ગઝલ – લક્ષ્મી ડોબરિયા

લક્ષ્મી ડોબરિયા, ગઝલસર્જકો માં એક માનભેર લેવાતું નામ. મારે અહીં એમનો પરિચય આપવાનો ન હોય. એમની વર્ચ્યુઅલ મૈત્રીનું મારે મન અદકેરું મહત્ત્વ છે. એમની રચનાઓ માં સ્વયંસિધ્ધાની ખુમારી સાથે એક દ્રષ્ટાની દ્રઢતા છે. જીવન ની ગહન સમજણ અને ડહાપણ ના મજબૂત પાયા પર રચાયેલી ગઝલોની ભાષા સૌમ્ય છે. ગંગાસતીની જેમ વીજને ઝબકારે પરોવાયેલા મોતી છે, સૂઝ અને સમજણ ના ટાંકણે કંડારેલું જીવનશિલ્પ છે.

મારા મનગમતા અશઆરમાંથી થોડા અહીં મૂક્યા છે, ફરી ફરીને વાંચવી ગમે એવી અનેક રચનાઓ છે, જે ક્યારેક સંતવાણી લાગે તો ક્યારેક સહ્રદયી મિત્રની ગોષ્ઠિ લાગે. એમના શબ્દો પર વિચારી જોશો તો જીવનની ગૂંચોને સરળતાથી ઉકેલી નાંખતા મંત્ર અને મર્મ મળી આવશે.

પોતીકો છે અવાજ ને પોતીકું મૌન છે,
અજવાળું લૈ ઉછીનું ગુજારો નથી કર્યો.

હોવાનો અર્થ એમ જોયો મેં
ઓસ પણ આફતાબ હોઈ શકે.

આ સમયની શારડીથી,
કેટલી ક્ષણ વાંસળી થઈ.

આંસુ જો કોઈના તને ના ભીંજવી શકે,
તર્પણને માટે ઘાટનો કૈં અર્થ સરસે નહિ.
……….
આ ગઝલ એમના સંગ્રહ “તાસીર જુદી છે” માંથી લીધેલ છે.

વરસાદમાં કદાચ ન ભીંજાય શક્ય છે,
આષાઢ એની આંખમાં દેખાય શક્ય છે.

જાગી જવા ક્યાં સૂર્યનું ઊગવું જરૂરી છે?
પ્રશ્રો વડે ઉજાસ થઈ જાય, શક્ય છે.

તું તારું કદ વધારવા દોડ્યા કરે છે પણ,
અંતે તો ભીતરે તું સમેટાય, શક્ય છે.

ઓળખ મને જો મારી, મળી જાય તો પછી,
એના સુધી એ રીતથી પ્હોંચાય શક્ય છે.

ખાલીપણાંનું મૂલ્ય સવાયું કરી જવા,
ખાલીપો આ ગઝલમાં વલોવાય, શક્ય છે.
લક્ષ્મી ડોબરિયા
તાસીર જુદી છે (2015)

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જે છે તે માણવાનું – ત્રિપાદ કુંડળ- જવાહર બક્ષી

જે છે તે માણવાનું
ત્રિપાદ કુંડળ- 3

જે છે તે માણવાનું
પૃથક્કરણ ન કરવું
વાદળ કે ઝાંઝવાનું.

વાદળ અજળ-સજળ છે
દળ દળ ખૂલ્યા કરે છે
આકાશ પણ કમળ છે.

આકાશ છે ભ્રમર પણ
જો સાંભળી શકો તો
ઝીણો મધુર સ્વર પણ.

ઝીણો ઉજાસ પ્રગટે
ઊઘડે સ્મરણના રંગો
ચહેરાઓ કૈંક ઊમટે.

ચહેરાનાં વાદળોમાં
જન્મોજન્મનો ફેરો
બસ એક-બે પળોમાં

બસ એક-બે પળોમાં
ખોઈ દીધો મને પણ
તારી જ અટકળોમાં.

તારી ઉપસ્થિતિ પણ
આ સત્ય છે કે મૃગજળ
શ્રધ્ધા છે ને ભીતિ પણ.

