Thursday, August 6, 2009
MY BOOKS AND POEMS - UKTAMOY
POEMS BY UKTAMOY
On the wall there hangs
The picture of flowers.
The window I open slowly,
The Air inside feels stuffy.
The wind of autumn
Runs into my room.
Flowers keep shaking
The flowers are bored.
From their fragrance
My room feels dizzy.
Blowing the wind tears
The leaves of flowers.
The buds peering
From under the crops
Open their breast
To the wild feelings.
Stumbled is the flower yard,
Lacking its flowers
The walls of the room
Have their bodies bent.
The flavoring flowers
Are blown by the wind.
At the torn flowers, look!
On the floor they are scattered.
The fallen leaves are weeping from sadness
A poet –fall is writing, with noises rustling.
Its last fragrance the perfume sprinkles,
The fall flushes like the sun setting.
The proud trees, obedient, protrude their hands
To the mirage of a final hope.
On the branches the letters are torn, falling,
Those are left behind the Zephyrs.
On the roof the rain is drum-drumming,
Its poems the autumn is writing.
The gardens keep rustling.
The fall’s poem is as heavy as the sin,
Into the soul the razor keeps stinging.
In the blue air its curtain the dawn is spreading,
On to the land endless rays with sparkle are falling.
Wiping its eyes the wind is running,
In the dew a lazy tender grass is bathing.
Make up a dandelion is doing.
Golden may bugs are singing,
Into water a bee is jumping,
On the bank forty girls
are running, hands holding.
An ant is carrying a seed along,
Where is it going early morning?
Watching all, the flower bud is opening
Its mouth wide with a shock strike
My eye is a thousand eyed boiling spring,
Around its edges poplars are growing.
Over its edges water is flooding running,
Over its edges falling woes are flying.
This spring is a blind and helpless revolt,
Of its songs its streams are aware right.
For these days shedding tears openly I ceased,
Everywhere my blindness might not be noticed
As long as there is oppression in the world still,
Not ceasing a thousand eyed spring boils still.
Now into my stomach the tears are running,
Without being aware where they are flowing.
THE SUN BEING TIRED
The Sun being tired
Started to gather
And put its flamed sticks
In its saddle sacks,
Those spades and diggers
With cracked ankles,
Having returned tired,
From the field,
Leaning against the flowers,
Are washing their dusted faces.
Being bored all day
The evening flowers,
Are whistling at the sky
Inviting to a jolly dancing,
The glittering stars,
Free bellies of heaven
With all their might.
Their job is to watch
Not only the day,
But the at nights too.
But the moon is heavily
At the music of the dawn.
On the earth there are lovers.
On the Stage of the sky,
There are angels.
The morning rose,
The Sun rose,
Carrying its flamed sticks.
If it sees our naughtiness,
It is sure to punish us,
No comment is required thus,
Said heaven warning us,
The stars went in,
One by one,
The blue stage
Has become empty
As if sprinkled
With water ,
The singers are gone too
Carrying their horns
And flutes on their backs.
THE SAD DAWNS
The sad dawns feel sorry always,
Our fall is burning with fallen leaves.
Away I must be gone,
It’s high time I be gone.
Why your eyes let me not,
In the fires of your face, my dear,
To warm up myself I’ve come near.
I am a wind lost in wander,
Till I found you I’ve searched.
Your body and soul I’ve enjoyed,
From my flute woes are coming out.
It is me who is blind and brokenhearted
The patience is my only support,
Into their will the snakes persuaded me.
Neither the Moon nor a star grasps me,
Too late I‘ve fallen from the heaven, see.
Should there be no place in your world,
How could I live missing your world?!
From your eyelids snow is falling,
The missing paths it is covering.
The snow I sweep with my lids,
Under these sorrows being smashed.
Into my heart the snow would fall,
The days would become colder at once.
The poor missing would plead,
The game is lost by a worthless lot.
In you soul its colors the world changes,
Is the feeling pure which you’ve trusted?
Your days are gone on feasting,
My days are gone on fasting.
Both the revenge and missing
Would shake hands smiling.
In the season of fires
I keep quiet off the fires.
Oh, the snow, falling on my face
Do you know my value I will face.
Falling in love deeply
I was ruined entirely
Each forty lives of mine alone
I’ve given to a grass and stone.
My mission in this world
Seems to come to an end,
There’s nothing left for me to do in life
Than to share broken hearts’ pains in life.
A CURTAIN OVER THE GARDEN IS HANGING
A curtain over the garden a velvet night is hanging,
Against the flies a mulberry tree is guarding.
Against the tree the moon is slowly leaning,
An apricot- a bride, its white gown is wearing.
Of the leaves care taking and flirting,
At the moon the wind is blowing, fanning.
In a boat like flower bowel an ant is lying,
Into the water a beetle is jumping, diving.
Over its head the flowers it is throwing,
From joy a grasshopper is singing, chirping,
Its mouth opening wide and without waiting
Its turn, the frog is singing, cwack-cwacking.
The dragon fly is a disobedient dancer, flying,
With its tongue the flower bulb it is licking.
Drunk with the world a dizzy moon, crawling,
In the dawn into its bedroom it goes, fading.
MY HEART IS SPILLING DOWN
Down my heart is spilling
From a nameless feeling.
In my embrace free birds dreaming,
Wake up from their sleeps, singing.
Stealing somebody’s peace
I enjoy breaking his peace.
Into light my nights would turn
From picturing the endless dream.
WITH A FINGER I’D WRITE VERSES
With a finger I’d write verses,
Coping down the earth’s pains.
