काँच के पीछे चाँद भी था – गुलज़ार

काँच के पीछे चाँद भी था

काँच के पीछे चाँद भी था और काँच के ऊपर काई भी
तीनों थे हम, वो भी थे, और मैं भी था, तनहाई भी

यादों की बौछारों से जब पलकें भीगने लगती हैं
सोंधी-सोंधी लगती है तब माज़ी की रुसवाई भी

दो-दो शक्लें दिखती हैं इस बहके-से आईने में
मेरे साथ चला आया है, आप का इक सौदाई भी

कितनी जल्दी मैली करता है पोशाकें, रोज़ फ़लक़
सुबह ही रात उतारी थी और शाम को शब पहनायी भी

ख़ामोशी का हासिल भी इक लम्बी-सी ख़ामोशी थी
उन की बात सुनी भी हमने, अपनी बात सुनायी भी

कल साहिल पर लेटे-लेटे, कितनी सारी बातें की
आप का हुंकारा न आया, चाँद ने बात करायी भी
गुलज़ार  (यार जुलाहे….)
सम्पादन यतीन्द्र मिश्र


The Spelling – Simon Armitage

The Spelling

I left a spelling at my father’s house
written in small coins on his front step.
It said which star I was heading for next,
which channel to watch, which button to press.
I should have waited, given that spelling
a voice, but I was handsome and late.

While I was gone he replied with pebbles
and leaves at my gate. But a storm got up
from the west, sluicing all meaning and shape.

I keep his broken spelling in a tin,
tip it out on the cellar floor, hoping
a letter or even a word might form.
And I am all grief, staring through black space
to meet his eyes, trying to read his face.
Simon Armitage
From Paper Aeroplane
Selected Poems 1989-2014

……… ………… ………… …………..


As an Artist in Residence at London’s South Bank from 2009 to 2012 he conceived and curated Poetry Parnassus, a gathering of world poets and poetry from every Olympic nation as part of Britain’s Cultural Olympiad, a landmark event generally recognised as the biggest coming together of international poets in history.
source: simonarmitage.com

Happy Mother’s day!

મા, તારી સ્મૃતિ 

દુનિયા માટે 

અહીં-ત્યાં પાડેલા ફોટા 

આ-તે પ્રસંગ ના ફોટા 

પણ મારા માટે 

હૈયામાં એક હુંફાળો ખૂણો 

માથા પર ફરતા હાથનો સુંવાળો સ્પર્શ 

આંખના ખૂણે કદી ના સૂકાતું 

ભીનું સરોવર

પીઠ પર ફરેલા નરમ હાથની રાહત 

ખોળાની, પાલવની 

ક્યાંય ન મળે એવી

મીઠી સુગંધ 

તારી વાત્સલ્યથી છલકાતી આંખો ના

ઝળહળતા દીવા 

તારી જીવન ને સતત 

ઘડતી વાતો

અને એવું બધું 

અનેક અગણિત 

કેમ કરી ફોટા માં સમાવું??

હેપ્પી મધર્સ ડે, મા!

મારામાં થોડી ખુદને

રોપી જવા માટે. 

– નેહલ

Capoeira Boy

Capoeira Boy

I saw him on YouTube. He was learning the martial art
that masks fighting as dance; the rocking, foot-
to-foot ginga bracing him for kicks, swipes
and thistle-light acrobalance. He was finding how to spin.

Feint, soar with his opponent. You could worry about him.
at least I did. but I saw he was loved. A favourite
perhaps. Enough anyway to give hope a chance
despite his lumbering, faintly victim, stance

as the two circled each other, holding their arms
off their torsos like cormorants drying their wings.
He was seven or eight, wearing glasses. Eagerness
shone out of him inside the ring of boys

chanting to a tambourine. They knew slaves in Brazil
made the rules. Only by dance do you learn how to fight.
Only by fight how to dance. And also that kids like them,
on the West Bank, could learn this in Hebron.

I saw him on YouTube in Jalazoun Refugee Camp
The teacher, laughing, supervised falls, accidents,
cat’s whisker escapes. I imagined he was telling them
Squat and spin! Flat on your hands! Aim your kick in his face-

let him duck – then cartwheel away. This is all about you.
but you’re nothing without him. Let the dance-fight-dance
set you free. Free of the six-lane motorway
shaking the camp with its sorrowful vibrations.

Free of the twenty-foot wall of cement, a stage set for Macbeth.
Grey olives flickered beyond, on hills where I guessed
older men like his grandfather were born
and are forbidden to graze sheep or tend their trees again.

While the boys danced, I pictured the flame of a split aorta
in the chest of a man who has lived all his days in the camps
and will die in one now. Afternoon flowed
through rows of tents like mist coming off black jade

as each became the other’s mirror. They were twin lights
in a sconce, tiger cubs perfecting life skills – pounce timing,
split speed for the roda – each pouring all he was
into the little space between self’s flying heel and other’s face.
– Ruth Padel

From “Learning to make an oud in Nazareth” (2014)




Ruth Padel is an award-winning poet, an acclaimed critic, travel writer and novelist, a fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and Writer in Residence at the Royal Opera House. Covent Garden. She broadcasts for BBC Radio 3and 4 on poetry and music, and teaches poetry at Kings College, London.

……. ……… ………. …….. ……….
‘Capoeira Boy’ – African slaves on Brazilian plantations, allowed to dance but not fight or bear arms, created a martial art disguised as dance called capoeira, now popular in the west. Volunteers from the charity Bidna Capoeira teach it in refugee camps in the West Bank and East Jerusalem. They find it increases co-operation and a sense of self-worth among children traumatised by violence.
Hebron: a city in the Judacan mountains in occupied Palestine on the southern West Bank. In 2011, Khelly Hill outside it was declared State Land. Settlers built homes and a road; Palestinian shepherds were denied entry to their land for grazing or cutting grass.