શ્રધ્ધાના છાંયડાનું
સુખ એ કે બેસવાનું
જે છે તે માણવાનું.
જવાહર બક્ષી

River-HD-Wallpapers-8

ग़ज़ल – दाग़ देहलवी

आशिक़ी से मिलेगा ऐ ज़ाहिद
बंदगी से ख़ुदा नहीं मिलता

दाग़ देहलवी

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काबे की है हवस कभी कू-ए-बुताँ की है
मुझ को ख़बर नहीं मिरी मिट्टी कहाँ की है

सुन के मिरा फ़साना उन्हें लुत्फ़ आ गया
सुनता हूँ अब कि रोज़ तलब क़िस्सा-ख़्वाँ की है

पैग़ाम-बर की बात पर आपस में रंज क्या
मेरी ज़बान की है न तुम्हारी ज़बाँ की है

कुछ ताज़गी हो लज़्ज़त-ए-आज़ार के लिए
हर दम मुझे तलाश नए आसमाँ की है

जाँ-बर भी हो गए हैं बहुत मुझ से नीम-जाँ
क्या ग़म है ऐ तबीब जो पूरी वहाँ की है

हसरत बरस रही है हमारे मज़ार पर
कहते हैं सब ये क़ब्र किसी नौजवाँ की है

वक़्त-ए-ख़िराम-ए-नाज़ दिखा दो जुदा जुदा
ये चाल हश्र की ये रविश आसमाँ की है

फ़ुर्सत कहाँ कि हम से किसी वक़्त तू मिले
दिन ग़ैर का है रात तिरे पासबाँ की है

क़ासिद की गुफ़्तुगू से तसल्ली हो किस तरह
छुपती नहीं वो बात जो तेरी ज़बाँ की है

जौर-ए-रक़ीब ओ ज़ुल्म-ए-फ़लक का नहीं ख़याल
तशवीश एक ख़ातिर-ए-ना-मेहरबाँ की है

सुन कर मिरा फ़साना-ए-ग़म उस ने ये कहा
हो जाए झूट सच यही ख़ूबी बयाँ की है

दामन संभाल बाँध कमर आस्तीं चढ़ा
ख़ंजर निकाल दिल में अगर इम्तिहाँ की है

हर हर नफ़स में दिल से निकलने लगा ग़ुबार
क्या जाने गर्द-ए-राह ये किस कारवाँ की है

क्यूँकि न आते ख़ुल्द से आदम ज़मीन पर
मौज़ूँ वहीं वो ख़ूब है जो सुनते जहाँ की है

तक़दीर से ये पूछ रहा हूँ कि इश्क़ में
तदबीर कोई भी सितम-ए-ना-गहाँ की है

उर्दू है जिस का नाम हमीं जानते हैं ‘दाग़’
हिन्दोस्ताँ में धूम हमारी ज़बाँ की है

कू-ए-बुताँ-street of the idols,क़िस्सा-ख़्वाँ-a story teller, a reciter of tales,पैग़ाम-बर-a messenger, an envoy,लज़्ज़त-ए-आज़ार-pleasure of pain,जाँ-बर-beloved,नीम-जाँ-half dead,हसरत-unfulfilled desire,वक़्त-ए-ख़िराम-ए-नाज़-time of beloved’s promenade,हश्र-doomsday, resurrection, tumult,रविश-pathway/manners-अंदाज़, मिज़ाज, पासबाँ-watchman, sentinel, Guard, Keeper,तशवीश-anxiousness/ apprehension,ख़ातिर-ए-ना-मेहरबाँ-for unkind,नफ़स-soul/ spirit/ self,ख़ुल्द-paradise, heaven,मौज़ूँ-well-balanced, well-adjusted, fit, तदबीर-advice, solution, arrangement, order, सितम-ए-ना-गहाँ-unexpected oppression/tyranny, zaahid-hermit, devotee, abstinent, religious devout.

