Hazrat-e-waaiz jo maa-khanay may ah-phawnchay khabhi
Aap ki tahzeem ko sheeshay jhukay, saagar utt-hay.
A mullah/preacher wandered into the inn once –
In his honour the wine-decanter bowed, the glasses rose!
Naam ho ja-ay wafah-daaron main aaj Anwar ka
Jiss thurah utt-hayn yay sudmain, aay-dile-muztar utt-hah.
Let the name of Anwar be added to the faithful –
Oh sad heart bear this pain with fortitude.
(Shahjahanpur (British India), 1930)
Na wo shaaqh baaqi hai, na pathay hain, na thinkay hain –
Muggar jubb burruqh chamkee, moonh say niklaa: “Aashiyan mera!”
No longer is that branch there, nor leaf, nor twig –
But when the lightning struck, escaped from my lips: “My nest!”
(New Dehli (British India), 1944 - written upon hearing that his beloved might be betrothed to another).
Konayn ki woos-suth ko bhurhanayn wallay,
Hurr zurray main sudd raaz chuppanay wallay,
Laa-ay ga ko-ee khilqat-e-deedawur aur
Nuzrayn mayri ko-thah bunna-nay wallay.
The expander of the scope of the universe,
The hider of hundred secrets in each atom -
Will you bring other seers into being,
You who have narrowed my vision?
Anwar Shaheed, formerly ILO
WANE AWAY THE WHITTLING MOON
The brightness of the moon was witness to such darkness -
Ugliness the moonlight could not overcome.
With the sorrow of the fat moon,
Big brown eyes watched sadly
As bombs killed the little curly tops.
The moon shed bitter tears
Unable to close its eye
Ashamed of the light it gives
To show the killing paths
Leading to Basra and Baghdad.
The sun rose painfully,
Braced itself to shine,
Blaming the moon for its deed.
Between the moon and the sun
Hearts and minds were lost
At the crack of desolate dawn.
Weeping at twilight
Yellowing in the dust
Embracing the dying sandstorm
Gagging the mirage of liberation,
The whittling moon waned away.
Ayse Sul Caglar & Zafar Shaheed, ILO
Un cadeau goes a long smile,
Cracking the face of affrontery
Misconstrued in the humid
Night of departure.
Perspiring backs front
The unfolding hues –
Kissing goodbyes to
Those who could
Change foreign into
Exchange un cadeau
Pour moi -
As she lets you go
Free into the cooling
Night of parting.
Squeezing eyes disbelieve,
Nostrils dilate, sniff in
Distaste for what went
Before and what comes
After.
Heads hung low, necks stretched
Fatigued, slumber nodding –
Unseen shadows, people, the waiting
Room of time caught in circles:
Joy cantering catterwheeling askance,
Tumbling down pathways clearing
As ways part above overhead.
Patterns pattering against shut
Eyelids red in the foreign dawn,
On the heels of the weeping half-moon.
Cotonou/Benin
Zafar Shaheed, ILO
PURSUING HOPE
I ran through the city at sunrise,
Glad-hearted and light on my feet,
But the houses were blank-faced and shuttered
And never a soul in the street.
I ran through the vines in the morning,
Rejoicing that harvest was near,
But the grapes hung shrivelled and blackened,
The vineyard abandoned and sere.
I ran through the country at midday,
Where the corn had waved golden and tall,
But the fields were fallow and lifeless,
And no sound but a lone bird’s call.
At evening I ran through a graveyard
Where the headstones lay broken and bare,
But I did not stop once to read them
For fear my own name might be there.
Night came and I stood in the moonlight
As above me the stars wheeled by.
“Is there hope for mankind?” I whispered,
And I waited for God to reply.
And with the first paling of darkness,
In the little cold wind before dawn,
I felt a great peace enfold me
And all doubt was suddenly gone.
Now that Heaven has answered my question
In the new day just begun,
I will run with the stars in the heavens,
Seeking the sleeping sun.
Louise Bigwood, UNOG
A SPARROW FALLS…
A sparrow fell from the nest today -
Fell, or was pushed, or tried to fly?
Coming to rest in a flower pot,
A beady eye,
A yellow gape,
Silent and fearful at my passing by.
I wondered then if the nestling
In its bed of flowers
Would live or die -
A question I never needed to ask
For others were watching,
And a noisy parent with laden beak
Dropped from the sky,
Scolding and reassuring.
In a few days’ time when feathers have grown
My bird will fly off on unsteady wings –
Proof indeed that our Father in Heaven
Also cares for little things.
Louise Bigwood, UNOG
”Moineau”
by Bernard Bouvier, UNOG
IBRANIMAR
A thought never born A word never spoken
A vow never kept
A life never lived
A story never told
A love never felt
A wind never blown
A journey never made
A face never seen
A soul that’s not been
A date never kept
A joy unknown
Sadness over all
Who has been, tell me
And why?
Like an arrow from the bow
Shot into arched flight
Scraping the sky’s undercover
Falling before the dawn
Into irrevocable night:
This thin ray
This spark of delight
This livid pain.
By riding comets
We can come again
Perhaps, instead,
When we are dead.
Antimatter fighting
The very existence
Of the thing--
itself unknown;
Outraged protest
Grinding teeth of rage.
In this callow age
Arch-ness is a way of life
Emptiness is rife
The wisdom passed to formulations.
Let ride and germinate
Steering a way through clouds:
Or else
The unerring plotted course
Of smug determination.
Trajectory known,
Mission done.
And yet the sea inside
Sends fingers to the brain
Not courses fixed
But lost peregrinations
Erring with the wind and rain.
