Friday, June 24, 2016

Poems ilove to read

 I love to read my daughter’s poems
Her poem in hindi 

चन्द्रो  
(स्तन कैंसर से जूझती महिलाओं को समर्पित)

चन्द्रो, यानी फलाने की बहु और
धिम्काने की पत्नी
पहली बार तुम्हें चाचा के हाथ में पकड़ी एक तस्वीर में देखा
गर्दन की सुराही पर चमेली के फूल सी तुम्हारी सूरत

फिर देखी
श्रम के मजबूत सांचे में ढली तुम्हारी तंदरुस्त आकृति
कुए से पानी लाती
खेत में बाड़ी चुगती
तीस किलों की भरोटी को सिर पर धरे
ढोर-ढगर के लिए सुबह-शाम हारे में चाट रांधने में जुटी 
किसी भी लोच से तत्काल इंकार करती तुम्हारी देह
इसी खूबसूरती ने तुम्हें अकारण ही गांव की दिलफैंक बहु बनाया
फाग में अपने जवान देवरों को उचक-उचक कोरड़े मारती
तो गाँव की बूढ़ी चौपाल हरी हो लहलहा जाती
गांव के पुरुष स्वांग सा मीठा आनंद लेते
और स्त्रियाँ पल्लू मुहँ में दबा भौचक हो तुम्हारी चपलता देखती
                                                                       

अफवाओं के पंख कुछ जायदा ही चौड़े हुआ करते हैं
अफवाहें तुम्हे देख
आहें भर बार- बार दोहराती
फलाने की दिलफेंक बहु
धिम्काने की दिलफेंक स्त्री

इस बार युवा अफवाह कुछ जायदा ही बुरा बोली
कि तुम्हारा एक स्तन
कैंसर का अजगर निगल गया
तुम लौटी डॉक्टर की हजारों सलाहों के साथ
शहर से गाँव 
उसी पहले से रूप में उसी ताप में


इस काली खबर से गाँव के पुरूषों पर क्या बीती
यह तो ठीक-ठीक मालूम नहीं
निसंदेह उनके भीतर एक सुखा पोखर तो आकार ले ही गया होगा
महिलाओं ने हमेशा की तरह फुसफुसाहट से काम लिया था

चन्द्रो हारी-बीमारी में भी
तुम अपने कामचोर पति के हिस्से की मेहनत कर
डटी रही हर चौमासे की सीली रातों में
अपने दोनो बच्चों को छाती से सटाए

निकल आती हो आज भी  
रात को टोर्च ले कर
आठ एकड़ खेतों की रखवाली के लिए 
अमावस्या के लकडबग्घे जैसे जंगली अँधेरे में 

my daughter


Besides I love to read  T.S.Eliot  his poem


  Preludes 


                     I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.Six o'clock.The burnt-out ends of smoky days
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And now a gusty shower wraps
The showers beat
And then the lighting of the lamps.

xoxo

Thursday, June 23, 2016

Remembering my dad

  On father’s day I turned on  Where have_You_Been several times,
this classic song brings me on tears.
 My dad died  from heart failure and when I first heard this song I was moved to tears. This song touches my heart in every way 




xoxo

Sunday, June 19, 2016

Remembering my Dad on Father’ Day

 Reblogged from my prevous post of 2014 HERE
This is the ninth Father’ Day since my late father Chaudhary Surajmal (Flying officer in IAF) passed away from sudden death. But he is on my mind every single day; he visits me in my dreams.  
My computer crashed and it took several days to make it  up that’s why i am posting my Father’s day post today.. 

 
My Dad


                                             My dad in 1955
My dad with  Dilip Kumar  the star legend of Indian cinema

At Delhi on cricket show in 81-82 India vs Pakistan click  Here for details of the match England 1981–82  cricketer Sandeep_Patil  is standing in the pic  left to my dad.
   


And that very day of shifting didn’t’ came in the way of that tradition of our family that day. I remember lots of rain that day but the photographs prove there was lots of sunshine too..............  click HERE for further reading.........



Sunday, June 5, 2016

A beautiful poem


Moment of Silence -- Emmanuel Ortiz
Emmanuel Ortiz is a Chicano (native born Mexican), a Puerto Rican, an Irish American.. but foremost an activist and a spoken-word poet. works with the Minnesota Alliance for the Indigenous Zapatistas (MAIZ) and Estación Libre. He is a staff member of the Resource Centre of the Americas, the non-profit publisher ofamericas.org. I've been reading his poems lately and I'm putting up one of his poem here, sans comments.
The wikipedia entry has the following to say about this poem...
"Moment of Silence is a controversial poem by Emmanuel Ortiz published on September 11, 2002, the first anniversary of the September 11th, 2001 attacks. The poem links the history of colonialism, neocolonialism, imperialism, the War on Terror, environmental racism, and structural violence to the attacks.
The poem goes on to critique the notion of a moment of silence, perhaps best summed up by the lines: "From somewhere within the pillars of power, you open your mouth to invoke a moment of our silence and we are all left speechless" and "This is a poem about what causes poems like this to be written." The majority of the poem serves as a list of historical crimes by the West against indigenous peoples or the Third World and how the structures which perpetuate those crimes slip through the cracks whenever people take a "moment of silence". Essentially, Ortiz believes a moment of silence "cut[s] in line" by failing to acknowledge previous and ongoing forms of structural violence."

