Poem Hunter: Poems - Poets - Poetry

Last night your faded memory came to me
As in the wilderness spring comes quietly,
As, slowly, in the desert moves thew breeze,
As to a sick man, without cause, comes peace

[Original: Urdu, Translated by: Faiz Ahmed Faiz]
...

The plunging limbers over the shattered track
Racketed with their rusty freight,
Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,
And the rusty stakes like sceptres old
To stay the flood of brutish men
Upon our brothers dear.

The wheels lurched over sprawled dead
But pained them not, though their bones crunched,
Their shut mouths made no moan.

...

Theres not even pain, its just- mental
Maybe a heartbeat or two at times
Or looking into the version of you
That seemed like it wasnt the real you
Alas, it was the one you showed me was the act

I saw you with her today
And tried to make sense of it
Did karma come with a mirror
For i remembered a boy who loved me

...

The eagle is my power,
And my fan is an eagle.
It is strong and beautiful
In my hand. And it is real.
My fingers hold upon it
As if the beaded handle
Were the twist of bristlecone.
The bones of my hand are fine
And hollow; the fan bears them.
My hand veers in the thin air
Of the summits. All morning
It scuds on the cold currents;
All afternoon it circles
To the singing, to the drums.
...

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant

...

He spoke in sighs, not in demand,
A weary heart, a trembling hand.
He gave his youth, he gave his will,
Yet found no peace, no moment still.

She claimed her place, her throne, her right,
And asked he dim his inner light.
Her love came dressed in terms and laws,
With folded arms and sharpened claws.


...

The hills are always far away.
He knows the broken roads, and moves
In circles tracked within his head.
Before he wakes and has his say,
The river which he claims he loves
Is dry, and all the winds lie dead.

At dawn he never sees the skies
Which, silently, are born again.
Nor feels the shadows of the night
Recline their fingers on his eyes.
He welcomes neither sun nor rain.
His landscape has no depth or height.

The city like a passion burns.
He dreams of morning walks, alone,
And floating on a wave of sand.
But still his mind its traffic turns
Away from beach and tree and stone
To kindred clamour close at hand.
...

A lone gray bird,
Dim-dipping, far-flying,
Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumults
Of night and the sea
And the stars and storms.

Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers,
Out into the gloom it swings and batters,
Out into the wind and the rain and the vast,
Out into the pit of a great black world,

...

To be fair, if I was a child alone-
given power to create and to destroy
I too would create my little imperfect world.
I would create a world, beautiful and lush,
filled with joy and with light.
Animals running, birds humming-
skies glowing and water flowing.
Thus would be my world-
Beautiful and green


...