Epithalamion by e.e. cummings

I.

Thou aged unreluctant earth who dost

with quivering continual thighs invite

the thrilling rain the slender paramour

to toy with thy extraordinary lust,

(the sinuous rain which rising from thy bed

steals to his wife the sky and hour by hour

wholly renews her pale flesh with delight)

-immortally whence are the high gods fled?

Speak elm eloquent pandar with thy nod

significant to the ecstatic earth

in token of his coming whom her soul

burns to embrace-and didst thou know the god

from but the imprint of whose cloven feet

the shrieking dryad sought her leafy goal,

at the mere echo of whose shining mirth

the furious hearts of mountains ceased to beat?

Wind beautifully who wanderest

over smooth pages of forgotten joy

proving the peaceful theorems of the flowers

-didst e'er depart upon more exquisite quest?

and did thy fortunate fingers sometime dwell

(within a greener shadow of secret bowers)

among the curves of that delicious boy

whose serious grace one goddess loved too well?

Chryselephantine Zeus Olympian

sceptred colossus of the Pheidian soul

whose eagle frights creation,in whose palm

Nike presents the crown sweetest to man,

whose lilied robe the sun's white hands emboss,

betwixt whose absolute feet anoint with calm

of intent stars circling the acerb pole

poises,smiling,the diadumenos

in whose young chiseled eyes the people saw

their once again victorious Pantarkes

(whose grace the prince of artists made him bold

to imitate between the feet of awe),

thunderer whose omnipotent brow showers

its curls of unendured eternal gold

over the infinite breast in bright degrees,

whose pillow is the graces and the hours,

father of gods and men whose subtle throne

twain sphinxes bear each with a writhing youth

caught to her brazen breasts,whose foot-stool tells

how fought the looser of the warlike zone

of her that brought forth tall Hippolytus,

lord on whose pedestal the deep expels

(over Selene's car closing uncouth)

of Helios the sweet wheels tremulous-

are there no kings in Argos,that the song

is silent,of the steep unspeaking tower

within whose brightening strictness Danae

saw the night severed and the glowing throng

descend,felt on her flesh the amorous strain

of gradual hands and yielding to that fee

her eager body's unimmortal flower

knew in the darkness a more burning rain?

2.

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring

assembles beauty from forgetfulness

with the wild trump of April:witchery

of sound and odour drives the wingless thing

man forth in the bright air,for now the red

leaps in the maple's cheek,and suddenly

by shining hordes in sweet unserious dress

ascends the golden crocus from the dead.

On dappled dawn forth rides the pungent sun

with hooded day preening upon his hand

followed by gay untimid final flowers

(which dressed in various tremulous armor stun

the eyes of ragged earth who sees them pass)

while hunted from his kingdom winter cowers,

seeing green armies steadily expand

hearing the spear-song of the marching grass.

A silver sudden parody of snow

tickles the air to golden tears,and hark!

the flicker's laughing yet,while on the hills

the pines deepen to whispers primeval and throw

backward their foreheads to the barbarous bright

sky,and suddenly from the valley thrills

the unimaginable upward lark

and drowns the earth and passes into light

(slowly in life's serene perpetual round

a pale world gathers comfort to her soul,

hope richly scattered by the abundant sun

invades the new mosaic of the ground

-let but the incurious curtaining dusk be drawn

surpassing nets are sedulously spun

to snare the brutal dew,-the authentic scroll

of fairie hands and vanishing with the dawn).

Spring,that omits no mention of desire

in every curved and curling thing,yet holds

continuous intercourse-through skies and trees

the lilac's smoke the poppy's pompous fire

the pansy's purple patience and the grave

frailty of daises-by what rare unease

revealed of teasingly transparent folds-

with man's poor soul superlatively brave.

Surely from robes of particoloured peace

with mouth flower-faint and undiscovered eyes

and dim slow perfect body amorous

(whiter than lilies which are born and cease

for being whiter than this world)exhales

the hovering high perfume curious

of that one month for whom the whole years dies,

risen at length from palpitating veils.

O still miraculous May!O shining girl

of time untarnished!O small intimate

gently primeval hands,frivolous feet

divine!O singular and breathless pearl!

O indefinable frail ultimate pose!

O visible beatitude sweet sweet

intolerable!silence immaculate

of god's evasive audible great rose!

3.

Lover,lead forth thy love unto that bed

prepared by whitest hands of waiting years,

curtained with wordless worship absolute,

unto the certain altar at whose head

stands that clear candle whose expecting breath

exults upon the tongue of flame half-mute,

(haste ere some thrush with silver several tears

complete the perfumed paraphrase of death).

Now is the time when all occasional things

close into silence,only one tree,one

svelte translation of eternity

unto the pale meaning of heaven clings,

(whose million leaves in winsome indolence

simmer upon thinking twilight momently)

as down the oblivious west's numerous dun

magnificence conquers magnificence.

In heaven's intolerable athanor

inimitably tortured the base day

utters at length her soft intrinsic hour,

and from those tenuous fires which more and more

sink and are lost the divine alchemist,

the magus of creation,lifts a flower-

whence is the world's insufferable clay

clothed with incognizable amethyst.

Lady at whose imperishable smile

the amazed doves flicker upon sunny wings

as if in terror of eternity,

(or seeming that they would mistrust a while

the moving of beauteous dead mouths throughout

that very proud transparent company

of quivering ghosts-of-love which scarcely sings

drifting in slow diaphanous faint rout),

queen in the inconceivable embrace

of whose tremendous hair that blossom stands

whereof is most desire,yet less than those

twain perfect roses whose ambrosial grace,

goddess,thy crippled thunder-forging groom

or the loud lord of skipping maenads knows,-

having Discordia's apple in thy hands,

which the scared shepherd gave thee for his doom-

O thou within the chancel of whose charms

the tall boy god of everlasting war

received the shuddering sacrament of sleep,

betwixt whose cool incorrigible arms

impaled upon delicious mystery,

with gaunt limbs reeking of the whispered deep,

deliberate groping ocean fondled o'er

the warm long flower of unchastity,

imperial Cytherea,from frail foam

sprung with irrevocable nakedness

to strike the young world into smoking song-

as the first star perfects the sensual dome

of darkness,and the sweet strong final bird

transcends the sight,O thou to whom belong

th ehearts of lovers!-I beseech thee bless

thy suppliant singer and his wandering word.