Before I Start This Poem


Before I start this poem,
I'd like to ask you to join me
in a moment of silence
in honour of those who died
in the World Trade Centre
and the Pentagon
last September 11th.
I would also like to ask you
a moment of silence
for all of those who have been
harassed, imprisoned, disappeared,
tortured, raped, or killed
in retaliation for those strikes,
for the victims in both
Afghanistan and the U.S.
And if I could just add one more thing...
A full day of silence
for the tens of thousands of Palestinians
who have died at the hands of
U.S.-backed Israeli forces
over decades of occupation.
Six months of silence
for the million and-a-half Iraqi people,
mostly children, who have died of
malnourishment or starvation
as a result of an 11-year U.S. embargo
against the country.
Before I begin this poem:
two months of silence
for the Blacks under Apartheid
in South Africa,
where homeland security
made them aliens
in their own country.
Nine months of silence
for the dead in Hiroshima
and Nagasaki, where death rained
down and peeled back
every layer of concrete, steel, earth and skin
and the survivors went on as if alive.
A year of silence
for the millions of dead
in Vietnam--a people, not a war-
for those who know a thing or two
about the scent of burning fuel,
their relatives' bones buried in it,
their babies born of it.
A year of silence
for the dead in Cambodia and Laos,
victims of a secret war ... ssssshhhhh ....
Say nothing ... we don't want them to learn
that they are dead.
Two months of silence
for the decades of dead
in Colombia, whose names,
like the corpses they once represented,
have piled up and slipped off
our tongues.
Before I begin this poem,
An hour of silence for El Salvador ...
An afternoon of silence
for Nicaragua ...
Two days of silence
for the Guetmaltecos ...
None of whom ever knew
a moment of peace
45 seconds of silence
for the 45 dead
at Acteal, Chiapas
25 years of silence
for the hundred million Africans
who found their graves
far deeper in the ocean
than any building could
poke into the sky.
There will be no DNA testing
or dental records
to identify their remains.
And for those who were
strung and swung
from the heights of
sycamore trees
in the south, the north,
the east, and the west...
100 years of silence...
For the hundreds of millions of
indigenous peoples
from this half of right here,
Whose land and lives were stolen,
In postcard-perfect plots
like Pine Ridge,
Wounded Knee,
Sand Creek, Fallen Timbers,
or the Trail of Tears.
Names now reduced
to innocuous magnetic poetry
on the refrigerator
of our consciousness ...
So you want a moment of silence?
And we are all left speechless
Our tongues snatched from our mouths
Our eyes stapled shut
A moment of silence
And the poets have all been laid to rest
The drums disintegrating into dust
Before I begin this poem,
You want a moment of silence
You mourn now as if the world will never be the
same
And the rest of us hope to hell it won't be.
Not like it always has been
Because this is not a 9-1-1 poem
This is a 9/10 poem,
It is a 9/9 poem,
A 9/8 poem,
A 9/7 poem
This is a 1492 poem.
This is a poem about
what causes poems like this
to be written
And if this is a 9/11 poem, then
This is a September 11th poem
for Chile, 1971
This is a September 12th poem
for Steven Biko in South Africa, 1977
This is a September 13th poem
for the brothers at Attica Prison,
New Yor k, 1971.
This is a September 14th poem
for Somalia, 1992.
This is a poem
for every date that falls
to the ground in ashes
This is a poem for the 110 stories
that were never told
The 110 stories that history
chose not to write in textbooks
The 110 stories that CNN, BBC,
The New York Times,
and Newsweek ignored
This is a poem
for interrupting this program.
And still you want
a moment of silence
for your dead?
We could give you
lifetimes of empty:
The unmarked graves
The lost languages
The uprooted trees and histories
The dead stares on the faces
of nameless children
Before I start this poem
We could be silent forever
Or just long enough to hunger,
For the dust to bury us
And you would still ask us
For more of our silence.
If you want a moment of silence
Then stop the oil pumps
Turn off the engines and the televisions
Sink the cruise ships
Crash the stock markets
Unplug the marquee lights,
Delete the instant messages,
Derail the trains, the light rail transit
If you want a moment of silence,
put a brick through
the window of Taco Bell,
And pay the workers for wages lost
Tear down the liquor stores,
The townhouses, the White Houses,
the jailhouses, the Penthouses and
the Playboys.
If you want a moment of silence,
Then take it
On Super Bowl Sunday,
The Fourth of July
During Dayton's 13 hour sale
Or the next time your white guilt
fills the room where my beautiful
people have gathered
You want a moment of silence
Then take it
& nbsp; Now,
Before this poem begins.
Here, in the echo of my voice,
In the pause between goosesteps of the second
hand
In the space
between bodies in embrace,
Here is your silence.
Take it.
But take it all
Don't cut in line.
Let your silence begin
at the beginning of crime But we,
Tonight we will keep right on singing
For our dead.
"A time has come when silence is betrayal. That time is now."


xoxo