Dr Sadiqullah Khan Wazir

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 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

 

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                    The Voices

 

 

 

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

 

 

@ http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1452870365/ref

 

KAAF Publications D.I.Khan (2nd edition) 2011

 

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                        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

 

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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

 

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          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

@http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorsadiqullah.htm

 

Jumhoori Publications Lahore (2nd edition) 2013

 

 

 

Poems by  Dr  Sadiqullah  Khan  Wazir

 

Three Freedoms

 

Freedom from self. From others and of others:

 

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.

 

Sdiqullah Khan

Peshawar

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.

 

Sadiqullah Khan

Peshawar

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.

 

Sadiqullah Khan

Peshawar

August 16, 2013.

 

 

Erased

 

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.

 

Sadiqullah Khan

Islamabad

August 28, 2013.

 

 

 

 

Oaken Door

 

Thirst for aesthetic beauty remains unquenched;

Though with abundance I tied a shore to the river:

Ghalib

 

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.

 

Sadiqullah Khan

Islamabad

August 22, 2013.

 

 

 

An Artist

 

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.

 

Sadiqullah Khan

Peshawar

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.

 

Sadiqullah Khan

Islamabad

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

 

Sadiqullah Khan

Peshawar

August 9, 2013.

 

 

 

Make me a New World

 

Make me a new world,

Without

Death, disease and suffering

Without age, forever young.

A new dawn

From the tiresome night

A new moon, sun and stars.

Don’t ask

Me to die first, to perish instead.

To live in soul

In an unseen, unknown heaven;

In hell,

With my sins. It is no use

Expanding my inner self

And imagine

Happiness, hollow, immaterial

A sickening tirade

Of words

Playing with my fancy.

Let’s then join hands

Let’s then make a paradise

Here and now.

 

Sadiqullah Khan

Peshawar

August 17, 2013.

All rights reserved @ Sadiqullah Khan

 

 

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