On Bidding Farewell

When there is no one around me,
I peep out through the window,
That opens to the back yard of past.

When I was a child very small,
Could hardly run about in the streets,
Came out holding finger of my mother,
To bid farewell to the young-men,
Of the village who enlisted themselves,
To render the daring sacred job,
Of defending the feeding motherland.

Still I recall the time remote,
And see men, women and children,
Bidding farewell, waving their hands,
The old mothers kissing the faces,
The fathers embracing them with love,
Patting the backs of well-built sons,
Well-bred with milk and pure butter.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Fuelling Arms

Nothing except wonder you behold,
Sitting among the modifiers of fate,
Radiating warmth, light of faith,
Transmitting through thin thread,
Heart to heart with ethereal link.

They throw you high into the sky,
Like a fettle falcon ready to fly.
Flight takes you to the world strange,
On the landing spots, you often find,
The same sacred hands anxious to receive,
The fueling arms open wide,
Ready to embrace, infuse the power,
For further journey to the higher skies.

Note: This poem is purely based on a spiritual experience, and nothing else. In my life I passed though a certain period (from 1992 to 1998) when I often felt a sort of titillating sensation and something dispatching from my physical body and flying with all sensation and consciousness, into the distant corners of the universe, beyond imagination where I observed other worlds much vaster than ours, saw spirits of the diseased men and women, often I had a chat with them who disclosed some mysteries. My poem is a narration of the same experience and it is not merely a vain imagining; I have evaded from exaggeration; I put my case to the psychiatrists, and spiritualists for comments and criticism, the poem also contains a substance for the cosmologists.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Snakes! Snakes!

Though it was a nightmare, yet very close to reality,
It is too hard to decide,
Make difference what the world was,
Where I was placed.

A patch was no more than an acre but full of snakes,
They sit coiled very close to one another,
Those which crawled, crawled with slow move.
They were of many colours, form and shapes;
Some were gold shining and some dark green,
Some were glassy transparent,
Trailed their bodies behind their thick necks,
Lashed flexibly if made of ploythene.

I had hardly a spot to place my feet,
At each step I was stung with deadly fangs,
At the bitten spots I felt the trouble as someone,
Placed the burning coals;
And in the veins my blood ran,
As boiled water runs in the tubes.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Then Rule The World

O! White-men armoured from top to toe,
You are uniformed like perturbed ghosts,
With helmets, visors and gasmasks,
Loaded with launchers, guns and grenades,
And other items of explosives.

You are bent upon to eliminate us all,
You believe you are purging the scheme,
So you came from the other pole of the world.
Why do you desire our skins be like yours?
Why do wish our features should resemble yours?
You are bent upon to raze
Beards and moustaches from our faces:
Ornaments of the countenance.
You wish to see us all in dressless from,
Breaking all limits that discriminate
Among Man, mammals, reptiles and fierce animals.
You think our thoughts should harmonize yours,
You have brought civilizations on the tracks
Of conflicts, and on the verge of holocaust.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Real Victory

The Real Victory

Victory and defeat in war,
Are the childish justifications.
Colour not your hands,
With the precious substance of Man.
Whether you nourish your mind,
With the elating thought of victory,
Or loathe with a despising thought of defeat,
You kill fathers, brothers and sons,
You kill mothers, sisters and daughters,
Even the infants sleeping in cradles,
You kill them with their innocent dreams,
They hardly know the self-made conflicts,
Flourishing, booming in the world.

Discard devices that you carry in hands,
And think awhile
Whether you kill or you are killed,
You fight against humanity,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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To The Bees

O! Little Bees,
You are regarded,
The little flying insects,
Devoid of common sense,
And guiding wisdom.
But I see vividly,
The hidden secrets
Of harmonious life.

All the time harnessed,
To the work assigned,
Some are employed to fetch,
The essence of perfumed flowers,
And some defend the hive,
Raiding upon the intruders,
While the others breed the young,
To enlarge the kingdom.

All selfless, sincere and loyal,
Compassionate in composing,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The Seventy Two

The secret hands removed the lids,
Curtains between the vision and the eyes,
And made a show of eternal reality.

The rectangular cloud-like substance,
Extended from the East to the North,
Stretched in the sky in thousands of acres,
Incredibly white, and glaring bright,
The most appealing to the parched hearts,
Cast celestial delight, pleasing to recall.
Though thousands of miles was far away,
Yet beheld I the spectacle vividly,
The phenomenon hidden to the eyes carnal.

I saw the Seventy Two clad,
In the bright gaily dresses, radiant costumes,
Riding on the white swift flying horses,
In cheerfulness unknown to the temporal world,
In the glaring brilliance the seemed merged,
Like a reflection in the huge mirror,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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The First Phase

The spheres of inferno hang around the Earth,
Fire in the hearts, flames in the minds,
Fury are the thoughts, horror resides in the souls.

Future is wrapped in the sheets of grimness
Shadows of actual joy fled away from the Earth
Soldiers march in bewilderment without knowing
Least the cause of killing and being killed,
The politicians’ idiosyncrasy has them hypnotized,
The sons, daughters and sweet partners are horrid,
And uncertain whether they will return
Or mingle and mix their blood, their flesh, their bones
Into dust of the craters, trenches of the battleground
Among the scattered carcasses covering all the field.

Lo! Explosions raise the storms of dust,
Bullets make ineffectual leaps to perforate the sky,
Holocaust has begun to descend,
All around the prostitute of Death knocks
Raising the powdered Earth and smoke of explosives

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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A Forest in the Garden

A Gardener with saintly vision,
Planted a garden making its division,
Into the zones two.

Fed he each plant and tree,
With the pure blood of his hopes;
And soon each nook and corner,
Began to flourish and blossom too.

Before they bore the mellow fruit,
And fragrant flowers with shades,
Light, deep and dark;
And enjoyed he the days of solace,
Death made him depart to the world next.

How sooner the garden changed;
Into a forest teeming with wild animals,
The hogs, the wolves, the snakes, the rats,
Came out of the kennels, hovels and holes,
Move they freely, with liberty, unafraid.

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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Ras Koh Has Died

(1)

When the womb of Ras Koh
Had been burnt, turned into ashes,
Kaleem (converser)
With blessed steps, came down from the top,
Into the valley.
From one end to the other
Death danced;
He had in his right hand the slats of death,
And the parched lips
Leapt with a wish to kiss them.
In the left hand was a vial
That contained Surma of Ras Koh,
Millions of eyes lay
On the declining route of the hill
With an urge to have a sight imparting skewer.

The descender broke
Good tidings with a new zealous tone,

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poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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