During Wind And Rain by Thomas Hardy

They sing their dearest songs--

He, she, all of them--yea,

Treble and tenor and bass.

And one to play;

With the candles mooning each face....

Ah, no; the years O!

How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss--

Elders and juniors--aye,

Making the pathways neat

And the garden gay;

And they build a shady seat....

Ah, no; the years, the years;

See, the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all--

Men and maidens--yea,

Under the summer tree,

With a glimpse of the bay,

While pet fowl come to the knee....

Ah, no; the years O!

And the rotten rose is ripped from the wall.

They change to a high new house,

He, she, all of them--aye,

Clocks and carpets and chairs

On the lawn all day,

And brightest things that are theirs....

Ah, no; the years, the years;

Down their carved names the raindrop plows.

Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

The sea is calm to-night.

The tide is full, the moon lies fair

Upon the straits; on the French coast the light

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.

Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!

Only, from the long line of spray

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land,

Listen! you hear the grating roar

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,

At their return, up the high strand,

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago

Heard it on the Agean, and it brought

Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow

Of human misery; we

Find also in the sound a thought,

Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore

Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.

But now I only hear

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,

Retreating, to the breath

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Digging by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner's bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I'll dig with it.

Dedication by Robert Louis Stevenson

My first gift and my last, to you

I dedicate this fascicle of songs -

The only wealth I have:

Just as they are, to you.

I speak the truth in soberness, and say

I had rather bring a light to your clear eyes,

Had rather hear you praise

This bosomful of songs

Than that the whole, hard world with one consent,

In one continuous chorus of applause

Poured forth for me and mine

The homage of ripe praise.

I write the finis here against my love,

This is my love's last epitaph and tomb.

Here the road forks, and I

Go my way, far from yours.

Deaths And Entrances by Dylan Thomas

On almost the incendiary eve

Of several near deaths,

When one at the great least of your best loved

And always known must leave

Lions and fires of his flying breath,

Of your immortal friends

Who'd raise the organs of the counted dust

To shoot and sing your praise,

One who called deepest down shall hold his peace

That cannot sink or cease

Endlessly to his wound

In many married London's estranging grief.

On almost the incendiary eve

When at your lips and keys,

Locking, unlocking, the murdered strangers weave,

One who is most unknown,

Your polestar neighbour, sun of another street,

Will dive up to his tears.

He'll bathe his raining blood in the male sea

Who strode for your own dead

And wind his globe out of your water thread

And load the throats of shells

with every cry since light

Flashed first across his thunderclapping eyes.

On almost the incendiary eve

Of deaths and entrances,

When near and strange wounded on London's waves

Have sought your single grave,

One enemy, of many, who knows well

Your heart is luminous

In the watched dark, quivering through locks and caves,

Will pull the thunderbolts

To shut the sun, plunge, mount your darkened keys

And sear just riders back,

Until that one loved least

Looms the last Samson of your zodiac.

Daddy by Sylvia Plath

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.

You died before I had time--

Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,

Ghastly statue with one gray toe

Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic

Where it pours bean green over blue

In the waters off beautiful Nauset.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town

Scraped flat by the roller

Of wars, wars, wars.

But the name of the town is common.

My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.

So I never could tell where you

Put your foot, your root,

I never could talk to you.

The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.

Ich, ich, ich, ich,

I could hardly speak.

I thought every German was you.

And the language obscene

An engine, an engine

Chuffing me off like a Jew.

A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.

I began to talk like a Jew.

I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna

Are not very pure or true.

With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck

And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack

I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,

With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.

And your neat mustache

And your Aryan eye, bright blue.

Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika

So black no sky could squeak through.

Every woman adores a Fascist,

The boot in the face, the brute

Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,

In the picture I have of you,

A cleft in your chin instead of your foot

But no less a devil for that, no not

Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.

I was ten when they buried you.

At twenty I tried to die

And get back, back, back to you.

I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do.

So daddy, I'm finally through.

The black telephone's off at the root,

The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year,

Seven years, if you want to know.

Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.

By An Evolutionist by Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man,

And the man said, ‘Am I your debtor?’

And the Lord-‘Not yet; but make it as clean as you can,

And then I will let you a better.’

I.

If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain or a fable,

Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines,

I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable,

Youth and health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines?

II.

What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age,

save breaking my bones on the rack?

Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar!

OLD AGE

Done for thee? starved the wild beast that was linkt with thee eighty years back.

Less weight now for the ladder-of-heaven that hangs on a star.

I.

If my body come from brutes, tho’ somewhat finer than their own,

I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall the royal voice be mute?

No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag me from the throne,

Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and rule thy province of the brute.

II.

I have climb’d to the snows of Age, and I gaze at a field in the Past.

Where I sank with the body at times in the sloughs of a low desire,

But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the Man is quiet at last,

As he stands on the heights of his life with a glimpse of a height that is higher.

Brown Penny by William Butler Yeats

I whispered, 'I am too young,'

And then, 'I am old enough';

Wherefore I threw a penny

To find out if I might love.

'Go and love, go and love, young man,

If the lady be young and fair.'

Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

I am looped in the loops of her hair.

O love is the crooked thing,

There is nobody wise enough

To find out all that is in it,

For he would be thinking of love

Till the stars had run away

And the shadows eaten the moon.

Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

One cannot begin it too soon.

