Famous / Naomi Shihab Nye

The river is famous to the fish. 

The loud voice is famous to silence, 
which knew it would inherit the earth 
before anybody said so. 

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds 
watching him from the birdhouse. 

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek. 

The idea you carry close to your bosom 
is famous to your bosom. 

The boot is famous to the earth, 
more famous than the dress shoe, 
which is famous only to floors. 

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it 
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men 
who smile while crossing streets, 
sticky children in grocery lines, 
famous as the one who smiled back. 

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous, 
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular, 
but because it never forgot what it could do.

The Fable Of Midas / Jonathan Swift

Midas, we are in story told, 
Turn'd every thing he touch'd to gold: 
He chipp'd his bread; the pieces round 
Glitter'd like spangles on the ground: 
A codling, ere it went his lip in, 
Would straight become a golden pippin. 
He call'd for drink; you saw him sup 
Potable gold in golden cup: 
His empty paunch that he might fill, 
He suck'd his victuals thro' a quill. 
Untouch'd it pass'd between his grinders, 
Or't had been happy for gold-finders: 
He cock'd his hat, you would have said 
Mambrino's helm adorn'd his head; 
Whene'er he chanced his hands to lay 
On magazines of corn or hay, 
Gold ready coin'd appear'd instead 
Of paltry provender and bread; 
Hence, we are by wise farmers told 
Old hay is equal to old gold: 
And hence a critic deep maintains 
We learn'd to weigh our gold by grains. 
This fool had got a lucky hit; 
And people fancied he had wit, 
Two gods their skill in music tried 
And both chose Midas to decide: 
He against Ph[oelig]bus' harp decreed, 
And gave it for Pan's oaten reed: 
The god of wit, to show his grudge, 
Clapt asses' ears upon the judge, 
A goodly pair, erect and wide, 
Which he could neither gild nor hide. 
And now the virtue of his hands 
Was lost among Pactolus' sands, 
Against whose torrent while he swims 
The golden scurf peels off his limbs: 
Fame spreads the news, and people travel 
From far, to gather golden gravel; 
Midas, exposed to all their jeers, 
Had lost his art, and kept his ears. 
This tale inclines the gentle reader 
To think upon a certain leader; 
To whom, from Midas down, descends 
That virtue in the fingers' ends. 
What else by perquisites are meant, 
By pensions, bribes, and three per cent.? 
By places and commissions sold, 
And turning dung itself to gold? 
By starving in the midst of store, 
As t'other Midas did before? 
None e'er did modern Midas chuse 
Subject or patron of his muse, 
But found him thus their merit scan, 
That Phoebus must give place to Pan: 
He values not the poet's praise, 
Nor will exchange his plums for bays. 
To Pan alone rich misers call; 
And there's the jest, for Pan is ALL. 
Here English wits will be to seek, 
Howe'er, 'tis all one in the Greek. 
Besides, it plainly now appears 
Our Midas, too, has ass's ears: 
Where every fool his mouth applies, 
And whispers in a thousand lies; 
Such gross delusions could not pass 
Thro' any ears but of an ass. 
But gold defiles with frequent touch, 
There's nothing fouls the hand so much; 
And scholars give it for the cause 
Of British Midas' dirty paws; 
Which, while the senate strove to scour, 
They wash'd away the chemic power. 
While he his utmost strength applied, 
To swim against this popular tide, 
The golden spoils flew off apace, 
Here fell a pension, there a place: 
The torrent merciless imbibes 
Commissions, perquisites, and bribes, 
By their own weight sunk to the bottom; 
Much good may't do 'em that have caught 'em! 
And Midas now neglected stands, 
With ass's ears, and dirty hands.

आँधियाँ आती थीं लेकिन कभी ऐसा न हुआ / शहरयार

आँधियाँ आती थीं लेकिन कभी ऐसा न हुआ

ख़ौफ़ के मारे जुदा शाख़ से पत्ता न हुआ

रूह ने पैरहन-ए-जिस्म बदल भी डाला

ये अलग बात किसी बज़्म में चर्चा न हुआ

रात को दिन से मिलाने की हवस थी हम को

काम अच्छा न था अंजाम भी अच्छा न हुआ

वक़्त की डोर को थामे रहे मज़बूती से

और जब छूटी तो अफ़्सोस भी इस का न हुआ

ख़ूब दुनिया है कि सूरज से रक़ाबत थी जिन्हें

उन को हासिल किसी दीवार का साया न हुआ

The Word / Friedrich Nietzsche

I am well-acquainted with the lively word:
It bounds forth so cheerful,
Greets one with a courteous bow,
Lovely even in its clumsiness,
Full of vigor, snorting heartily,
Then crawls even into the ears of doves,
Twirls and flutters now,
And what it does—the word delights.
But the word remains a delicate creature,
At once sick and yet soon recovered.
If you want to save its tiny life,
You have to hold it gently and delicately,
Not clench and touch it roughly,
Yet often it dies from cross looks —
And then there it lies, so misshapen,
So soulless, so poor and cold,
Its tiny corpse transformed terribly,
Maltreated by death and dying.
A dead word—an ugly thing,
A bone-dry rattle.
Fie to all those ugly trades,
That put big and tiny words to death!