DAGH DEHLVI
1831-1905
Last of classical poets who celebrated life and love. Famous for his playfulness of words (idioms/ phrases).
source : rekhta.org

दिल के काबे में नमाज़ पढ़ – नीरज

दिल के काबे में नमाज़ पढ़

दिल के काबे में नमाज़ पढ़, यहां-वहां भरमाना छोड़।
सांस-सांस तेरी अज़ान है, सुबह शाम चिल्लाना छोड़।

उसका रुप न मस्जिद में है
उसकी ज्योति न मंदिर में
जिस मोती को ढूंढ़ रहा तू,
वो है दिल के समुन्दर में।

मन की माला फेर, हाथ की यह तस्वीह घुमाना छोड़।
दिल के काबे में नमाज़ पढ़, यहां-वहां भरमाना छोड़।

जो कुछ बोले हैं पैगम्बर,
वही कहा सब संतों ने,
लेकिन उसके मानी बदले
सारे भ्रष्ट महन्तों ने ।

पंडित-मुल्ला सब झूठे हैं, इनसे हाथ मिलाना छोड़।
दिल के काबे में नमाज़ पढ़, यहां-वहां भरमाना छोड़।

खुदा ख़लक से अलंग नहीं है,
इसमें ही वो समाया है,
जैसे तुझमें ही पोशिदा,
तेरा अपना साया है।

दुनिया से मत दूर भाग, बस खुद से दौड़ लगाना छोड़।
दिल के काबे में नमाज़ पढ़, यहां-वहां भरमाना छोड़।

पूजा पाठ, नमाज-जाप
सब छलना और दिखावा है
दिल है तेरा साफ तो
तेरा घर ही काशी काबा है।

मकड़जाल है ये सब के, इनका ताना-बाना छोड़।
दिल के काबे में नमाज़ पढ़, यहां-वहां भरमाना छोड़।

तू ही तो संसारी है रे
और तू ही संसार भी है,
कैदी तू ही जेल भी तू ही
तू ही पहरेदार भी है।

तीन गुनों वाली रस्सी में, अब तो गांठ लगाना छोड़।
दिल के काबे में नमाज़ पढ़, यहां-वहां भरमाना छोड़।

महाकवि डॉ गोपालदास नीरज ( born 4th jan 1925 )

[कारवां गुज़र गया से]

gopaldas-neeraj__252004451

The Burning Kite – Ouyang Jianghe

The Burning Kite

What a thing it would be, if we all could fly.
But to rise on air does not make you a bird.

I’m sick of the hiss of champagne bubbles.
It’s spring, and everyone’s got something to puke.

The things we puke: flights of stairs,
a skyscraper soaring from the gut,

the bills blow by on the April breeze
followed by flurries of razor blades in May.

It’s true, a free life is made of words.
You can crumple it, toss it in the trash,

or fold it between the bodies of angels, attaining
a permanent address in the sky.

The postman hands you your flight of birds
persisting in the original shape of wind.

Whether they’re winging toward the scissors’ V
or printed and plastered on every wall

or bound and trussed, bamboo frames wound with wire
or sentenced to death by fire

you are, first
and always, ash.

Broken wire, a hurricane at each end.
Fire trucks scream across the earth.

But this blaze is a thing of the air.
Raise your glass higher, toss it up and away.

Few know this kind of dizzy glee:
an empty sky, a pair of burning wings.

BY OUYANG JIANGHE
TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY AUSTIN WOERNER

…………………………..

Chinese poet Ouyang Jianghe, known as one of the “Five Masters from Sichuan,” is a poet and prominent critic of music, art, and literature, and president of the literary magazine Jintian. His first poetry collection in English, Doubled Shadows (2012), was published by Zephyr Press.

source: poetry foundation.org

………….

Ouyang — a bit of a maverick, known to move against the traffic.
He is placed often in the category of the “post-Misty” school of Chinese poets — a representative voice among the second wave of poets who, in the immediate aftermath of the Cultural Revolution (1966-76), chose to turn away from big historical themes, focusing instead on the apparently trivial and the quotidian elements of life. The language was obscure (hence, the name “misty”), often marked by neologisms and syntactical experiments.

