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kashmiri poetry

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I remember: the initial throe and the horror changed into loathing for them and the system that is talked of and never seen and then for my flesh that remained jerking with each stroke. One by one, having kept aside his black terror, hailed his vainglorious rigidity, and repeated the ritual, till it was over done. Then I was strangled and left a dead abomination. And now the bastards are dead, each bearing volleys of bullets in his hirsute chest. The loathing gradually changes into love and compassion for these strewn lumps of flesh. In my ‘wild lament’ I weep

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History, they say, always repeats itself. In my homeland, helplessness repeats itself. Our pangs never settle into grief, or mourning or bereavement. A fresh shot of agony injected shamelessly to scour our wounds. This time again they eyed him in the crowd And shot him in the head. I’m not fond of national pride But I stand in awe of the patience, the tolerance of my people, in this great democracy where our blood is disposable. What have you given to our homeland? Barbed wires and shattered windows, agonised orphans and wailing widows. Soldiers who don’t know why they are

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Agha Shahid Ali, around 1998 (Image from the interview for the ‘Poets of New England’ series with William Moebius) If There Is a Poet, It Is This, It Is This The passing away of Agha Shahid Ali in 2001 was a collective loss to Kashmir- the most eloquent Kashmiri-English poet, a writer of unmatched elegance and virtuosity, a chronicler of pain- his poetry is the very stuff of beauty, loss and redemption. His death deprived Kashmir of one of its most potent cultural voices, a voice that would have done more good than any Track 1 or Track 11 effort.

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It’s like asking me why I breathe.  It’s something inborn. Like the instincts. I write because it feeds my soul. It keeps it living. My pen speaks all my heart wants to pour out. I started writing poems when I was in class III. I always felt that my pen loses all the friction when it interacts with the paper. Later in my teens, I started reading poetry in Urdu, Kashmiri and English. I realized poetry is the mirror of all the emotions a human can feel. So, I tried to portray all my feelings through my poem. I started

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I was born when Kashmir’s struggle took a new direction, when the conscience of people of Kashmir told them that “enough is enough”. Enough of suppression and enough of deluding talkative measures to settle the Kashmir conflict, and instead, people choose to make the world to listen to them. Yes, it was the same year when the Kashmiris took to gun that I was born in down-town Srinagar. The neo-resistance movement that began in the Valley had set the alarm bells ringing in Delhi and the response to that message was clear: crush it hard, so it can’t stand. And

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I grew up in Kashmir. It is a place where there are different shades to every little possible thing- such beautiful seasons, tears, laughter, untold stories, told stories which can always told in a different colour. So I would say, being a Kashmiri, poetry comes naturally, it is like a child’s curiosity, first to know everything then to convey the same in a cheerful childish way. Kashmir makes one to develop different kind of prisms to imbibe things. I used to read a lot of novels in school, mostly of Paulo Coehlo, Robin Sharma and Dan Brown. Poetry caught my

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 سمیہ فردوس ہانٹھ سورُۓ شہر چھُ دارِ بَر ترؤپرِتھ ژء تہِ جانانا  ہانکل تھاو یَنۂ  کالۂ  ؤنل پشپےیۂ میاٰنس سینس مَنز تنۂ  وآنجہ ِ لؤگم شُشر بچہ دانہِ گوم وَٹھ شَہَس ژام  وَرَ میون یہ ماجُت تھر تھرِء لَد پریْتھ جمعہ نیْمازِ  پتۂ بانبرِ، تنبلہِ، تیلہِ تۂ  وؤشلہِ بَجۂ مشیدِ ہنزِ ڈیڈِ تَل ٹئیر گیسچ  ؤنل کھسہِ میانیْن چشمن پؤس  بَنہِ میون جگر کنہِ جنگۂ  پتۂ وآنجہِ گژھْیم چھگ جانانا ژء بیْہ لؤتہِ پآٹھی میانہِ  دلچہِ  کال کوٹھرِ مَنز ہانکل دِتھ ارمان بْنِتھ زیْنہ برونٹھٕے جیل کڈ٠ ٠سمیر راہ سندِ باپتھ، یسند موصوم تن ٢٠١٠ہس منز وحشیانہ تشددک شکار سپد

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You stole away with furtive gait, O lover of flowers, my sweetheart! Stay, O stay, my only love! O wizard, why must you leave me thus? Tell me how I shall survive. Since I saw you in my prime, And stood dazed, bewitched, distracted, I’ve been weeping out my heart. I’m waiting for you on the mountain, Dropping scalding tears of blood. Can you escape the guilt, my love? Love brought me only infamy. I became the talk of the town, With rivals slinging mud at me. A mynah without her mate, All night till dawn I cry, For you

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My love provides this desert with Your lovely hair’s luxuriant shade. Time and gain your memory Knocks wildly at the door of my heart. Who would for ages live alone? — It’s not with that wish we were born. When the wind had idle sport with the lamp, Trembling seized the lights of heaven. Being helpless, for the mind lives close, The heart put a lid on its agony. Hate never will know softened lips; Love is blest with streams of tears. Old goblets are too small for thought — I wish some better form were found, Else I might

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            By Saima Bhat Zareef Ahmad Zareef with great sufi poet Abdul Ahad Zargar in late 70s. Zareef Ahmad Zareef was born on April 17, 1943 in Aali Kadal, belongs to a middle class family in the Old city of Srinagar. He resides at Baadisha-i- Darwaza, near Makhdhoom Sahib Shrine. His father, Ghulam Mohi-ud-din Shah, owned an embroidery shop at Pathar Masjid and his mother, Mokhta Begum was a simple home maker. Zareef says he was dearer to his father and owes the credit of being a satirical poet to him only. He believes that this craft of satire is

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