Nasri Nazm
Shukr Hai Ab Duniya Azad Hai Tumse:
Tum, jo raat ko sharaab pi kay hasstay ho,
Aur ultiyyan bhi kertay ho,
Jo choohon ki manand aik hi bill mein bastay ho,
Aur samajhtay ho kay tum to "left" ho,
Kay tum hi haq pe ho,
Aur tumharay saath hi ziyaadti hui hai,
Aur sochtay ho kay aik din duniya tumhe sajda keray gi,
Tum, jo do takkay ki...Insaaniyyat ho,
Shooder ho!
So yaad rakho:
Tumharay khoo'n mein keecharr hai, jo roshni ka dushman hai.
Aur tum andhay ho.
Aur aik andha aur aik dekhnay wala kabhi brabar nahi ho saktay.
To tum uss ki cheezon per andhi nazar kyunker rakhtay ho?
Hassad kyun kertay ho? Tum sochtay kyun nahin?
Tumharay ooper anay walay azaab se,
Kay jis se hum bhi derrtay hain,
Baykhabar kyun rehtay ho?
Haan tum jo raat ko sharaab pi kay raqs kertay ho,
Ahista ahista tum apnay hi aap thorra aur mertay ho,
Na samajh ho, aur na hi samajh saktay ho.
Aaj tum, apnay hi saayay kay humraaz, dertay ho,
Hum se bigarrtay ho, sub hi se larrtay ho,
To shayed aisay hi hona tha,
Shayed tum sahi kertay ho.
So tumhe tumhara azaab mubarak ho.
------------------------------------------------
Aray Tu to Paison Waali Hai!
Ye unn ko jub pata challa to baysharam se ho gaye
'Jaanay na paye haath se', iss darr se 'tere ho gaye'
Aur duur se ab chal diye, jo paas hi mein rehte thay,
Woh jo paresha'n si shakal, aur haath mein ik phone liye,
Jo jaeb se nikaal ker, sarrak kay paar,
Ankhon hi ankhon mein, taaziyyat na kernay kay,
Bahaanay laakh soch ker,
Khaamoshion ki taar per (tujhe) sookhnay ko daal ker,
Sardiyyon mein dhoop ki si aas bun kay,
Ojhal ho jaaya kertay thay.
Woh baysharam se log aaj uth kay jo salam keren
To kyun na ho humein khushi?
Dekh ye karigari:
Ho rahay hain ehtemaam, aur keh rahay hain bar bar:
'Khuda hi ki ye shaan hai, jo shaan hai aaj aap ki!'
Kya aap ko maloom hai woh 'aap' ki ummeed se hai?
Munaafqat ki haamila guzashta naw maheenon se
Kuch aisi taqaaleef mein hai
Kay jinn ka hal hai aap ki tajoriyyon ki wussatein.
posted by Duck @ 4:43 PM
8 Comments
8 Comments:
yar i'm no plath expert but its very obvious that this poem is not a theft of any of plath's poems- particularly with respect to the structure of the poem and organization of ideas. Her poems are very precise.. and the choice of words is much more brutal than urs, hence the impact too.
For Plath death was a romantic obsession. Dying wasn't about decay or degeneration, but it was more like an art, a sort of abstract perfection. something she strives to achieve through her poems. so underlying her death poems, there is a death wish, and it exists because in death she constantly seeks completion. Its very different from the usual interpretation of death as an end to life long suffering, which implies we have failed to see meaning in life and now wait for an end that is again unseen. very absurdist if you look at it that way.. btw Plath was an existentialist.
if my memory serves me right, the last two poems plath wrote were Mystic and Edge. Both are completely different from ur poem. They are contemplative but not at all personal. There is no indication anywhere that she wasn't happy with her life.. at least towards the end. In Mystic theres this line that reads 'meaning leaks from the molecules' ( heavy stuff :D but more than that it shows that shit made sense to her) anyway, Edge, the very last poem, is about a woman who HAS died. It doesn't say anywhere about how or why she was going to kill herself. In fact the last few poems are the least suicidal pieces of her work. They don't even give a comprehensive reason for why she would want to kill herself. So technically ur poem is about somebody who is now resorting to the final catharsis (and i don't even consider it death per say) Plath on the other hand was talking about a dead woman who is happy bcoz she has done just about everything there was to do.