(Translation © The Nietzsche Channel)

Brand of Slaves / Mahmoud Darwish

Rome is skin to us as if imposed fate 
Its name is branded on our backs yet 
As prisoners' numbers and scourges that's Rome 
Rome dismantles our brands under her want 
Unarmed slaves smashed the royal court 
Babylon is around our neck, 
As branded returning captive prisoners 
Attires of tyrant were changed entirely 
That he was survived after death. 
If they still believe on him, he won't die 
We died and lived but the way is the same 
Africa at our dancing party is as drum and naked fire 
It is as songstress desire nearby the smock of her fire 
One day I played pipe fluently of fallen trunks. 
I let the snake dancing until sleep 
And I threw its canine away 
Africa and Asia then shall meet at a new dance.

जब शहर हमारा सोता है / पीयूष मिश्रा

सन्नाटा...वीराना...!
ख़ामोशी अनजानी...!
ज़िंदगी लेती है...करवटें तूफ़ानी...!
घिरते हैं साये घनेरे से...
रूखे बालों को बिखेरे से...
बढ़ते हैं अँधेरे पिशाचों से...
काँपे हैं जी उनके नाचों से...
कहीं पे वो जूतों की खटखट है...
कहीं पे अलावों की चटपट है..
कहीं पे हैं झींगुर की आवाज़ें...
कहीं पे वो नलके की टप–टप है...
कहीं पे वो काली–सी खिड़की है..
कहीं वो अँधेरी–सी चिमनी है...
कहीं हिलते पेड़ों का जत्था है...
कहीं कुछ मुँड़ेरों पे रक्खा है...ओ हो हो...!

सुनसान गली के नुक्कड़ पर
जो कोई कुत्ता चीख़–चीख़कर रोता है
जब लैंपपोस्ट की गँदली पीली
घुप्प रोशनी में कुछ–कुछ–सा होता है
जब कोई साया ख़ुद को थोड़ा
बचा–बचा कर गुम सायों में खोता है
जब पुल के खंभों को
गाड़ी का गरम उजाला धीमे–धीमे धोता है
जब कहती हैं आवाज़ें
धीमे–धीमे गुपचुप–गुपचुप कोई दास्तान
जब होती है ख़ामोशी
बंद अँधेरों की शक्लो–सूरत पर मेहरबान
जब अलसाया शैतान
उबासी लेकर अपने जबड़े ख़ूँ से धोता है
जब अँगड़ाई को तोड़
चहलक़दमी करने की तैयारी में होता है...
तब शहर हमारा सोता है...

जब शहर हमारा सोता है
तो मालूम तुमको हाँ क्या–क्या होता है
इधर जागती हैं लाशें ज़िंदा हो
मुर्दा उधर ज़िंदगी खोता है...
इधर चीख़ती है इक हव्वा
ख़ैराती उस अस्पताल में
बिफरी–सी हाथ में उसके अगले ही पल
गरम मांस का नरम लोथड़ा होता है...
इधर उठी हैं तकरारें
जिस्मों के झटपट लेन–देन में ऊँची–सी
उधर घाव से रिसते ख़ूँ को
दूर गुज़रती आँखें देखें रूखी–सी
लेकिन उस कोने के
रंग–बिरंगे होटल में गुंजाइश होती है
नशे में डूबे ज़ेहन से
ख़ूँख़्वार चुटकुलों की पैदाइश होती है...
अधनंगे जिस्मों की देखी
लिपी–पुती–सी लगी नुमाइश होती है
लार टपकते चेहरों को
कुछ शैतानी करने की ख़्वाहिश होती है...
वो पूछे हैं हैराँ होकर...
ऐसा सब कुछ होता है कब
तो बतलाओ तो उनको ऐसा तब तब
तब तब होता है
जब शहर हमारा सोता है...

A Style of Loving / Vikram Seth

Light now restricts itself
To the top half of trees; 
The angled sun
Slants honey-coloured rays
That lessen to the ground
As we bike through
The corridor of Palm Drive
We two

Have reached a safety the years
Can claim to have created:
Unconsumated, therefore
Unjaded, unsated.
Picnic, movie, ice-cream; 
Talk; to clear my head
Hot buttered rum - coffee for you; 
And so not to bed

And so we have set the question
Aside, gently.
Were we to become lovers
Where would our best friends be? 
You do not wish, nor I
To risk again
This savoured light for noon's
High joy or pain.