Month: September 2023

I’d grant your wish, but there’s no time.
I’d pluck the moon, but there’s no time.

I know “I’m busy” vexes you.
I’d hear your pleas, but there’s no time.

Upon your pic in saree-look,
I’d pinch sindoor, but there’s no time.

If I could care for revenue,
I’d start up too, but there’s no time.

I gave the page my hours since dawn.
I’d give you dusk, but there’s no time.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, वक़्त नहीं है

waqt nahīn hei

KHāhish pūri kar detā par waqt nahīn hei
utār ke Kamar detā par waqt nahīn hei

jāntā hūn is masrūFiyat se shiKwe hein
shiKwon ko nazar detā par waqt nahīn hei

tumne sāDi mein bhejī hei taswīr apnī
usmein sindūr bhar detā par waqt nahīn hei

mujhe paDī hotī rozgārī kī agar
khol apnā daFtar detā par waqt nahīn hei

main subah se baiTha hūn kāgaz pe ‘Misra’
tujhe dopahar detā par waqt nahīn hei

Say what you will, certain it is
That Poetry’s odd. Fun, it is.

Though Writing is Worship for me,
You say my prideful run it is.

No habit drives my daily couplets.
Predestination it is.

Just let me keep composing lines.
Whatever your deal, done it is.

Come, feel what blows through windows here.
The zephyr of passion it is.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, सुरूर-ए-शायरीसुरूर-ए-शायरी

surūr-e-shāyarī

Jāne jo kaho ye to zarūr hei
shāyarī ka alag hi surūr hai

ibādat hei Gazalein likHna magar
tum kehte ho merā ye Gurūr hei

rozānā sheron kā bunnā bunwānā
ye ādat nahīn merā dastūr hei

ijāzat do jumle kasta rahūn main
koi shart phir do wo manzūr hei

khol ke khiDki khud dekh lo tum
jo beh rahā Fizā-e-Fitūr hei

Of blossoms on a thorn, beware.
Of certainty in doubt, beware.

She daily comes to steal your songs.
Of thieving Nightingale, beware.

Afraid of Beauty’s Rākhi strings?
Of finger-wrapping curls, beware.

She’ll leave it burning in the end.
Upon this bridge of love, beware.

He’ll pardon, Misra, all your sins.
Of Meeting the Supreme, beware.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, बचके रहियो

bachke rahiyo

kānTe pe khilī gul se bachke rahiyo
shak mein cHipe bilkul se bachke rahiyo

terā gānā churāne ātī hai har din
Is luTerī bulbul se bachke rahiyo

hasīnā ke rākhī se dūr bhāgne wāle
hasīnā ke kākul se bachke rahiyo

ākhir mein jalāke jāyegī mehbūbā
is mohabbat ke pul se bachke rahiyo

tere sab gunāh Khudā baksh degā ‘Misra’
moukā-e-takābul se bachke rahiyo

Does no one hear me, these walls excepted?
My ghazals are worthy, complaints excepted.

Why don’t you come and see my room
Where all’s kept well, my oaths excepted.

The roses are glad of my books’ embraces –
Their only home, your gardens excepted.

There’s nothing you can’t rely on here,
My sweet-sweet words, of course, excepted.

You’ll lose your all against me soon
With nothing to bet, emotions excepted.

To know me, Misra, come with me
Where no one is, ourselves excepted.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, “सिवाय…”

sivāy…

koi to sun lo in divāron ke sivā
kuch ghazal hein mere shikwon ke sivā

kabhi āo dekho merā kamrā yahān
sab barābar rakhtā hūn vādon ke sivā

meri kitābon se mil kar khush hein gulāb
ki ghar hei inkā tere bāghon ke sivā

kuch nahin jispe bharosā na kar sako
meri in mīthi mīthi bāton ke sivā

sab hāroge mere sāmne kuch na hoga
dāv pe lagāne jāzbāton ke sivā

mujhe gar jān-na hai to sāth chalo ‘Misra’
jahān koi na ho hum donon ke sivā

Everyone’s simply loving this year!
And here I am complaining this year.

It’s time to change the tide of times;
My mischief’s still campaigning this year.

They’re busy making Dreams come True.
My Truth is Doomsday reigning this year.

Allowed to read out a line, Misra,
I waste it on profaning this year.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, “नया साल मुबारक”

nayā sāl mubārak

nae sāl mein sab mohabbat kar rahein hein
aur hum hein ki shikāyat kar rahein hein

waqt to aa gaya hai ki waqt badle
hum phir wahi sharārat kar rahein hein

log banānein chalein hein sapnein haqiqat
hum haqiqat hi qayāmat kar rahein hein

ijāzat thi padhnein ko ek hi misra
hum fir touhīn-e-ijāzat kar rahein hein

On closer look, a gift of yours it seems.
Relief of Revelation’s yours, it seems.

It’s only I who knows of why I broke.
To other men, a work of yours it seems.

No others ever send complaints of me.
The only ones I get are yours, it seems.

Now, even seasoned drunkards leave this place,
When they detect a drink of yours, it seems.

It’s just how things have always been with us.
I do the crime but blame is yours, it seems.

Here, keep this house. Someday, you’ll need it too,
Though now, to you, the world is yours, it seems.

I’ll somehow find myself a partner, O Misra.
The life of loneliness is yours, it seems.