Birches by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows--

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father's trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It's when I'm weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig's having lashed across it open.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:

I don't know where it's likely to go better.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Bear In There by Shel Silverstein

There's a Polar Bear

In our Frigidaire--

He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.

With his seat in the meat

And his face in the fish

And his big hairy paws

In the buttery dish,

He's nibbling the noodles,

He's munching the rice,

He's slurping the soda,

He's licking the ice.

And he lets out a roar

If you open the door.

And it gives me a scare

To know he's in there--

That Polary Bear

In our Fridgitydaire.

Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky

Be glad your nose is on your face,

not pasted on some other place,

for if it were where it is not,

you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose

were sandwiched in between your toes,

that clearly would not be a treat,

for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread

were it attached atop your head,

it soon would drive you to despair,

forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be

an absolute catastrophe,

for when you were obliged to sneeze,

your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,

remains between your eyes and chin,

not pasted on some other place--

be glad your nose is on your face!

Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio by James Wright

In the Shreve High football stadium,

I think of Polacks nursing long beers in Tiltonsville,

And gray faces of Negroes in the blast furnace at Benwood,

And the ruptured night watchman of Wheeling Steel,

Dreaming of heroes.

All the proud fathers are ashamed to go home.

Their women cluck like starved pullets,

Dying for love.

Therefore,

Their sons grow suicidally beautiful

At the beginning of October,

And gallop terribly against each other's bodies.

As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed by Jack Prelutsky

As soon as Fred gets out of bed,

his underwear goes on his head.

His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,

a head's no place for underwear!"

But near his ears, above his brains,

is where Fred's underwear remains.

At night when Fred goes back to bed,

he deftly plucks it off his head.

His mother switches off the light

and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"

And then, for reasons no one knows,

Fred's underwear goes on his toes.

And The Moon And The Stars And The World by Charles Bukowski

Long walks at night--

that's what good for the soul:

peeking into windows

watching tired housewives

trying to fight off

their beer-maddened husbands.

America by Allen Ginsberg

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.

America two dollars and twentyseven cents January

17, 1956.

I can't stand my own mind.

America when will we end the human war?

Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.

I don't feel good don't bother me.

I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.

America when will you be angelic?

When will you take off your clothes?

When will you look at yourself through the grave?

When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?

America why are your libraries full of tears?

America when will you send your eggs to India?

I'm sick of your insane demands.

When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I

need with my good looks?

America after all it is you and I who are perfect not

the next world.

Your machinery is too much for me.

You made me want to be a saint.

There must be some other way to settle this argument.

Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back

it's sinister.

Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical

joke?

I'm trying to come to the point.

I refuse to give up my obsession.

America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.

America the plum blossoms are falling.

I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday

somebody goes on trial for murder.

America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.

America I used to be a communist when I was a kid

I'm not sorry.

I smoke marijuana every chance I get.

I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses

in the closet.

When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.

My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.

You should have seen me reading Marx.

My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.

I won't say the Lord's Prayer.

I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.

America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle

Max after he came over from Russia.

I'm addressing you.

Are you going to let your emotional life be run by

Time Magazine?

I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.

I read it every week.

Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner

candystore.

I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.

It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-

men are serious. Movie producers are serious.

Everybody's serious but me.

It occurs to me that I am America.

I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.

I haven't got a chinaman's chance.

I'd better consider my national resources.

My national resources consist of two joints of

marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable

private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour

and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.

I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of

underprivileged who live in my flowerpots

under the light of five hundred suns.

I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers

is the next to go.

My ambition is to be President despite the fact that

I'm a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly

mood?

I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as

individual as his automobiles more so they're

all different sexes.

America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500

down on your old strophe

America free Tom Mooney

America save the Spanish Loyalists

America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die

America I am the Scottsboro boys.

America when I was seven momma took me to Com-

munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a

handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the

speeches were free everybody was angelic and

sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-

cere you have no idea what a good thing the

party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand

old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me

cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody

must have been a spy.

America you don't really want to go to war.

America it's them bad Russians.

Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.

And them Russians.

The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power

mad. She wants to take our cars from out our

garages.

Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'

Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.

Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-

tions.

That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.

Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us

all work sixteen hours a day. Help.

America this is quite serious.

America this is the impression I get from looking in

the television set.

America is this correct?

I'd better get right down to the job.

It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes

in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and

psychopathic anyway.

America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

All the World's a Stage by William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

A Word to Husbands by Ogden Nash

To keep your marriage brimming

With love in the loving cup,

Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;

Whenever you’re right, shut up.

A pretty a day by E. E. Cummings

A pretty a day

(and every fades)

is here and away

(but born are maids

to flower an hour

in all,all)

o yes to flower

until so blithe

a doer a wooer

some limber and lithe

some very fine mower

a tall;tall

some jerry so very

(and nellie and fan)

some handsomest harry

(and sally and nan

they tremble and cower

so pale:pale)

for betty was born

to never say nay

but lucy could learn

and lily could pray

and fewer were shyer

than doll. doll

A Poison Tree by William Blake

I was angry with my friend;

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I waterd it in fears,

Night & morning with my tears:

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine,

And he knew that it was mine.

And into my garden stole.

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see,

My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.

A Girl by Ezra Pound

The tree has entered my hands,

The sap has ascended my arms,

The tree has grown in my breast-

Downward,

The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,

Moss you are,

You are violets with wind above them.

A child - so high - you are,

And all this is folly to the world.

A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow--

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep--while I weep!

O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

A Birthday Poem by Ted Kooser

Just past dawn, the sun stands

with its heavy red head

in a black stanchion of trees,

waiting for someone to come

with his bucket

for the foamy white light,

and then a long day in the pasture.

I too spend my days grazing,

feasting on every green moment

till darkness calls,

and with the others

I walk away into the night,

swinging the little tin bell

of my name.