If this be true, tell me
What other course there be,
What other will
And eye to see:
What other plotted course
On which trajectory?
And if an augur should be born
To leave its momentary will
To give us hope and then surpass
The rising of the dawn
And lead us to another star
And beyond, and farther still
To a place where moments pass
Unseen, ineluctable and far
Beyond their own trajectory
This place we’d name Ibranimar
Between what all would like to see:
The nearest and the farthest star.
And if a middle there should be
This middle we would call it ”love”
And place it like a mystery
As part of the sky above
With its circumference everywhere ,
Its spirit everywhere felt,
It is the center Ibranimar
Of love throughout the world.
Ray Barry, formerly UNIDO
MAMA NGINA AND I
no cassava, no beans
only half-a-bag of sorghum
left that can last a week
Mama Ngina has no milk
and the baby is sick and hungry
no rain for months, soil parched
my throat dry and lips cracked
sent girl to river to fetch
water three hours ago
sent boy to mountainside
to search for grass for goats
sun is very hot, must stay inside
the hut all afternoon, tomorrow
I get up early, to take baby
to government clinic, I hope
they have Muzungu medicine
and mosquito net
Yesterday we bury baby
whole village very sorry
chief come, show sympathy
big sadness lasted for months
everybody quiet, no laughter
in the family
and then, suddenly
last night first big rain fell
tomorrow I plant seeds
of sorghum, cassava and beans
and the harvest will be good
and we will have plenty of food
and Mama Ngina’s breasts
will fill with milk for new baby
who will grow up healthy
and strong, and go to school
to learn to read and write,
and go to big town to find
big job and be big man
make a lot of money
and build big house
In the village for the whole family
And Mama Ngina and I
will grow old and die
and go meet ancestors
on the other side of the mountain
Zeki Ergas, UNSW/SENU
MORNING
I get up
I get up in the morning
I get up in the morning very
I get up in the morning very very tired
I get up in the morning very very tired, stumble
I get up in the morning very very tired, stumble into
I get up in the morning very very tired, stumble into the kitchen
I get up in the morning very very tired, stumble into the kitchen, make
I get up in the morning very very tired, stumble into the kitchen, make tea
I get very very up-tired, stumble tea in the morning, make into the kitchen
Make tired I tea, stumble the very get-up into the very morning, in kitchen
I, the tea-tired, make up the kitchen, get into the morning, very in, very
Morning! Tired? Very? Make tea! I? Get into the stumble! Kitchen-up into the very!
Very very tea I make in kitchen, get up the morning, the stumble into tired
Tired make-up? In the very I? Very morning-stumble? Get into the tea-kitchen!
Get up the very into the in-very: kitchen-stumble, tea-make, morning-tired, I.
Morning-tea. In kitchen. Get up? Into stumble? Make the very? The Very!!! I tired.
Stumble very kitchen the very morning, get up into tea.
In the make: tired I
Sygun Schenck, UNSW/SENU
drawing by
Bernard Bouvier, UNOG
DANCING SWAN LAKE
A vertical stroke of white make–up
on her naked back
covered with sweat
A painted line that parallels her spine -
prolonged sign of a strange tribe -
initiation into a world
she never desired
A white arrow
that points towards a rite
she does not understand
Desperate feet condemned to dance
in the land of spoken tales
where words are true
but may betray
the breathing heart
A cloud of tulle
pressed onto a trembling body
with both hands
spread out for a second
to reveal small bare breasts
vulnerably exposed to our eye
the heartbeat visible
beneath the skin
When her arms close again
we know that there will never be
the heavy thrum
of flapping wings or
the comfort of love
She is the Queen –
swan for eternity
a mind that cracks into pieces
while the mist
lingers above the lake
Sygun Schenck, UNSW/SENU
MARABOUT
The squatting Arab tells me
about the Marabout’s hut,
shabby, sandy
red and black domed
a miniature mosque,
walls lined with tiny holes
where dust-covered people from all around
came to stick their wishes,
strongest hopes and meannesses.
Some write them out
on worn strips of paper—
“May the wife of my brother
come to her senses.”
Others would whisper into
a small dark cloth,
hold it to their lips
so the words might permeate
the material, discreetly pin it
to the wall.
Still others would put
their cheeks against
the dryness
thinking only of their desire-
completing it, they would roll
their forehead against the grittiness
letting it take wing.
I am myself turning
into a little bit of paper
that I might fit into that wall
surrounded by others’ needs,
longings, becoming
lighter, freer, rising skyward
in open heat
something ardent and unknown
on its way to coming true.
Beth Peoc’h, UNCTAD
MAORI FISH HOOK
A legend man
gave me a wooden hook,
small enough to wear on a string
around my neck,
strong enough to pull an island
out of the sea.
He thought it could bring force
into my life, didn’t know how it would
clear my eyes. Now looking
down the hoophouses
lining the vineyards
I see rows of jellyfish fluttering
in the running wind,
see them turn into
white revival tents
clapping, pinned to the hill, will they lead
down to water,
bring some into faith?
Where a river might whirl in a vortex,
and I could imagine a nautilus fossil
in my hand
its energy spinning outward,
life mapped into stone
how many millions of years ago?
Overhead I see milky clouds flying,
changing without end
swirling, curling as the hook itself.
Look up I say,
become dizzy,
giddy from movement
of wind caressing clouds,
the rattling of all good things;
after living on fire’s edge
how laughter
unexpected and heady
rises out of us.
We are new,
strong enough to become an island.
Beth Peoc’h, UNCTAD
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