​મારી કવિતા ના વાચકને…

મારી કવિતા ના વાચકને…

હું વાવું

મારી ક્ષણ ક્ષણ

આ કવિતામાં

ફૂટે કૂંપળ

પળ પળ ની

શબ્દે  શબ્દે

આવ, તું

આ કવિતામાં

વાવી દે

તારી થોડી ક્ષણો પણ

બને ઘેઘૂર  વૄક્ષ સમયનું

શબ્દો ના ડાળ-પાંદડાની



હું અને તું.



Do you hear it? – Kisan Sosa

Do you hear it?

In a drop, the rain sings in chorus, do you hear it?
In the seed, lush green crop waves, do you hear it?
On the open road ants have come out in a row
Listening to the footfall , the walls are fissured, do you hear it?
In a busy workshop in the night a new sun is shaped,
The blows of the hammer echo in all directions, do you hear it?
A tent of a new sky is being formed
In the land new nails are being hammered, do you hear it?
The wall of ice will turn into a puddle and will evaporate
With a spark of light, the sun blasts, do you hear it?
Look, on the back of the time the sweat erupts
The mountain of the sparks is ceaselessly being dug, do you hear it?
Now the real flowers will blossom in all directions
Every branch screams with pain, do you hear it?
Like the waves of the sea, the words of a poet,
Every moment strike with rocks of time, do you hear it?

Kisan Sosa
(From Anauras Surya)

The Poet
Kisan Sosa
Kisan Sosa, born 4 April, 1939, is a retired Municipal corporation employee. He is a leading Gujarati poet. His collections of poetry are Anast Surya (1985), Anauras Surya (1981) and Surya Jem Dubi Gayun Harmonium (1992).His ghazals are an important contribution to dalit poetry as he initiated dalit themes in them for the first time.
source : Gujarati Dalit Literature Blog by Ganpat Vankar

અહીંથી જવાય – કિસન સોસા

એવા વળાંક પર હવે ઊભો છે કાફલો
અહીંથી જવાય રણ તરફ, અહીંથી નદી તરફ.

અહીંથી હું શ્વેત શ્વેત કૈં સ્વપ્ને લચી શકું
અહીંથી હું અંધકારની ખીણે ખરી શકું
અહીંથી હું ભવ તરી શકું – અહીંથી ડૂબી શકું
અહીંથી જવાય ક્ષણ તરફ, અહીંથી સદી તરફ
અહીંથી જવાય રણ તરફ, અહીંથી નદી તરફ

અહીંથી ઉમંગ ઊડતા અવસરમાં જઈ વસું
કે કાળમીંઢ વેદનાના દરમાં જઈ વસું
અહીંથી હું કબ્રમાં કે પછી ઘરમાં જઈ વસું
અહીંથી જવાય હમણાં તરફ, અહીંથી કદી તરફ
અહીંથી જવાય રણ તરફ, અહીંથી નદી તરફ
કિસન સોસા ( 4 એપ્રિલ, 1939 born )
અમર ગઝલો
ડૉ. એસ. એસ. રાહી
રાજેશ વ્યાસ મિસ્કીન


एक आशीर्वाद – दुष्यंत कुमार

जा तेरे स्वप्न बड़े हों।

भावना की गोद से उतर कर
जल्द पृथ्वी पर चलना सीखें।

चाँद तारों सी अप्राप्य ऊचाँइयों के लिये
रूठना मचलना सीखें।


हर दीये की रोशनी देखकर ललचायें
उँगली जलाएँ।
अपने पाँव पर खड़े हों।
जा तेरे स्वप्न बड़े हों।
– दुष्यंत कुमार

source: kavitakosh.org




दिन की गठरी खोल
समेट रही हूँ

होले होले गिरते लम्हे

बूँदों-से छलककर  टपकते लम्हे

पत्तों-से गिरते, उठते लम्हे

फूलों-से खिलते, मुरझाते लम्हे

हवाओं-से बहते, हाथमें न आते लम्हे

रेत-से फिसलते, सरकते लम्हे

पलकों से भागे सपनों-से

नीमपके फल,  लम्हे !

कभी सहरा सी धूप में ओढ़े हुए बादल लम्हे

तो कभी सर्दियों में हथेली पे पिधलते

धूप के टुकड़े लम्हे

सिरों को खिंच कर जब तक
बाँधू दिन की गठरी

रात की टोकरी
खूल जाती हैं

तारों से जड़े ढक्कन पर

चमकते लम्हे

पलकों पर सपनोकी सेज सजाते लम्हे

अपने कंधे पर उठाये नींदों के पैगाम;

झूकते, थक कर चूर लम्हे ।

सुबहो-शाम की गठरी और टोकरी
बाँधने-खोलने में बीत रही है ज़िंदगी

क्यूँ बाँधू ईनको?

क्यूँ सजाऊं इनसे अपने मन की अटारी?

छोड दूँ गठरी के सिरों को खूला ही
बनालूँ रात के आसमाँ को टोकरी का ढक्कन

जीया जो पल उसे
बहा दूँ समय की नदीमें
दिया बनाकर!

या हवा के परों पर रखदूँ
डेन्डिलायन्स जैसे….


An encounter with the summer sun!

Heading home 

After a day’s work 

Sweat on my forehead 

Thirst burning my throat 

Summer Sun, heating pad on my back

Soothing my aches and pains 

Casting a shadow of me

On the road

In front of me

Making me tall

Shortening my journey home 

A cool breeze passing by 

I’m thinking of home.