There is another sky by Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,

Ever serene and fair,

And there is another sunshine,

Though it be darkness there;

Never mind faded forests, Austin,

Never mind silent fields -

Here is a little forest,

Whose leaf is ever green;

Here is a brighter garden,

Where not a frost has been;

In its unfading flowers

I hear the bright bee hum:

Prithee, my brother,

Into my garden come!

Digging by Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner's bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I'll dig with it.

Bear In There by Shel Silverstein

There's a Polar Bear

In our Frigidaire--

He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.

With his seat in the meat

And his face in the fish

And his big hairy paws

In the buttery dish,

He's nibbling the noodles,

He's munching the rice,

He's slurping the soda,

He's licking the ice.

And he lets out a roar

If you open the door.

And it gives me a scare

To know he's in there--

That Polary Bear

In our Fridgitydaire.

Happiness by Raymond Carver

So early it's still almost dark out.

I'm near the window with coffee,

and the usual early morning stuff

that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend

walking up the road

to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,

and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.

They are so happy

they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take

each other's arm.

It's early in the morning,

and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.

The sky is taking on light,

though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute

death and ambition, even love,

doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on

unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,

any early morning talk about it.

Be Glad Your Nose is on Your Face by Jack Prelutsky

Be glad your nose is on your face,

not pasted on some other place,

for if it were where it is not,

you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose

were sandwiched in between your toes,

that clearly would not be a treat,

for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread

were it attached atop your head,

it soon would drive you to despair,

forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be

an absolute catastrophe,

for when you were obliged to sneeze,

your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,

remains between your eyes and chin,

not pasted on some other place--

be glad your nose is on your face!

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins,

And there the grass grows soft and white,

And there the sun burns crimson bright,

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black

And the dark street winds and bends.

Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,

For the children, they mark, and the children, they know

The place where the sidewalk ends.

The Blessed Damozel by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The blessed damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of Heaven;

Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even;

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,

No wrought flowers did adorn,

But a white rose of Mary's gift,

For service meetly worn;

Her hair that lay along her back

Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseemed she scarce had been a day

One of God's choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite gone

From that still look of hers;

Albeit, to them she left, her day

Had counted as ten years.

(To one, it is ten years of years.

...Yet now, and in this place,

Surely she leaned o'er me -her hair

Fell all about my face...

Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves.

The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God's house

That she was standing on;

By God built over the sheer depth

The which is Space begun;

So high, that looking downward thence

She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in Heaven, across the flood

Of ether, as a bridge.

Beneath, the tides of day and night

With flame and darkness ridge

The void, as low as where this earth

Spins like a fretful midge.

Around her, lovers, newly met

Mid deathless love's acclaims,

Spoke evermore among themselves

Their heart-remembered names;

And the souls mounting up to God

Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped

Out of the circling charm;

Until her bosom must have made

The bar she leaned on warm,

And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw

Time like a pulse shake fierce

Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove

Within the gulf to pierce

Its path; and now she spoke as when

The stars sang in their spheres.

The sun was gone now; the curled moon

Was like a little feather

Fluttering far down the gulf; and now

She spoke through the still weather.

Her voice was like the voice the stars

Had when they sang together.

(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song,

Strove not her accents there,

Fain to be hearkened? When those bells

Possessed the midday air,

Strove not her steps to reach my side

Down all the echoing stair?)

"I wish that he were come to me,

For he will come," she said.

"Have I not prayed in Heaven? -on earth,

Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?

Are not two prayers a perfect strength?

And shall I feel afraid?

"When round his head the aureole clings,

And he is clothed in white,

I'll take his hand and go with him

To the deep wells of light;

As unto a stream we will step down,

And bathe there in God's sight.

"We two will stand beside that shrine,

Occult, withheld, untrod,

Whose lamps are stirred continually

With prayer sent up to God;

And see our old prayers, granted, melt

Each like a little cloud.

"We two will lie i' the shadow of

That living mystic tree

Within whose secret growth the Dove

Is sometimes felt to be,

While every leaf that His plumes touch

Saith His Name audibly.

"And I myself will teach to him,

I myself, lying so,

The songs I sing here; with his voice

Shall pause in, hushed and slow,

And find some knowledge at each pause,

Or some new thing to know."

(Alas! we two, we two, thou sayst!

Yea, one wast thou with me

That once of old. But shall God lift

To endless unity

The soul whose likeness with thy soul

Was but its love for thee?)

"We two," she said, "will seek the groves

Where the lady Mary is,

With her five handmaidens, whose names

Are five sweet symphonies,

Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,

Margaret and Rosalys.

"Circlewise sit they, with bound locks

And foreheads garlanded;

Into the fine cloth white like flame

Weaving the golden thread,

To fashion the birth-robes for them

Who are just born, being dead.

"He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:

Then will I lay my cheek

To his, and tell about our love,

Not once abashed or weak:

And the dear Mother will approve

My pride, and let me speak.

"Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,

To Him round Whom all souls

Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads

Bowed with their aureoles:

And angels meeting us shall sing

To their citherns and citoles.

"There will I ask of Christ the Lord

Thus much for him and me: -

Only to live as once on earth

With Love, -only to be,

As then awhile, for ever now

Together, I and he."

She gazed and listened and then said,

Less sad of speech than mild, -

"All this is when he comes." She ceased.

The light thrilled towards her, filled

With angels in strong level flight.

Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.

(I saw her smile.) But soon their path

Was vague in distant spheres:

And then she cast her arms along

The golden barriers,

And laid her face between her hands,

And wept. (I heard her tears.)

A Poet To His Beloved by William Butler Yeats

I BRING you with reverent hands

The books of my numberless dreams,

White woman that passion has worn

As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,

And with heart more old than the horn

That is brimmed from the pale fire of time:

White woman with numberless dreams,

I bring you my passionate rhyme ...

