Poems by Sadiqullah Khan

Poems by Sadiqullah Khan

 

Ages Spent

‘Rather, earlier than first day’
Could have been
Then all the days would
Have been mine, – all nights
Lost to the oblivious mist
Or riding the moon
Could have been a play
Counting distant stars
A sport, – fortune with ill-will
Would have been a defeat –
Risen with the early sun
Be the sign of victorious sweat
Stories unending and song
The lip of bird sing
Colours of butterfly borrow
Flagons with holy water fill
And all steps a dance
Love the streams of heavens flow
Longing the eyes speak
And dreams the life’s episodes
Or sorrows languid flute air
And death a happy ending be
And ages spent
Would have been centuries.

– Conversation with Javed Marwat

 

What I Heard

What I heard is that her mother
Passed away, – sad news indeed –
Look the closeness is like
Leaves falling silent in autmn
Like zephyr takes news from one
To the other, – we shall not be
As we are, or not as helpless as we
Happen to be, we are indeed
In the long narrow street
Once gone, – call us, we shall not
Return. I might have wished
To condole like I would mourn
My own terrible loss, and bereave
Like you might have with and without
A tear to shed, – or I for a last look
To the damp earth gazed
Or fluttering dove in skies my sight.

– On knowing that mother of my poet friend Portia Burton passed away

 

Poet Laureate visits Battle Field

After “killing time” a thousand times
The poet laureate shall visit soldiers
Wearing a war arsenal shall he look
Morale and repeat Kipling’s “If” if he

Shall the ugliness be transfused more
When not the coincidences in “beautiful her”
With a night vision he shall see the war
As from a gunship the homeless run

Shall not to the poet happen into the doom
The celebrity on the high tide of air in blades
Some new arrows in display this time
His favorite pieces the one “sherry” naught forget

The poet laureate shall chronicle “Homeric odysseys”
Bravery of dead soldiers few tears on way back
He had seen him dying in front he shall tell
To the love of the soldier with poetic fervor

What price is yours for writing my miseries
When you shall recite to the world my wounds
With mock sadness holding your breath
With high colors you shall display the laurels

(On news item that poet Simon Armitage has been engaged by BBC to visit Afghanistan.)

 

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