Kavita Ka Art? (Ars Poetica?)by Czeslaw Milosz In Hindi/Urdu Translation Poem by Ravi Kopra

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asal main dekha jaaey to
shaeeri ek buri balah hai
jo cheez hum nahin janatay k hamaray undar hai
vo nikaal kar hamaray samnay khaDi kar di jati hai
aur hum apni aankaiN maltay hain
lagta hai koi sher apni poocH maarta hua
hamaray andar se nikal kar
roshni main saamanay khaDa ho jaata ho

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shaeeri ka ya masla hai k hum ko yaad dilatay rahe
k apne aap main siraf ek insaan hona baDa mushkil hai
kyon k hamara ghar khula hai, dawaazay main chabeeaN nahin lagi hain
aur mehmaan jinaieN hum dekh nahin paatay
apni marzi se hamaray ghar aatay haiN aur fir chalay jaatay haiN

main yahan ye nahin kehna chahta k
shaaeribe-bardashti dabaav k undar likhi jaaey
yeh umeed kartay hue k siraf acHi roohaiN, buri nahin
apne karo baar k liye hamaiN chunti rahaiN

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Ars Poetica?
BY CZESLAW MILOSZ
TRANSLATED BY CZESLAW MILOSZ AND LILLIAN VALLEE
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn't know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.

That's why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though it's an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It's hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they're put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.

What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?

It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I've devised just one more means
of praising Art with the help of irony.

There was a time when only wise books were read,
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.

And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity,
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.

What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.