وہ شب و روز خیالوں میں تماشا نہ کرے

وہ شب و روز خیالوں میں تماشا نہ کرے

آ نہیں سکتا تو پھر یاد بھی آیا نہ کرے

ایک امید کی کھڑکی سی کھلی رہتی ہے

اپنے کمرے کا کوئی ، بلب بجھایا نہ کرے

میں مسافر ہوں کسی روز تو جانا ہے مجھے

کوئی سمجھائے اسے میری تمنا نہ کرے

روز ای میل کرے سرخ اِمج ہونٹوں کے

میں کسی اور ستارے پہ ہوں ، سوچا نہ کرے

حافظہ ایک امانت ہے کسی کی لیکن

یاد کی سرد ہو ا شام کو رویا نہ کرے

چاند کے حسن پہ ہر شخص کا حق ہے منصور

میں اسے کیسے کہوں رات کو نکلا نہ کرے

کل تک جو کر رہے تھے بڑے حوصلے کی بات

کل تک جو کر رہے تھے بڑے حوصلے کی بات

ہے ان کے لب پہ آج کٹھن مرحلے کی بات

جس کارواں کے سامنے تارے نِگوں رہے

صحرا میں اُڑ گئی ہے اُسی قافلے کی بات

آخر سرِ غرور نے سجدہ کیا اسے

یوں مختصر ہوئی ہے بڑے فاصلے کی بات

راہِ طلب میں ہم سے کوئی بھول ہو گئی

کیوں کر رہے ہیں آپ ہمارے صِلے کی بات

ہم نے تو عرض کر ہی دیا حرفِ مدعا

اب آپ ہی کریں گے کسی فیصلے کی بات

اُن کی تلاش اصل میں اپنی تلاش ہے

کس سلسلے سے جا ملی کس سلسلے کی بات ---

Khizaan Raseeda Chaman Mein Bahar Mushkil Hai ...

Khizaan Raseeda Chaman Mein Bahar Mushkil Hai

Tumharay Baad Kahin Aitabar Mushkil Hai

Kisi Se Is Liye Dushwaar Hai Khafa Hona

Mananay Aaye Ga Hum Ko Bhi Yaar Mushkil Hai

Ajeeb Raaz-e-Junoon Tha Jo Mere Dil Pe Khula

Teri Gali Mein Bhi Aa Kar Qarar Mushkil Hai

Humara Kaun Hai Ehl-e-Jafa Ki Basti Mein

Milay Ga Koi Humein Gham-Gusaar Mushkil Hai

Kahan Chalay Ho Muhabbat Khareednay "MOHSIN"

Baghair Sood Ke Milna Udhaar Mushkil Hai ...

Poet : Mohsin Naqvi

Contribute : Zahid Shah 

www.zahid-shah.blogspot.com/

Udas Sham Kisi Khawab Mein Dhali To Hai ...

Udas Sham Kisi Khawab Mein Dhali To Hai,

Yehi Bohat Hai K Taza Hawa Chali To Hai,

Jo Apni Shaq Se Bahar Abhi Nahi Aai,

Nai Bahar Ki Zameen Wohi Kali To Hai,

Dhowan To Jhoot Nahi Bolta Kabhi Yaro,

Humare Shaher Mein Basti Koi Jali To Hai,

Kisi K Ishq Mein Hum Jan Se Gaye Lekin,

Humare Naam Se Rasm-e-Wafa Chali To Hai,

Hazar Band Hon Dair-O-Haram K Darwaze,

Mere Liye Mere Mehboob Ki Gali To Hai ...

