve the mighty Creator has!
The world made me a stranger to your memory
The sorrows of time turned out to be more alluring than you
O Faiz! She smiled at me today quite by accident
Now don’t ask about the schemes spun by my inexperienced heart
4
Solitude
Did somebody come again, sad heart?
No, nobody
It must be a wayfarer somewhere, he’ll go away
The night is past, the stardust begins to dissipate
The still lamps in the mansions begin to falter
Weary of waiting, all the roads are now in slumber
The dusty road, unsympathetic, has clouded all traces of footprints
Put out the lamps; remove the wine, the jug and the goblet!
Lock your sleepless doors
No one, no one’s going to come here now
5
A Few Days More, My Love
A few days more, my love, just a few days
Breathing the air under the shadow of tyranny
Suffering cruelty, injustice, weeping some more
We are doomed, crippled by our inheritance
With caged bodies and chained emotions
Imprisoned are our thoughts, and utterances censored
Just staying alive speaks of our courage
Is life nothing but the tattered gown of a poverty-stricken man
On which is added every moment a new patch of pain?
But tyranny’s term is now due to depart
A little more forbearance, and our days of complaint are numbered
In this scorched wilderness of time’s desert
We have to live, but no longer the same
We may have to put up with the heavy, nameless tyranny of alien hands
Today, but not forever
Misfortune’s dust clings to your radiant body
Witnesses to youth that lasted but a day or two
The futile smouldering pain of moonlit nights
The ineffectual throb of the heart, the call of the despairing body
A few days more, my love, just a few days
6
The Death of the Fires of Love
Come, let’s celebrate the passing of the passion of love
Come, let’s burn our hearts with the cold beauty of the moon
Let’s rejoice in the pangs of separation from the beloved’s frame and figure
Let’s punish our sight with the sight of the cypress and the rose and the jasmine
Make the desolate life even more desolate
Let me heed your advice for once, dear counsellor
Sheltered again under the hem of spring’s rain
Soothe and placate the heart at times, shed tears at times
Untie listlessly the tangled knots of such questions:
Should I go there, or not go; not go at all or go for real?
Preach to the heart yet again the doctrine of restraint
And again avoid testing the resolve to be patient
Come, for the story of passion has concluded today
Let us now narrate the tales of love’s ceasing to be
7
Speak
Speak, for your lips are free
Speak, for your tongue is still yours
Your upright body belongs to you
Speak, for your soul still is yours
Look, how in the blacksmith’s shop
The embers are hot, the iron glows
The mouths of the locks are being opened
Chains lengthen their reach
Speak, for the little time that you have is sufficient
Before the death of body and tongue
Speak, for the truth still lives
Speak, say all that is to be said
8
Iqbal
To our land came a sweet-singing fakir
And, lost in thought, he went away singing his melodies
The untrodden paths came alive with people
The dormant fortunes of desolate wine-houses came awake
There were just a few eyes that actually caught sight of him
But his song permeated every heart
The kingly fakir is now gone far into the distance
Once again are the paths of our land plunged into gloom
His special elegance of mind remembered by a handful
A couple of his glances and gestures
Live in the minds of a few loved ones
But his song resides in every heart
And there are numerous who still relish
the flavour of its tune
All the beauties of the song are immortal
Its plenitude, its energy, its passion
The song is hot and piercing, like a whirling blaze
Its flame can sear the heart of the wind of death
Like a lamp oblivious of the wild, boisterous wind
Or like a light of the night’s assembly
uncaring about the morning’s approach
9
Highway
A long, desolate highway
Its gaze fixed on the far horizon
Spreading out its grey beauty
On the breast of the cold earth—
Like a grief-stricken woman
In her desolate home
Dreaming of her absent lover
Lost in thought, each part of her body immersed
in the idea of union
POEMS SELECTED FROM
Dast-e Saba
10
Poem
My pen and tablet, all that I had
Taken away from me
But what’s there to grieve for?
For I have dipped my fingers in my heart’s blood
So what if my lips have been sealed shut?