“Ouyang Jianghe,” says his translator, Austin Woerner, a scholar of Chinese literature based in New York, “is the mistiest of the post-Misties. His poetry is noted for its ‘difficulty’.”

source: chinadailyasia.com

56844-2

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

 

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T. S. Eliot, 1888 – 1965

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ગઝલ – ચિનુ મોદી ‘ઈર્શાદ’

ક્ષર દેહ છોડી અ-ક્ષર દેહસ્વરુપ થયેલા હ્રદયસ્થ શ્રી ચિનુ મોદીને
હ્રદયપૂર્વક શ્રધ્ધાંજલિ!🌸

છે ધધખતું પણ ઉપરથી શાંત, હોં,
વૃદ્ધ બનતાં પ્રાપ્ત આ એકાંત, હોં.

કંઈક એ જોઈ ગયો છે ત્યારથી,
ચિત્ત-ચક્ષુ બેય સરખાં શાંત, હોં.

જેમ જળમાં અન્નનો દાણો ફૂલે,
વૃત્તિનું આવું હતું વૃત્તાંત, હોં.

માપસરની વેદના ખપતી નથી,
એ વધે અનહદ તો છે વેદાંત, હોં.

કેટલાં કીધાં જતન ‘ઈર્શાદ’ તેં ?
છેક છેલ્લે તોય છે, દેહાંત, હોં.

– ચિનુ મોદી ( 1939-2017)

Gujarati_author_Chinu_Modi

अच्छा लगता है

कभी यूँ ही अकेले बैठना अच्छा लगता है।

चुपचाप से;

अपने-आप से भी खामोश रहना,

अच्छा लगता है।

मन की गुफाओ में बहते झरनों की

धून सुनना, गुनगुनाना

अच्छा लगता है।

कभी दिल के दरवाज़ों को बंद रखना

दस्तकों से बेपरवा होना

अच्छा लगता है।

दिल के बाग की खूशबूओं में

खोना, महकना

अच्छा लगता है।

ख़ामोशी की शांत  पहाड़ीओं के

पीछे से बहती है

इक नीली सी नदी

उस के शीतल, निर्मल जलमें

भीगना, बहना

अच्छा लगता है।

हवाएँ मन की अटारीओं से बहते

शब्द के अनेक स्वर छेड जाती है

उसके ध्वनित तरंगो को मौनमें डूबोना

अच्छा लगता है।

– नेहल

We are many – Pablo Neruda

Of the many men who I am, who we are,
I can’t find a single;
they disappear among my clothes,
they’ve left for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as intelligent,
the fool I always keep hidden
takes over all that I say.

At other times, I’m asleep
among distinguished people,
and when I look for my brave self,
a coward unknown to me
rushes to cover my skeleton
with a thousand fine excuses.

When a decent house catches fire,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and that’s me. What can I do?
What can I do to distinguish myself?
How can I pull myself together?

All the books I read
are full of dazzling heroes,
always sure of themselves,
I die with envy of them;
and in films full of wind and bullets,
I goggle at the cowboys,
I even admire the horses.

But when I call for a hero,
out comes my lazy old self;
so I never know who I am,
nor how many I am or will be.
I’d love to be able to touch a bell
and summon the real me,
because if I really need myself,
I mustn’t disappear.

While I am writing, I’m far away;
and when I come back, I’ve gone.
I would like to know if others
go through the same things that I do,
have as many selves as I have,
and see themselves similarly;
and when I’ve exhausted this problem,
I’m going to study so hard
that when I explain myself,
I’ll be talking geography.

– Pablo Neruda ( Muchos somos/We are many)
From Extravagaria
translated by Alastair Reid

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Rumi (3)

Peaceful
is the one
who’s not concerned
with having more or less
Unbound by name and fame
he is free from sorrow
from the world and
mostly from
himself.
…………..

When compassion fills my heart,
free from all desire,
I sit quietly like the earth.
My silent cry echoes like thunder
throughout the universe.
……………

With love you don’t bargain
there, the choice is not yours.
Love is a mirror, it reflects
only your essence,
if you have the courage
to look in its face.
…………

Reason, when you speak
I cannot hear the Wise One.
Even if you are as thin as a hair
still there’s no space for you.
In the flaming Sun
all bright lights are put to shame.
………..

Be certain
in the religion of Love
there are no believers or unbelievers
Love embraces all.
Rumi Whispers of the Beloved
Quatrains Translated from Persian by Azima Melita Kolin and Maryam Mafi

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