Dr Sadiqullah Khan Wazir
Dr Sadiqullah Khan Wazir, belongs to Wana, South Waziristan Pakistan. He is a prolific writer of poetry in English, and draws inspiration from literary traditions of his region. His poetry is contemporary, socially conscious, with progressive flavors and highlights the issues of the common human being with great sensitivity. He is author of four books, The Voices, Chaos of Being and The songs of Other Times and A Forgotten Song. He lives in Islamabad, Pakistan.
The author also manages two groups, The Voices and Generation 21 and a Page, The Voices on the Facebook with global membership and participation. His avant-garde works have received widespread recognition and appreciation from writers and readers alike.
The author can be reached @ https://www.facebook.com/sadiqullah.khan.92
Books by the Author –Sadiqullah Khan
In the exotic lands of mystery lived people with blue stones seen under the running water of underground channels. The night brought in some spirits who would sit on the tall, heavy mud walls to talk to the living. Reality unfolded itself like the slow idle cloud that would interrupt the coolness of the moon and stars were seen as immensely bright, studded on the dark sky above. On this earth of bounty did spring love with small interruptions from torrential rains and invading Armageddon, who were resisted. The black veil of silver love had no bounds. Then, in this humanism, came new ideas and now the realities are challenging the solitude of the valley. I did not speak every one’s heart here: that would need many more lives to live.
These verses are written in free verse form, at times neoclassical, and go on to modern. Some writings are descriptive. Augmented reality in the perspective of deeply embedded symbolism of romance and metaphysics is juxtaposed. The imagery, metaphor, and symbols draw from the eastern tradition of poetics. Sometimes the expression is straight and at others, it is eligiac and mystery shrouds a theme. The aim is to bridge from this tradition to the modern, and also to provide a glimpse of oriental thought to the reader.
Createspace USA (1st edition) 2010
KAAF Publications D.I.Khan (2nd edition) 2011
Chaos of Being
Blasting away from mystification, the author explores the complexity of reality in tandem with time and space; the dialectics as if reaching subtle climax, and avoiding coinage of misnomers, a common human legacy is sought, sometimes in romance and at others in anguish. There is a marked departure from the past and freedom of spirit finds new corners of expression. Each line is a statement and each word coming out from some kind of dark silence.
Fact Publications Lahore 2012
The Songs of Other Times
The poems border on existential despair, touching peaks of mysticism and romance. Of immense rhythmic beauty, the lines are lyrical and melodious. Deeply humane, contemporary and setting new tone in modern literature, the author, indulges in life, to find his soul in a culture and society that is in the throes of violent change.
Jumhoori Publications Lahore 2013
A Forgotten Song
An existential despair with romantic mysticism, a collection of contemporary verse rooted in tradition and aspiring aesthetic beauty, it flows like a river and silent like a pond splashing indelible impressions on the mind’s canvas. A forgotten song is sagacious with realism and draws inspiration from common human dolours.
Aquillrelle (2nd edition) 2013
Jumhoori Publications Lahore (2nd edition) 2013
Poems by Dr Sadiqullah Khan Wazir
He who hath, but known freedom
From self freed, from an idea either
From thought possessed, a context
Obsolete. Of human bondage, a concept
Deity absurd, god with word. A philosopher’s diction,
A moral code, religion here, there a hell, a hope
Too. Paradise here, heaven there. From the self who
Is freed, what freedom else is to cherish.
From others alas. Taketh the sword,
Rusted in scabbard, raise a voice, having been seen
In the bosom: have a dream. Join then, hands all
A common destiny, be it politics, a relgio-moral,
Chains they wear chains you wear.
Break the hand that stoppeth the path. A march
Is history, under open skies, cherish
On free earth, breathe a walk with pride.
Free the others, from the fetters perverse,
Let the window of the cage, open, let the captives
Fly. Let loose the knots. Let on the seas be.
A wave to the shore, or a gentle breeze.
Let fear go, let freedom come, let the holy walls
With blows break, let the temples be, from holiness, fall.
July 28, 2013.
A Death Toll
It was none, and it is now three
It is not a digital watch, it is not a scoreboard
It flies in double digits; it stretches its perverse teeth
From mortuary to hospitals. It defies beliefs. They say
You go to hell or heaven straight, no waiting, resting
In peace. For they don’t find one. They are dead flesh
Mixed bones, breathing air from each other’s
Gasping mouths. They are found, in ditches or rolled
Over. The carriers of death, wearing wings of the angel
Of death. Who decide, where, how and whom this time.
The death toll is now fifty, and may stop at eighty.
All these paths, lonely, tired and sick, lead to my home only.
July 28, 2013.
If a Lyre be Broken
If a lyre be broken, would the spirit not sing,
A painter without brush, would he not make
Canvas of stones, though in caves he dwells.
Emotions, expression pre-exist the art
A spoken word has more worth than the laid
A pastor, on lips, a lonely man or woman
Isn’t they sing, a nature’s gift, as birds on tongues.
Be a barren earth, a gaze to the moon, the black
Of eyes and hair. A flower’s beauty or human guile
Love’s wanton desires, aren’t they greater than
The rules. A harmony like, a detour –roundabout;
So a symphony is made, when part is whole,
Making nails of bronze and tresses unable
Flown in the air, unsettled, would we call it art.
Art is all; a stifling detail would make a trash
And steal the flow, static goes the word,
From figure, to the depth, employing ‘method’
What I say, like Orpheus, is a masterpiece indeed.
August 16, 2013.
Who brought you here, who in the dusk
A prolonged sunset a night held back
Who told the bird to hide, who but thirsty
On the bank of a river.
