Poetry at Sangam
Poetry at Sangam showcases poetry in English and translations as well as essays on poetics and news of new releases.
He consumed so many books
that his wife’s feet became paper.
He would draw his face on the paper daily,
and daily, he would turn obscene.
His wife who was embroidering silence till now
went to Sartre when the pages started barking.
“Have you already met Rimbaud and Freud?
Saifu, my dear, Saifu, please, don’t talk like Mirabai!”
I understood that his eyes were now
turning into Keats’ eyes.
I, who was holding the clay-pot of Sohni
I, who had already introduced myself as Laila
said, “Don’t you dare to repeat the talks of the likes of Laila
have you no idea what loneliness is?”
He twerked while citing Shakespeare
after watching me all alone
Sartre went to Freud’s room.
He would keep staggering from his theories!
I understood how many books he has.
Nevertheless, he was Sartre
when I pointed towards the crowd He said
“What will you do after meeting so many Sartres?”
If you are really this hellbent then let’s go
to the rooms of Heer Sayyal.
After gaining the metaphor from Sartre
I organized a Critical Conference.
After much hard work I only managed to fill ‘Half the Room’.
So in the first half I called Freud
and in the second Rimbaud.
I started asking half questions
What is John Donne doing?
He wants to get rid of second-hand poets!
He’s annoyed with the thiefs.
Where is Dante?
He has absconded Inferno too!
He had a doubt.
He cannot wrestle with Khwaja-Saras for much time.
He has left a dog in the background.
What is the nature of this dog?
He barks in the memory of Simone de Beauvoir!
What does your imagination say about this?
Well according to Sartre’s conception
this dog has moved his face to Goethe’s house.
What is happening in the other half of the room?
Girls.
Which blame are they taking now?
They are counting their illegitimate offsprings!
Because of the rhyming scheme,
Sartre is unable to give all of them a name.
And hence his poem is turning out short.
And due to the meter, the critics are
not ready to be uprooted from their rooms.
But the critics have promised
that all the thinkers will get together
to profess “What is Society
and why does it exist?”
Well the job of the air is to flow.
How is the eye of the far-sighted?
Deeper than a drag of a cigarette.
They were taking out the stones from the thirsty crow’s pot
and were proclaiming that I’m not only the creator of this pot
but of its temperament too.
With tea, cakes of backbiting are necessary.
and everyone writes the Foreword
of the book of slander.
Through tongues the dead, fallen by extinguished arrows, are rising.
Communication is at its peak.
On the face of society a tongue rolls
that each person has
the dominion of books larger than the person itself.
In that dominion,
by forging the tales of queens
one gets the nut of knowledge.
On a bill’s blank page
the knowledge gets written.
With each fresh investigation
everyone is bribed.
First, tell me struggle’s date of birth?
Am I a critic that I should be blabbering about history?
Read someone’s work
you’ll find the history.
Why are there tears in your eyes?
I have to write the preface to Mir’s book.
Whose slate is this?
The critic’s.
Whose eye is this?
I think it is Saifu’s!
And this hand?
It appears to be Ghalib’s!
Nonsense.
If I get some financial security then I’ll surely tell.
I have named dropped all the people I knew.
But how do you contemplate this?
What can I do but wag my tail?
‘Aadha Kamra’ (Urdu) by Sara Shagufta, translated by Abdur Rehman Khan