I have now put a tongue in
each and every link of the chain
11
My Companion, My Friend
If I was sure, my companion, my friend
If I was sure the weariness in your heart
The sadness in your eyes and the burning in your breast
Can be dispelled by my comforting words, my love
Were my words of solace a medic which
could bring back to life your desolate and extinguished mind
Washing away the stain of humiliation from your forehead
and cure your ailing youth
If I was sure, my companion, my friend
Day through night, morning through evening
I would spend whiling away your pain
Singing to you light, melodious songs
Of spring, gardens and waterfalls
Of sunrise, of the moon and the planets
I would tell you tales of beauty and love
I’d tell you how
Unresponsive bodies of proud, snow-moulded women
Melt under the heat of passionate hands
How the stable contours of a familiar face
Change shape in an instant
How the crystal-bright visage of a beloved
Flushes red with a sip of the ruby red wine
How the rose branch offers itself to the flower-picker
How the night’s mansion becomes fragrant
I would sing to you, go on singing for you
Weaving songs for you, always around you
But my songs are not the cure for your grief
Melodies may not be surgeons, though they
can be friends and sympathizers
Songs may not be lancets, though
They can be a salve for pain at least
There’s no help for your affliction but the knife
And that cruel blood-letter is not in my power
Not in any earthly being’s power
Except you yourself, you, only you
12
The Dawn of Freedom, August 1947
This light, smeared and spotted, this night-bitten dawn
This isn’t surely the dawn we waited for so eagerly
This isn’t surely the dawn with whose desire cradled in our hearts
We had set out, friends all, hoping
We should somewhere find the final destination
Of the stars in the forests of heaven
The slow-rolling night must have a shore somewhere
The boat of the afflicted heart’s grieving will drop anchor somewhere
When from the mysterious paths of youth’s hot blood
The young fellows moved out
Numerous were the hands that rose to clutch
the hems of their garments
Open arms called, bodies entreated
from the impatient bedchambers of beauty—
But the yearning for the dawn’s face was too dear
The hem of the radiant beauty’s garment was very close
The load of desire wasn’t too heavy
Exhaustion lay somewhere on the margin
It’s said the darkness has been cleft from light already
It’s said the journeying feet have found union with the destination
The protocols of those who held the pain in their hearts have changed now
Joy of union—yes; agony of separation—forbidden!
The burning of the liver, the eyes’ eagerness, the heart’s grief
Remain unaffected by this cure for disunion’s pain
From where did the beloved, the morning breeze come? Where did it go?
The street lamp at the edge of the road has no notion yet
The weight of the night hasn’t lifted yet
The moment for the emancipation of the eyes and the heart hasn’t come yet
Let’s go on, we haven’t reached the destination yet
13
Ghazal
The Tablet and the Pen
I will go on nurturing the tablet and the pen
I’ll go on recording what the heart goes through
I’ll go on providing wherewithal to love’s passion
I’ll keep being kind to the desolation of the times
No doubt, the harshness of the times will grow even worse
No doubt, the tyrants will continue to practise tyranny
I accept the harshness, I bear this torture
I’ll go on trying to remedy the affliction with every breath
Long live the wine-house, with the wine’s fiery red colour
I’ll go on decorating the doors and balconies of holy spaces
So long as there’s blood in my heart, with my tears
I’ll go on creating the colours of the beloved’s face
Her way is unmindfulness, so she’s free to cultivate it
And I have to voice my longing, so I’ll go on doing it
14
Ghazal
As Soon As the Wounds of Your Memory Begin to Heal
As soon as the wounds of your memory begin to heal
I begin to remember you on some excuse or the other
When the manners of talking about the beloved begin to brighten
Tresses in every beloved’s chamber begin to be coiffed and made up
Every stranger seems familiar to me
When I pass through your street, even now
Strangers away from home, when they speak of their country
To the morning breeze, the dawn’s eyes well up with tears
Whenever they control our speech by stapling our lips
The atmosphere resounds even more with songs of freedom
As darkness seals the doors of the prison house, O Faiz
Stars rise to illuminate the heart
15
&nb
sp; To Your Beauty
The poet composes salutations to your beauty
When the colours of someone’s garment are sprinkled on the terrace
The morning is brightened sometimes, or the afternoon, or the evening
And if a dress beautifies itself on someone’s elegant stature
The cypress and the pine in the garden have found fresh grace
The ghazal began to take shape when the heart dipped the wine glass
in the reflection of your lips and face
The poet composes salutations to your beauty—
So long as the henna’s colour on your palms retains its brightness
There remains in the world the art of how to love the bride called poetry
So long as your beauty has its youthful power, the world is kind to me
So long as you draw breath, the air of our land is our friend
Even if times are tough and misfortunes extreme
Your memory sweetens the bitterness of the times
The Colours of My Heart Page 3