Contribute : Zahid Shah

www.zahid-shah.blogspot.com/

رسولِ کریم دی یاد وچ شاعری - منیر نیازی

رسولِ کریم دی یاد وچ شاعری

کیسے ہون گے گلی محلے کیہڑی طراں دیاں راہواں

اندروں گھر کیسے ہوون گے کیسیاں باہرلیاں تھانواں

رونق اوہناں ہزاراں دی تے لوکاں دیاں صداواں

دور دراز دیاں سفراں اندر ٹھہرن لئی سراواں

رات دناں وچ قافلے چلدے رُتاں دیاں ہواواں

کویں میں ایڈا پینڈا کٹ کے اوس سمے وچ جانواں

کویں میں اوہ تصویراں کھچ کے دنیا کول لیاواں

کویں میں اج دے شہراں نوں اوہ حسن دی جھلک وخاواں

شہر مبارک اوہناں دناں دے سوہنیاں دُھپاں چھانواں

جنہاں چ پھریا شام سویرے احمد دا پرچھانواں

منیر نیازی

حفاظتی بند باندھ لیجئے : ابن انشاء

ہم میں آوارہ سو بو لوگو

جیسے جنگل میں رنگ و بو لوگو

ساعت چند کے مسافر سے

کوئی دم اور گفتگو لوگوa

تھے تمہاری طرح کبھی ہم بھی

رنگ و نکہت کی آبرو لوگو

قریۂ عاشقی ہراچہ و دل

گھر ہمارے بھی تھے کبھی لوگو

وقت ہوتا تو آرزو کرتے

جانے کس شے کی آرزو لوگو

تاب ہوتی تو جستجو کرتے

جانے کس کس کی جستجو لوگو

کوئی منزل نہیں روانا ہیں

ہم مسافر میں بے ٹھکانا ہیں

ابن انشاء

چار پہر کی رات : ابن انشاء

جھوٹی سچی مجبوری پر لال دلھن نے کھینچا ہات

باجے گاجے بجتے رہے پر لوٹ گئی ساجن کی برات

سکھیوں نے اتنا بھی نہ دیکھا ٹوٹ گئے کیا کیا سنجوگ

ڈھولک پر چاندی کے چوڑے چھنکاتے میں کاٹی رات

بھاری پردوں کے پیچھے کی چھایا کو معلوم نہ تھا

آج سے بیگانہ ہوتا ہے کس کا دامن کس کا ہات

میلے آنسو ڈھلکے جھومر ،اجلی چادرسونی سیج

اوشا دیوی یوں دیکھ رہی ہو کس کی محبت کی سوغات

چاند کے اجیالے پی نہ جاؤ موم کی یہ شمعیں نہ بجھاؤ

باہر کے سورج نہ بلا ؤ جلنے دو تنکے کے ا لاؤ

کس مہندی کا رنگ ہوا یہ کس سہرے کے پھول ہوئے

بوجھنے والے بوجھ ہی لیں گے لاکھ نہ بولو لاکھ چھپاؤ

ہم کو کیا معلوم نہیں سمجھوں کو ناحق سمجھاؤ

جیسے کل کی بات ہو جانی پیت کے سب پیمان ہوئے

پردے اڑیں دریچے کانپیں پروا کے جھونکے آئیں جائیں

سانجھ سمے کے شوکتے جنگل کس کو پکاریں کس کو بلائیں

درد کی آنچ جگر کو جلائے پلکیں نہ جھپکیں نیند نہ آئے

روگ کے کیڑے سینہ چاٹیں زخموں کی دیواریں سہلائیں

یاد کے دوار کو تیغہ کر دو جگہ جگہ پہرے بٹھلا دو

اجنبی بنجاروں سے کہہ دو پیت نگر کی راہ نہ آئیں

انشا جی اک بات جو پوچھیں تم نے کسی سے عشق کیا ہے

ہم بھی تو سمجھیں ہم بھی تو جانیں عشق میں ایسا کیا ہوتا ہے

مفت میں جان گنوا لیتے ہیں ہم نے تو ایساسن رکھا ہے

نام و مقدم ہمیں بتلائیں آپ نہ اپنے جی کو دکھائیں

ہم ابھی مشکیں باندھ کے لائیں کون وہ ایسا ماہ لقا ہے

سانس میں پھانس جگر میں کانٹے سینہ لال گلال نہ پوچھ

اتنے دنوں کے بعد تو پیارے بیماروں کا حال نہ پوچھ

کیسے کٹے جیسے بھی کٹے اب اور بڑھے گا ملال نہ پوچھ

قرنوں اور جگنوں پر بھاری مہجوری کے سال نہ پوچھ

جن تاروں کی چھاؤں میں ہم نے دیکھے تھے وہ سکھ کے خواب

کیسے ان تاروں نے بگاڑی ا پنی ہماری چال نہ پوچھ

ابن انشاء

جنوری کی سرد راتیں ہیں طویل : ابن انشاء

دل بہلنے کی نہیں کوئی سبیل

جنوری کی سرد راتیں ہیں طویل

ڈالتا ہوں اپنے ماضی پر نگاہ

گاہے گاہے کھنچتا ہوں سرد آہ

کس طرح اب دل کو رہ پر لاؤںمیں

کس بہانے سے اسے بھولاؤں میں

سب کو محو خواب راحت چھوڑ کے

نیند آتی ہے مرے شبستاں میں مرے

مجھ کو سوتے دیکھ کر آتا ہے کوئی

میرے سینے سے چمٹ جاتا ہے کوئی

دیکھتا ہوں آکےا کثر ہوش میں

کوئی ظالم ہے مری آغوش میں

خود کو مگر تنہا ہی پاتا ہوں میں

پھر گھڑی بھر بعد سوجاتا ہوں میں

پھر کسی کو دیکھتا ہوں خواب میں

اس دفعہ پہچان لیتا ہوں تمہیں

بھاگ جاتے ہو قریب صبحدم

چھوڑ دیتے ہو رہین رنج و غم

مجھ کو تم سے عشق تھا مدت ہوئی

ان دنوں تم کو بھی الفت مجھ سے تھی

کم نگاہیا قتصائے سال و سن

کیا ہوئی تھی بات جانے ایک دن

بندا پنا آنا جانا ہو گیا

اور اس پر اک زمانا ہو گیا

تم غلط سمجھے ہوا میں بد گماں

بات چھوٹی تھی مگر پہنچی کہاں

جلد ہی میں تو پیشماں ہوگیا

تم کو بھیا حساس کچھ ایسا ہوا

نشہ پندار میں لیکن تھے مست

تھی گراں دونو پہ تسلیم شکست

ہجر کے صحرا کو طے کرنا پڑا

مل گیا تھا رہنما امید سا

ہے مری جرات کی اصل اب بھی یہی

دل یہ کہتا ہے کہ دیکھیں تو سہی

جس میں اترا تھا ہمارا کارواں

اب بھی ممکن ہے وہ خالی ہو مکاں

آج تک دیتے رہے دل کو فریب

اب نہیں ممکن ذراتاب شکیب

آؤ میرے دیدہ تر میں رہو

آؤ اس اجڑے ہوئے گھر میں رہو

حوصلے سے میں پہل کرتا تو ہوں

دل میں اتناسوچ کر ڈرتا بھی ہوں

تم نہ ٹھکرا دو مری دعوت کہیں

میں یہ سمجھوں گا اگر کہہ دو نہیں

گردش ایام کو لوٹالیا

میں نے جو کھو دیا تھا پا لیا

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ابن انشاء

جس کی محنت اس کا حاصل : ابن انشاء

سکھ کے سپنے دیکھتے جاگے

جگ جگ کے دکھیارے سائیں

کھلتا ہے محنت کا پرچم

سنتے ہو جیکارے سائیں

دھرتی کانپنے انبر کانپے

کانپیں چاند ستارے سائیں

لوہے کو پگھلانے والے

آپ بھی ہیں انگیارے سائیں

گولی لاٹھی ، پیہ ، ساسن

ان کے آگے ہا رے سائیں

کل تک تھے یہ سب بیچارے پر

آج نہیں بیچارے سائیں

تو نے تو یہ بات سمجھ لی

اوروں کو سمجھا رے سائیں !