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, “तुम्हारा लगता है”

tumhārā lagtā hai

gaur karūn to inām tumhārā lagtā hai
ye rāhat-e-ilhām tumhārā lagtā hai

bas main jāntā hūn mere bikharne ka rāz
zamāne ko to kām tumhārā lagtā hai

hai nahīn kisī aur ko shikāyat mujhse
lagtā hai toh ilzām tumhārā lagtā hai

bhāg jāte hain sharābzāde bhī yahān se
galti se bhī gar jām tumhārā lagtā hai

kab se hi aise hotā ā rahā hai nā
jurm main kartā hūn nām tumhārā lagtā hai

rakh lo is ghar ko kabhī zarūrat hogī
tumhein jahān tamām tumhārā lagtā hai

DHūnDH hi lūngā koī aur humsafar Misra
tanhāyi par anjām tumhārā lagtā hai

The martyrs haunt me, nothing else.
My eyes have waters, nothing else.

The dervish peeked into our hearts.
Found desolations, nothing else.

In vain you seek my heart as home.
My heart has stories, nothing else.

What could I give to charity?
I own these worries, nothing else.

In ashes of my doom, they found
Naiveté and nothing else.

My hand of Ace and King was lost.
His hand had Queens and nothing else.

Why, Misra, pride myself on claps?
They’re kindnesses and nothing else.

---

Translated from my Hindi Poem “कुछ नहीं”

kucH nahīn

yād mein Kurbāniyon ke siwa kucH nahīn
hei ānkH mein pāniyon ke siwa kucH nahīn

sabke dilon mein jhānkta rahā darwish
mila virāniyon ke siwa kucH nahīn

Fuzūl baserā DHūnDH rahe ho is dil mein
yahān kahāniyon ke siwa kucH nahīn

sadke mein kyā hī detā jab mere paas thā
in pareshāniyon ke siwa kucH nahīn

Meri tabāhī kī astiyon mein milā
Meri nadāniyon ke siwa kucH nahīn

meri ikkā rājā ki joDī hār gayī
uske hāth rāniyon ke siwa kucH nahīn

kyon gurūr karūn in tāliyon pe ‘Misra’
ye meherbāniyon ke siwa kucH nahīn

You couldn’t even give a home,
what mansion will you give?
Just fill my begging bowl with alms,
what treasures will you give?

You left this blameless babe alone,
by calling it your sin,
To buy its docile silence now,
what premiums will you give?

Your whole society knows my name,
so many times I come.
Beyond this gossiped existence,
what stature will you give?

You shut your ears, lightning-quick,
before my thunderous roars.
I am a cloud, I’m meant to cry,
what license will you give?

When love itself you couldn’t give
in all these barren years,
So late in this relationship,
what respect will you give?

The only thing you still can give,
O Misra, is your name.
Beyond my own identity,
what birthright will you give?

---

Translated from my Hindi poem, “क्या दोगे”

kyā doge

ghar nahīn de pāye imārat kyā doge
ye kāsā bhar do bākī doulat kyā doge

cHoD gaye is māsūm ko galtī bulā kar
ab iskī Khamoshī kī kimat kyā doge

nām jāntā hai sārā mohallā tumhārā
ab is-se bhi zyādā shouharat kyā doge

band kar lete ho kān mujhe garajta dekh
bādal hūn rone kī ijazat kyā doge

mohabbat to tumse kabhī dī hī nahīn gayī
ab der ho gayī hai ab izzat kyā doge

sakte ho to do mujhe nām apnā ‘Misra’
pehchān se badī ab virāsat kyā doge

No sleep arrived. No dream arrived.
A boiling fear extreme arrived.

All well-cooked couplets quit my mind.
A half-cooked, verse-filled ream arrived.

With broken lines and missed accents
A faux-poet’s esteem arrived.

To hide my fear of losing face,
My facial boldness cream arrived.

My eyelids, tired, had hardly fell
When knocks of a sunbeam arrived.

Again, to show my debt of sleep,
The redness of my gleam arrived.

---

Translated from my Hindi Poem, “गैरमहफूज़”

gairmehfūz

na nīnd āyī na KHwāb āyā
ubaltā ik Dar betāb āyā

sab pake sher miT gaye zehen se
adHpake nazmon kā kitāb āyā

TūTe misron aur cHuTe nuKton sang
jHuTHe shāyar kā KHitāb āyā

KHauf-e-zalālat to pehle se thī
naklī beKHaufī kā naKāb āyā

jab wazan-e-thakān se palkein girīn
tabhī dastak-e-āftāb āyā

in ānkhon ki lāl lakīron mein
Fir cHHuTe nīnd kā hisāb āyā

In the time this moment passes,
My wrath will burn it all to ashes.

The pillars of our steely bond
Will melt to mild molasses.

That wish upon the shooting star,
Like stars will turn to gasses.

Your tears may douse the fire today.
They’ll drain tomorrow’s glasses.

---

gussā

jitnī der mein ye pal jāyegā
mere gusse se sab jal jāyegā

humāre rishte kī mināron kā
wo Faulād bhī gal jāyegā

TūTte tāre se māngī wo duā
us hi tāre sa DHal jāyegā

ānsuon se āj bachā loge par
unmein dūb humārā kal jāyegā