If perchance, you ever remember how we were,
Then in the soft glow
of same moonlight
...
Those who tempers optimistic,
bright and buoyant,
what unusual fates they have.
...
Many a moon lost in mist,
some kept awake, dozed off
except a kind star
from evening till daybreak
...
How eyes can control dreams,
rainbow hues quiver,
same scenes appear
different to each eye,
...
Love encompasses all
The eternal end of our closeness
Metaphor of our being,
Your beauty beacons,
...
Snow flowers in the midst of lonely night,
Lonely moments wrapped in the mist,
The walkway, lit with the dim light of moon,
Cold and black road at
...
When the moon starts its slow decent
on the broken stairs of night
When the hopes begin to melt in the cold flame of grief,
When the voices begin to drown in the gloomy ocean of heart.
...
On this crossroad of life,
Let us stop before we go,
And ponder over the path,
You and I took long ago.
...
In the emptiness
Of skies, filled with
Innumerable stars,
I have to find the
...
It was a similar winter eve,
When she, henna, rich on her palms,
Blushed face partly in red,
Came to ask for her letters back.
...
Once in a while,
During these sultry nights,
When all voices seem
To have fallen asleep,
...
So said the Breezes addressing those departing,
"To search for the long departed is certainly a futile effort,
for who has ever found the traces of the long departed!
you, who wander about the darkness
...
My creator is He
who gave flowers fragrance,
trees shade, oceans water,
winds motive power,
...
Think it over, my love,
For the journey of decisions
Is never soothed by
The soft shadows of words.
...
The sand keeps on sliding,
For it is meant to be, it keeps on sliding
Deserts retreat
with the sound of cities,
...
This story of earth,
As old as the universe,
As old as birth
Of day and night
...
Half a century on
my home and habitat
reduced to dust by
blind oppression.
...
My moon-faced nephew,
eyes which had dreamt
only about you are shut.
...
Let's account for life's deficit blight.
Count our griefs, know our pains right.
What plaints blister at the bottom.
Today is the day to unleash them.
...
Amjad Islam Amjad, (Urdu: امجد اسلام امجد) is a famous Urdu poet, drama writer and lyricist from Pakistan. Life and Career Amjad Islam Amjad was born on August 4, 1944, in Sialkot in Sialkot the city where Allama Iqbal and Faiz Ahmed Faiz were born. He received his education in Lahore. He graduated from Government Islamia College Civil Lines, Lahore. His career started as a lecturer in M.A.O College Lahore. From 1975 to 1979 he worked as a director at Pakistan Television Corporation before returning to the College. Since his school days, Amjad had an inclination towards writing and playing cricket. His ambition was to become a cricketer. When He was in class 9th, he was selected editor of their school magazine. In college also writing and cricket went side by side. During those days, his writing pursuits were in extremely immature phase. In graduation, he got scholarship in Urdu. He took admission in Urdu department in Oriental College. This brought an end to his heartfelt desire of becoming a cricketer because he could not play from University of the Punjab as he was a student of Oriental College. Finally, he devoted his whole attention to writing. He was recognized as a talented young poet and was published in literary magazines. This encouraged him to write poetry. Lahore at that time was the hub of all social and cultural activities. Its vibrant culture not only enriched his experience but also helped him develop his own outlook about life. The influence is discernable in hispoetry and especially in most of his plays. He said about himself by the following words: "During formative years, form does not possess any meaning because, practically, one is neither conscious of form nor knows the scope of it. It was important for me to express myself and nothing else. Poetry was never a profession for me. It was part of my life. I can write about the innermost recesses of my personality only in poetry. My personal potential, I think, can best be realised only through this medium. Poetry is my natural expression. I wish people could identify me as a poet. People may stop watching my plays even in my life but my poetry will last longer. The readership is though limited but more captivating. Longevity of poetry is more than that of plays. My plays might be forgotten after decades but not my poetry. I don’t know if it is possible to understand the urge that compels one to write, especially poetry. What can one say about why one writes it, and why in the form of half-formed sentences, or why one juxtaposes words in strange combinations, and even then it has its own strictness of format, two-lined, three-lined, four-lines and so on. But there is a strange, almost inexplicable satisfaction when the urge to create takes hold of one, and one feels compelled to purge oneself of the thoughts one is possessed with. The stronger the urge, the greater the catharsis. I believe that yes, there may have been, each time, some stimuli that provided the prompt, that became the catalyst, and started trains of thought and brought about the process of creativity, but what comes out, each time, is the sum-total of one’s entire personality to the hour. It is the expression of everything that has gone into one’s mind, the little pin-points of experiences and information and everything else to which one has related and which have become part of one’s psyche. The process in the mind that, in reaction, creates a whole work of art, is what I call the tip of the iceberg. I believe the creative process has not been understood so far, I don’t know if it will ever be. For my part, I believe that one cannot wholly grasp the process of creativity with reference only to stimuli percived through the eye or the ear, or the nostrils, or the tongue or the skin. And that is why I don’t know how my poems come into being." In 1989 he was appointed as Director General of Urdu Science Board. Currently he is the project director of the Children Library Complex. He is the author of over 40 books and received several national and PTV awards. Amjad Islam Amjad is the writer of many drama series for Pakistan Television Corporation including the very popular Waaris. He has written many columns, translation, criticism and essays whereas his main focus is writing Nazms. Among his most famous dramas are Waris, Dehleez, Samandar, Raat, Waqt and Apnay Loug. In June, 2008 he joined Urdu newspaper Daily Express and writes column with the title of "Chasham-e-Tamasha".)
A Poem Of Love
If perchance, you ever remember how we were,
Then in the soft glow
of same moonlight
Cast a glance at a shining star.
And if that star
Travels the wasteland of space
and falls to your feet.
Know, it was an image of my heart.
And if the star stays on high
But then it is inconceivable
That you cast a glance at anything
But that it would splinter and crack
Lose its being.
If perchance, you ever remember how we were,
Place a soft hand on the passing breeze
I shall be there in wafted scents.
Search me in petals of rose,
In wee mirrors of dewdrops I'll be there.
And if you fail to find me in
In stars, wafted scents, rosepetals, dewdrops
Just look down at your feet.
You will find me there.
Circling in ceaseless journey to reach you.
If ever you see a brightlit lamp.
With circling moths daring open flame.
Know, I too have been reduced to ashes
Like many of them.
Pick up that dust, and fling it
In some passing river'.
The dust of me shall ride the waters.
Travel the seas, and come to rest,
On some unseen island,
Cry out for you.
And if you ever voyage out,
Do grace that distant island
[Translated by Saiyed Mohib Asad]
My plays might be forgotten after decades but not my poetry.. So true! He said that in his Bio. Most deserving as The Poet Of The Day! Congratulations, dear great Poet! Lahore, where rich culture resided.