ان کی محنت ہم نے لوٹی

ہم سب ہیں ہنڈارے سائیں

ان کی قسمت کٹیا کھولی

ہم نے محل اسارے سائیں

ان کا حصہ آدھی روٹی

اپنے پیٹ اپھارے سائیں

ان کے گھر اندھیارا ٹوٹا

سورج چاند ہمارے سائیں

اندھیاروں کا جاد و ٹوٹے

اب وہ جوت جگارے سائیں

ان سے جگ نے جو کچھ لوٹا

آج انہیں لوٹا رے سائیں

تو بھی دیکھے میں بھی دیکھوں

محنت کے نظارے سائیں

آج بھی کتنی خالی دھرتی

کتنے کھیت کنوارے سائیں

—– ٭—–

یہ دھرتی کا پوٹا چیریں

کوئلہ ۔ لوہا بھر بھر لائیں

خون پسینے فرق نہ سمجھیں

بھاری بھر کم ملیں چلائیں

چونا پتھر مٹی گارا

یہی سنبھالیں یہی ا ٹھائیں

پھر بھی ہے دل میں یہی دبدھا

کل کیا پہنیں کل کیا کھائیں

پیٹ پہ پتھر باندھ کے سوئیں

فٹ پاتھوں پر عمر بتائیں

—– ٭ —–

اندھیاروں کاسینہ چیرے

اب وہ جوت جگانا ہوگا

ان سے جگ نے جو کچھ لوٹا

آج انہیں لوٹا نا ہوگا

جس کی محنت اس کا حاصل

اب ہی بھید بتا نا ہو گا

اب تو اور ہی شام سویرا

اب تو اور زمانہ ہوگا

اب ان کو سمجھا نا کیسا

اپنے کو سمجھا نا ہو گا

پہلے تھے ارشاد ہمارے

اب ان کافر ما نا ہو گا

ان کے بھاگ جگا کر سائیں

اپنا بھاگ جگا نا ہو گا

• — — — — — — — — — — — — •

ابن انشاء

جپوست : ابن انشاء

جب درد کا دل پر پہرا ہو

اور جب یاد کا گھاؤ گہرا ہو

آ جائے گا آرام

جپوست نام

جپوست نام

یہ بات تو ظاہر ہے بھائی

ہے عشق کا حاصل رسوائی

پر سوچو کیوں ا نجام

جپوست نام

جپوست نام

یہ عمر کسی پر مرنے کی

کچھ بیت گئی کچھ بیتے گی

وہ پکی ہے تم خام

جپوست نام

جپوست نام

جب عشق کا درد تم بھرتے ہو

کیوں ہجر کے شکوے کرتے ہو

یہ عشق کا ہے انعام

جپوست نام

جپوست نام

سب اول اول گھبراتے ہیں

سبا خر آخر لے آتے

اس کافر پر اسلام

جپوست نام

ٍ جپوست نام

اب چھوڑ کے بیٹھو چپکے سے

سب جھگڑے دین اور دنیا کے

آتی ہے وہ خوش اندام

جپوست نام

جپوست نام

جہاں میر سفر ،وزیر بھی ہے

اس بھیڑ میں ایک فقیر بھی ہے

اور اس کا ہے یہ کلام

جپوست نام

جپوست نام

ابن انشاء

جب عمر کی نقدی ختم ہوئی : ابن انشاء

اب عمر کی نقدی ختم ہوئی

اب ہم کو ادھار کی حاجت ہے

ہے کوئی جو ساہو کار بنے

ہے کوئی جو دیون ہار بنے

کچھ سال ،مہینے، دن لوگو

پر سود بیاج کے بن لوگو

ہاںا پنی جاں کے خزانے سے

ہاں عمر کے توشہ خانے سے

کیا کوئی بھی ساہو کار نہیں

کیا کوئی بھی دیون ہار نہیں

جب ناما دھر کا آیا کیوں

سب نے سر کو جھکایا ہے

کچھ کام ہمیں نپٹانے ہیں

جنہیں جاننے والے جانے ہیں

کچھ پیار ولار کے دھندے ہیں

کچھ جگ کے دوسرے پھندے ہیں

ہم مانگتے نہیں ہزار برس

دس پانچ برس دو چار برس

ہاں ،سود بیاج بھی دے لیں گے

ہں اور خراج بھی دے لیں گے

آسان بنے، دشوار بنے

پر کوئی تو دیون ہار بنے

تم کون ہو تمہارا نام کیا ہے

کچھ ہم سے تم کو کام کیا ہے

کیوں اس مجمع میں آئی ہو

کچھ مانگتی ہو ؟ کچھ لاتی ہو

یہ کاروبار کی باتیں ہیں

یہ نقد ادھار کی باتیں ہیں

ہم بیٹھے ہیں کشکول لیے

سب عمر کی نقدی ختم کیے

گر شعر کے رشتے آئی ہو

تب سمجھو جلد جدائی ہو

اب گیت گیاسنگیت گیا

ہاں شعر کا موسم بیت گیا اب پت جھڑ آئی پات گریں

کچھ صبح گریں، کچھ را ت گریں

یہا پنے یار پرانے ہیں

اک عمر سے ہم کو جانے ہیں

ان سب کے پاس ہے مال بہت

ہاں عمر کے ماہ و سال بہت

ان سب کو ہم نے بلایا ہے

اور جھولی کو پھیلایا ہے

تم جاؤ ان سے بات کریں

ہم تم سے نا ملاقات کریں

کیا پانچ برس ؟

کیا عمرا پنی کے پانچ برس ؟

تم جا ن کی تھیلی لائی ہو ؟

کیا پاگل ہو ؟ سو دائی ہو ؟

جب عمر کا آخر آتا ہے

ہر دن صدیاں بن جاتا ہے

جینے کی ہوس ہی زالی ہے

ہے کون جو اس سے خالی ہے

کیا موت سے پہلے مرنا ہے