Now these views are based on a hypothetical comparison of plath and the speaker of her poems so to speak.. which is essentially a crime in view of my research haha The point is that your poem, if i may, is like an anesthesia.. a slow toxic is sucking life and u think of the things that have passed u by.. sort of like delayed decoding, many abstractions here and there. Death in Plath's poetry does not appear as a lethargic process.No delayed decoding. Its a constant drive.. i think i've forgotten the original question.. hope this helps though :D
i just noticed the part where i wrote about the impact of ur poem as opposed to plath's poems. just for the sake of clarity, i meant it only in terms of the expression of the death wish. she comes out more strongly there. also at best ur poem can be said to be ABOUT plath or her death as understood by a reader. thats one obvious relation i guess, now that u've changed the title too. Plathitude is quite clever vaise.
that bit about masters degree is sad. really. institutions should at least give their own students some sort of break. i met an uncle couple of days back and he kept going on about how much land he owns in pak and how his wife wishes to build a school etc. on the other hand he kept on going about how i shouldn't take up any endeavor right now if it didn't involve money. i could so clearly tell that for him schools were business prospect or else he wouldn't invest a dime. That just annoyed the crap out of me.. the idea of making education and teaching a freakin business. I thought of all the nasty rich schools in pak and how much money board/ investors really make, and well. blah
the comments above are about this poem. of which i am ashamed enough to want to hide it here:
Monoxcidal Plathitude
Tired, retired, headed back to the oven,
This time with a mind to be aged and stubborn
Late, prostrate, licking charred old fate,
Sniffing old, old fumes, as the dream, slow-sedates,
And so it continues. It congeals in the vat.
These then are my nine lives of a cat,
In the backseat watching, with an oven for a hat.
Younger and lighter, faster and brighter
This time in the prime of a lightweight fighter
This time…
The smell of gas-sweet oblivion,
Of cookies and of cream, of mom’s voice, and God’s love
Up, and up, and above, so high
The tips of my fingers,
The folds of my wrinkles
This here is me and I’m passing me by
One night, with the sky, outside, velveteen, where we twinkle
With the noise of a cricket, and flap around blind
Like moths in the headlights, shot through the glass by a rush,
The water, so cold!
Like sharp pins stuck in the flesh of a voodoo doll
And with red cold noses, wading in the sweet smelling grass
The liquid lake, moon-illumined mirror of the past,
One night sky velveteen sticks out where we shine like steel!
But again in the fumes, oblivion (gas-sweet) persists.
The drool of regrets swirls round as I stare
At another surge of past,
I hold on tight, and I breathe in at last
This time we’re inside,
The grocery, the plastics, the bags full of
One whole month’s whole salary
We’ve holes in our pockets:
My fret and your worry
Belying the smiles and the carefree flurry
For how much longer will you think of us so:
One of these days, one of these days
One day at a time, one day, and tonight:
“This is your Pink Slip.
And this one is mine.”
One of the rooms is weeping...
Our house is in shock,
One of us is grieving,
And as still as a rock.
(to be continued)
oye whats the matter with u! why would u be ashamed of ur poem!!
because. i'm not exactly sure why. but i am. so it will stay here until i get over it. lots of pieces get demoted and promoted again.
i have forgotten what i was supposed to say
or meant to say,
perhaps that i saw, stuff, and other things.
and stuff.
of course, i saw it in my room.
their assumption is:
the white man only could save us
from whatever,
when in truth,
all we have to grow is weary of them
and then tear their flesh clean off their bones.
the best part, sadder than the rest that
we've settled for a setting sun at best, as yet,
but one day, we'll kill them all. and that's the only way.
to kill every last one of them.
and only if we extinguish their thoughts entirely
shall we breathe free in the after smoke of their snuffed black wicks.
history written in blood must be rewritten in blood.
i have forgotten what i was supposed to say
or meant to say,
perhaps i saw such stuff, and other things.
and stuff.
of course, i saw it in my room.
the assumption is
that white men only could save us
from whatever,
when in truth,
all we have to grow is weary of them
and then tear their flesh clean off their bones.
the best part, sadder than the rest that
we've settled for a setting sun at best, as yet,
but one day, we'll kill them all. and that's the only way.
to kill every last one of them.
and only if we extinguish their thoughts entirely
shall we breathe free in the after smoke of their snuffed black wicks.
history written in blood must be rewritten in blood.
or exposed to the flame long enough to let the dry blood run warm again.
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