But still I do

You are so mysterious, a lil bit serious.
The wait is so damn tedious, but still I do.
I think I would talk, for a little while walk.
Why do I even care, but still I do.

I’ve been imagining, and I don’t even try.
I don’t wanna really cry, but still I do.
I am joyous so much, often lost as such,
oh heavens and angels, why it is so.

Have I become crazy, bloody thoughtful and hazy.
I wish I don’t enjoy this, but still I do.
Talking to myself, to pen and paper, to little ants and sky-scraper.
Shivering in the sun, why sweating in the moon, but still I do.

You are so mysterious, a lil bit serious.
The wait is so damn tedious, but still I do.
I think I would talk, for a little while walk.
Why do I even care, but still I do.

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Untill the sun is bright

Pulse rate, in a busy state,
heart beats, slow and dim.
I’m confused, oh why the fate,
my life expectancy, is so slim.

Click click, I’m hearing fine,
blink blink, my vision is nine.
Gulp gulp, taste okay,
pinch an inch, and I can feel.

Ah, then let me dream,
of the life I desire, and tiny things I aspire.
Let me scream, out and loud,
maybe something small, of that I am proud.

I’m feeling low, that may be so,
the paths is rough, and a long way to go.
Never back down, now I would write,
and fulfill a dream, untill the sun is bright.

Ek chhoti si nazam

Thak gaye they qissey-kahaniyan padh ke,
nazam bhi koi aur pasand aati nahin thi.
Zara tham ja ae dil tu bhi kuch sabar kar,
mere bas mein nahin wo yaad jaati nahin thi.

Umeed chahat ki kyun baandhi thi tune,
kyun tune they itne armaan sajaye.
Ek jhalak nazar aati thi uski musalsal,
woh khaabon-khayalo mein hi bin bulaye.

Apne paraye se hone lage kab,
bheed mein bhi tanha hone lage the.
Tanha hote phir bhi hote nahin the,
woh khaabon mein aksar mile bin bulaye.

Phir socha chalo tarqeeb hum bhi rachayen,
in palon ko thode harfon mein sajayen.
Ab padh chuke woh qissey-qaseedey kisi ke,
ek chhoti si nazam ab hum bhi banayen.

Urdu:

ایک چھوٹی سی نظم

تھک گئے تھے قصّے کہانیاں پڑھ کے
نظم بھی کوئی اور پسند آتی نہیں تھی

ذرا تھم جا اے دل تو بھی کچھ صبر کر
میرے بس میں نہیں وہ یاد جاتی نہیں تھیں

امید چاہت کی کیوں باندھی تھی تونے
کیوں تونے تھے اتنے ارماں سجاے

ایک جھلک نظر آتی تھی اسکی مسلسل
وہ خوابوں -خیالوں میں ہی بن بلاے

پھر سوچا چلو ترکیب ہم بھی رچایں
ان پلوں کو تحوڈے حرفوں میں سجاییں

پڑھ چکے وہ قصّے – قصیدے کسی کے
ایک چھوٹی سی نظم اب ہم بھی بنایں

Raah wo mushkil

Raah wo mushkil thi, uspe chalen kaise,
bas ek kadam badhya, aur badhte chale gaye.

Manzil phir kareeb thi, faasle mittey gaye,
bekadar -o- besabar, phir hausle girtey gaye.

Phir yaad aaya, woh faisala,
woh waada jo kiya tha khud se.

Ki kar mito, ya ki mar mito,
jo maqsad marhala tahrir ho.

Urdu:

راہ وہ مشقل تھی ، اسپر چلیں کیسے ،
بس ایک کدم بڑھایا، اور بڑھتے چلے گئے .

منزل فر قریب تھی ، فاصلے مٹ تے گئے ،
بےقدر -و -بسبر ، پھر حوصلے گرتے گئے .

پھر یاد آیا ، وہ فیصلہ ،
وہ وادہ جو کیا تھا خودسے .

کی کر مٹو ، یا مر مٹو ،
جو مقصد مرحلہ تحریر ہو .

The Star

Star, what I see in you,
is the reason to rise high;

so I would learn to fly,
to reach you in the sky.

Star, what I see in you,
is the twinkle of my past;

never letting go of the loved ones,
holding them fast.

Star, what I see in you,
is an excuse of being generous;

to shine while I burn,
and still be ambitious.

Star, what I see in you,
is a lesson to be the best;

and even fall to fulfil someone’s dream,
passing the ultimate test.

Star, what I see in you,
is a reason, a twinkle, an excuse, a lesson;

Far from where you are, if you could see,
I would merely cease to be.

Poetry meet at Delhi Book Lovers

I attended Poetry reading meetup of Delhi Book Lovers today. The best part about listening to people in these meetups is how fast you get to know of content which is already reviewed, liked and is quite likely of good quality. I got to know of these:

… with a hope to pick them into my read-list sometime soon. ( I would like to keep a note of other books too. Please add them to comments section below. )

Of the things we discussed and read, one of the thoughtful moment was to discuss, “what makes a good writing a good writing?”. Well, now I feel that I am in agreement with others on at-least two aspects:

  • a good writing makes you relate the narration with yourselves in some-way ( according to one’s situation )
  • and/or a good writing makes you imagine along with the reading flow

Btw, why do we read with passion a book or poem that someone else wrote? What makes that happen?

Jeevan ke rang

Jeevan ke rang, khushiyon ke sang,
mastani umang aur thodi si bhang.
Khil-khilaye chehre, rangon ke sang,
Naache, jhoome, hoke mast malang.
Mitake ke duri, latkaye mridang,
khushiyan baatein chhote, bado ke sang.

Phulaye gubbare, aur maare pichkaari,
pade jispe bhi, nikle khilkhari.

Aisa hota rang, jo dukh sukh mein bhi dikh jaata
kaisa hota rang, yeh bin soche main samajh na paata.

Tujhme, mujhme, isme, usme, sabme rang bhar jaye,
har ek gubbara aur pichkaari woh meethi yaad dilaye.