mere funde

Tag: Poetry

  • Not-so-romantic poetry

    Through bash.org:

    roses are red
    violets are blue
    all of my base
    are belong to you

  • Madhusala – Bachchan

    Madhusala by Harivansh Rai Bachchan is one of my favourite Hindi poems of all time. Below are a few excerpts from it. You can read the entire thing here.

    मुसलमान औ’ हिन्दू है दो, एक, मगर, उनका प्याला,
    एक, मगर, उनका मदिरालय, एक, मगर, उनकी हाला,
    दोनों रहते एक न जब तक मस्जिद मन्दिर में जाते,
    बैर बढ़ाते मस्जिद मन्दिर मेल कराती मधुशाला!।५०।

    आज करे परहेज़ जगत, पर, कल पीनी होगी हाला,
    आज करे इन्कार जगत पर कल पीना होगा प्याला,
    होने दो पैदा मद का महमूद जगत में कोई, फिर
    जहाँ अभी हैं मन्दिर मस्जिद वहाँ बनेगी मधुशाला।।५३।

    कभी न सुन पड़ता, ‘इसने, हा, छू दी मेरी हाला’,
    कभी न कोई कहता, ‘उसने जूठा कर डाला प्याला’,
    सभी जाति के लोग यहाँ पर साथ बैठकर पीते हैं,
    सौ सुधारकों का करती है काम अकेले मधुशाला।।५७।

    छोटे-से जीवन में कितना प्यार करुँ, पी लूँ हाला,
    आने के ही साथ जगत में कहलाया ‘जानेवाला’,
    स्वागत के ही साथ विदा की होती देखी तैयारी,
    बंद लगी होने खुलते ही मेरी जीवन-मधुशाला।।६६।

    PS: A few spellings may be incorrect but there is only that much a transliterator can do.

  • Poetry – Pablo Neruda

    Read a lot of Neruda poems in the past few days. Here are some lines I liked.

    Poetry

    And it was at that age…Poetry arrived
    in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
    it came from, from winter or a river.
    I don’t know how or when,
    no, they were not voices, they were not
    words, nor silence,
    but from a street I was summoned,
    from the branches of night,
    abruptly from the others,
    among violent fires
    or returning alone,
    there I was without a face
    and it touched me.

    Saddest Poem

    I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
    My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

    Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
    belonged to my kisses.
    Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

    I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
    Love is so short and oblivion so long.

    Love Sonnet XVII

    I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
    I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
    so I love you because I know no other way

    in which there is no I or you
    so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
    so intimate that when you fall asleep it is my eyes that close

    ~Pablo Neruda~