تم کو تو بہت کچھ کرنا ہے

پھر تم ہو ہماری کون بھلا

ہاں تم سے ہمارا رشتہ ہے

کیاسود بیاج کا لالچ ہے ؟

کسی اور خراج کا لالچ ہے ؟

تم سوہنی ہو ، من موہنی ہو ؛

تم جا کر پوری عمر جیو

یہ پانچ برس، یہ چار برس

چھن جائیں تو لگیں ہزار برس

سب دوست گئے سب یار گئے

تھے جتنے ساہو کار ، گئے

بس ایک یہ ناری بیٹھی ہے

یہ کون ہے ؟ کیا ہے ؟ کیسی ہے ؟

ہاں عمر ہمیں درکار بھی ہے ؟

ہاں جینے سے ہمیں پیار بھی ہے

جب مانگیں جیون کی گھڑیاں

گستاخ آنکھوں کت جا لڑیاں

ہم قرض تمہیں لوٹا دیں گے

کچھ اور بھی گھڑیاں لا دیں گے

جو ساعت و ماہ و سال نہیں

وہ گھڑیاں جن کو زوال نہیں

لو اپنے جی میں اتار لیا

لو ہم نے تم کو ادھار لیا

ابن انشاء

تلانجلی : ابن انشاء

تو جو کہے تجدید محبت میں تو مجھے کچھ عار نہیں

دل ہے بکار خویش ذرا ہشیار ،ابھی تیار نہیں

صحرا جو عشق جنوں پیشہ نے دکھائے دیکھ چکا

مد و جرز کی لہریں گھٹتے بڑھتے سائے دیکھ چکا

عقل کا فرمانا ہے کہ اب اس دام حسیں سے دور ہوں

زنداں کی دیواروں سے سر پھوڑ مرا نوخیز جنوں

صحبت اول ہی میں شکست جرات تنہا دیکھ چکا

)٢(

کاوش نغمہ رنگ اثر سے عاری کی عاری ہی رہی

جلوہ گری تیری بھی نشاط روح کاساماں ہو نہ سکی

سوچ رہا ہوں کتنی تمناؤں کو لیے آیا تھا یہاں

مجھ پہ نگاہ لطف تری اب بھی ہے مگر پہلی سی کہاں

آج میں ساقی یاد ہوں تجھ کو درد تہ ساغر کے لیے

کل کی خبر ہے کس کو بھلا اتنا بھی رہے کل یانہ رہے

دھندکے بادل چھوٹ رہے ہیں ٹوٹتے جاتے ہیںافسو

سوچ رہا ہوں کیوں نہ اسی بے کیف فضا میں لوٹ چلوں

ساقی رعنا تجھ سے یہی کم آگہی کا شکوہ ہی رہا

کاوش نغمہ رنگ اثر سے عاری کی عاری ہی رہی

حیلہ گری تیری بھی نشاط روح کاساماں ہو نہ سکی

لذت و زیرو بم سے رہی محروم نوائے بربط و نے

ڈھل نہ سکے آہنگ میں خاکے آنہ سکی فریاد میں لے

کر دیکھی ہر رنگ میں تو نے سعی نشاط سوزدروں

پھر بھی اے مطرب خلوت محمل میں رہی لیلائے سکوں

کشتی آوارہ کو کسی ساحل کاسہارا مل نہ سکا

دیکھ چکا انجام تمنا ، جان تمنا تو ہی بتا

ہے یہی نشہ غایت صہباساقی رعنا تو ہی بتا

چارہ غم تھا دعوی نغمہ ،خالق نغمہ تو ہی بتا

حسن کا احساںا ٹھ نہ سکے تو عشق کاسوداچھوڑ نہ دوں

کیف بقدر ہوش نہ ہو تو ساغر صہبا پھوڑ نہ دوں

بربط و نے سے کچھ نہ بنے تو بربط ونے کو توڑ دوں

قطع جنوں میں جرم ہی کیا ہے پھر مری لیلی تو ہی بتا

ابن انشاء

تحقیق : ابن انشاء

تھوڑی کڑوی ضرور ہے بابا

اپنے غم کا مگر مداوا ہے

ذائقہ کا قصور ہے بابا

تلخ و شیریں میں فاصلہ کیا ہے

رنگ و روغن کو سال و سن کو نہ دیکھ

پیڑ گننا کہ آم کھانا ہے

عمر گزری ہے خانقاہوں میں

ایک شب یاں گزار جانا ہے

حسن مختوم خوب تھا بابا

کاش حصے میں آپ کے آسکتا

عشق معصوم کیا کہا بابا

کاش میں یہ فریب کھاسکتا

حسن کا مل عیار عشق نفیس

سب مراحل سے گزر چکا ہوں میں

دل خریدا تھا کبھی ان کا

اب فقط اتنا جانتا ہوں میں

ایک رنگین خواب تھے بابا

موجہ ہائے سراب تھے بابا

ورنہ سرحد پہ تشنہ کامی کی

مئے رنگیں ہے سادہ پانی ہے

شرط حسن و وفا اضافی ہے

قید تسکین نفس کافی ہے

ابن انشاء

پہلا سجدہ : ابن انشاء

وہ ارمانوں کی اجڑی ہوئی بستی

پھر آج آباد ہوتی جا رہی ہے

جہاں سے کاروان شوق گزرے

نہ جانے کتنی مدت ہوگئی ہے

پلا تھا صحبت اہل حرم میں

میں برسوں سے تبستاں آشنا تھا

بنی لیکن خداسے نہ بتوں سے

میں دونوں آستانوں سے خفا تھا

مگر کچھ اور ہی عالم ہے اب تو

میں اپنی حیرتوں میں کھو گیا ہوں

مجسم ہو گئے ہیں حسن و جبروت

مجھے لینا میں بہکا جا رہا ہوں

کوئی یزداں ہو بت ہو آدمی ہو

اضافی قیمتوں سے ماورا ہوں

میں پہلی بار سجدہ کر رہا ہوں

ابن انشاء