A fish, having emptied all the jars
Who but feeds water in the ocean.
Who has written you? It is whom, who
Erased you. You having been read
Before the last lines of a calligraphy
Touched in your color.
Standing on the forefoot, holding balance
The raised hand was pointed up
You ran a swan’s steps before flying
Expanding your wings, into an unknown freedom.
You let your luggage fall behind.
Who was driving the horse faster than it was,
You were not escaping.
You were neither breaking the prison walls
With an ax.
You wake up to a brighter sun,
A finer company of gracious demeanors
A host worthy of name and attendants ready
To serve. You are overlooking
The city walls, a minaret
You have been erased and you came up
With a song. Are not you surprised?
Your name carries all the fortuitous tidings ever.
August 28, 2013.
Thirst for aesthetic beauty remains unquenched;
Though with abundance I tied a shore to the river:
Oaken door get back to the hinges
My potent art is white of the pages
– Is eating me up, is holding me prisoner.
Oaken door, like a book’s cover severed,
From roots, from masts let lose, be on air
On a sea, on a boat whose oars sail through
The winds. Oaken door who did this to you?
I am negotiating your way, I am in a dialogue
The outer landscape and the inside
The crimson red, a green leaf with a palette
Autumnal colors, like a Persian carpet of Isfahan.
In sun, in shade, before a candle at night
By the window. It speaks. ‘A Forgotten Song’
Was love at first sight, protected from evil eye
‘The Songs of Other Times’ –negotiating
It’s arduous path. Oaken door, tell me
Who did this to you. Did not that the cocoon
Of myself is exposed, a thread I held over the years
Ah! The other end was already broken.
Holy Jesus Christ, I have no clue, on my little heads
On my titles, are these thorns, my poems
Their heads bent, nailed un-measured?
Or art they, Caesar’s olive leaves branching
On an Ovid’s portrait of high renaissance.
Oaken door, you carry wings instead
Love in your heart, a poor man’s soul, a tear
Unshed. Drunk by the saddest eye ever:
On your sultry, faded and worn out face, there is
A beauty that engages for ages yet remains obscure.
August 22, 2013.
I am born to be you, an earth’s smile in a flower
A stream, a rock, a tree of life, an inventor
I am blood spilled on canvas, I dip my fingers
In the ink-pot of my heart, I give tongue
To your chains. Tongues that lick your desire,
Your narcissus self. I am a mirror.
I dwell deep in your dreams, the ones
Forgotten, the ones making you hysterical.
To know you, I have slept with the bones,
Grappled with angels of hell, I lived many nights
In cold, I burned my oil for myself. I killed myself.
I wrote you to the eternity; I wept in anguish
I was torn apart between agony and ecstasy
I made you into a marble statue, a stone carving
I sang you in poems. I prayed for you, into my possession
I meditated you, broke conventions, fought evil
On the cross, beheaded, amputated, stoned
Barefoot, in the streets, gazing moon
I extinguished the wish of wanting you
“The ashes of my youth, in the Ganges
Of your love” so was the holiness of my love.
Now I look upon my hands and with my thoughts
-The illusion is not unlike the promises of Providence
After death- The illusion is akin to a mirage.
The least, “In the end, I deserved a few good lies”
And I think very often that what a dread
This meaningless life had been, these past years.
August 10, 2013.
My Love is ‘Infidel’
O men of faith, my love is infidel
Such a calamity, such is the bliss alas!
The morning dew on her shoulders so sit
To the silent rose amourn; the nightingale ever-
And anon. Untrue in the ambush of her hair,
The tulip’s sad face this morning dappl’d grey.
From the soft winds of paradise -this day
Let it be flown in the mist, or a kiss on her lip
No nectar, honeybee from a flower ever sucked:
Rain is a hundred blessings on her eyes
To die than to live, upon a lover as it looks,
Friends the morning cup, and yet you say
The keeper of the tavern is just a’way.
‘Opener of the Door’ I implore thee
Open the door for I knock in vain.
Lose yourself as you lose, all else in love
Hath anyone in love ever gained?
He hath thus gained who hath but lost himself.
August 2, 2013.
On This Day
Who has on these passage ways, brought
Funerals. Who has on this day allowed
From the beehive of golden bees,
Mournful streams and from the sunny
Afternoon’s slumber, who has allowed
A long darkness on my path. For a while
Who is not celebrating; who is wearing
Masks of smiles. From the children’s
Happy faces, bright eyes and red cheeks
Why is it that let the looming sorrow to come
To them not later than a few years?
Of a severe handicap of my understanding
A bequeathed generation of hapless souls
I know I have inherited a drought of intellect
Of closed eyes akin to ostrich’s hide in sand
Or a dove on seeing a cat, a donkey seeing a wolf.
Who has painted the pale green fields purple
Is a human loss more, is slavery anything other.
On the mid-dividing road, why were the dreamers
Sleeping. I saw a hand hanging down the brick
For a final cut, a blow or the old man with aching –
Broken back bone. In deep thought. What story
Of grace he is going to tell to the loved ones.
What apology, excuse; what face to wear?
An eaten up spirit, a bowed head
To every passerby, a hand held
As if born with a deformity, for alms.
-On Eid Day
August 9, 2013.
Make me a New World
Make me a new world,
Death, disease and suffering
Without age, forever young.
A new dawn
From the tiresome night
A new moon, sun and stars.
Me to die first, to perish instead.
To live in soul
In an unseen, unknown heaven;
With my sins. It is no use
Expanding my inner self
Happiness, hollow, immaterial
A sickening tirade
Playing with my fancy.
Let’s then join hands
Let’s then make a paradise
Here and now.
August 17, 2013.
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