The painful picture in my eyes,
Can’t be wiped out by bygone days.
Over my head the Sun is shining,
Around me the wind is blowing.
The Sun a Giant is blocking,
Alas, my body the wind is not touching.
My father, not earning enough in life,
His tears with his sleeves wiped.
Before the poverty he bended,
An unbending proud head he had.
With a finger I’d write verses,
Dipping it into my green heart.
Until the ink of the heart,
Pouring by God’s will, dries out.
You can’t expect spring as much as I do…
Hearing the breath of spring
The baby grasses come out running,
A red flag carrying,
On the hills and slopes it celebrating,
The young moon presses on its lips
The almond flowers being bulged out.
Pushing back and forth
The wind tries to wake up
The plane tree asleep so hard.
Standing in line like a caravan
Their grieves the ants are planting in the field.
The swallows are coming back in a happy mood
To the courtyard filled with fragrance of basil
You can’t expect spring as much as I do…
Being anxious for its flowers
You don’t miss its breaths.
As spring is everlasting in your land,
It sprinkles its thousand colored paints
Into my colorless days.
The soul is missing my green spring,
Its weeds covered with surprise.
In my eyes there is the rain of missing,
Like a camel foal the days pass weeping.
For the spring to visit me I am longing
I expect it as much as I expect you,
You can’t expect spring as much as I do.
From the eyes of a sad dove
So suffered from loneliness
A drop of tear fell off rolling down,
The tear drop would fall down heavily,
Carelessly, with a bump and noisily.
Its bones would split into pieces at the sight
A thundering echo frightened the heart of the night
From fear the tender crops would jump up light
The hungry ants fighting for a seed with all their might
Would fleet away in all directions in the site
The two birds singing with joy on the tree high
Got frightened from this site and took flight
From this battling and chaos around so tight
It was a mouse that made more profit by selling
Its nest for a thousand and one money
The cleaner wind which came out of its egg only yesterday,
Was at a loss not knowing to what grave to bury
The bone pieces of the tear drop scatted around.
There is a spring, not having been sipped yet,
Dreams are sleeping, not being seen yet.
The roads are lying missed, not being passed yet,
On the mountains giants are expected to visit.
The deserts have turned yellow of idle life,
The joys are sparkling before a fasting ends not yet.
In the cave of a rotten tree,
The truth lives of fear and flee.
The world is a ship loaded with sorrows and troubles,
There is a happiness to worship your steps, and trails.
There are many good people in this murderous world,
Yet, they have not encountered you on this earth, Alas.
I resemble to a fruitless tree
On the edge of the road, you see
Those who pass me by
Are the passers-by,
Whether they are good or bad
Throw at me the stones hard
Being aware of me or not,
I’m a giant patient tree, am I not?
The stonehearted people
Keep telling us, though
Hiding in their sleeves
Carrying in their hands
Leading life with difficulty.
The stones they
Throw at me
Might hit you,
I’m afraid very much,
My dear mother!
Flirting and enchanting
By thousand ways
She came painting her eyes black.
It is a charming night.
The wind is waving like a drunkard
Embracing the savories from harassment.
Going to holidays
Like evening flowers,
They don’t keep from laughing
Being heard near or far
A lump in its throat
A little bird has cried out.
The eyes of the earth
Gets used to the violet joy.
The panic comes, but not pity,
To see the little bird,
Which cried beautifully
Which was caught in the net
What are you looking for in my heart?
All right, I let you feel free to seek for.
Are the things you lost in me, in myself?
If you find, I bet, you will be its true owner
What are you looking for being perspired?
Only don’t hurt my sick feeling, thus,
They are both, infectious and dangerous.
Then who would you tell your grieves?
Here you encounter the four seasons:
Sometimes the angel, sometimes the fool.
Don’t beat around the bush for miracles.
You are welcome to the jungle of wonders.
Where the missing, the grieves are wintering
In the seven layers of the dreams.
Only you are late for the happiness.
There is no place left in my world, dear.
The further you target
The deeper I go into the earth.
Pass me without peering into my soul.
The fountain –weeper is the soul.
No one can detain you any more
If you are thirsty for other spring water.
Leaving the black days,
You are gone making
The misfortune a friend of mine.
There is no other way,
The dreams are gone by their way.
I ‘m a bridge, you will cross me then.
Under your feet I’m the leaves, fallen
Stumbling hard at my heart
You pass me by from the start.
Into my heart a river is flowing
Its roars are not heard running.
Like a overfilled bowl it’s flooding,
The soul starts hurting.
At its banks the flood is beating,
Its dirt and stones are floating.
In the water swans are swimming.
Their secrets the waves are sharing
One day I’ll not be able to do reining,
One by one my patience is breaking
Its river-bed is also breaking
Flooding out from the eyes breaking
The ice will melt at your glance,
The willow will bow and dance.
The stones will blossom from your glance,
It’s a grave sin to avoid your glance.
If you open your heart, all existence
Will have the souls dance.
To speak out if you dare now,
Its flowers the dawn will throw.
My heart has suffered a lot from loss,
In my eyes I offer you wine across,
To make a step leading to me,
You need a revolution towards me
The false threads me like a cloth,
The round about ripens in the separation.
Catching at a straw and the scorn,
Into the sadness I’m drowning.
What life gives me is a sadness.
The love is a Holy book, to be read yet,
What the brace of god would be in my lot,
Out of risk I bet.
The hungry missing bites my soul,
Could the sufferings be borne by my soul?
I got used to your tortures, why?
In my heart the swan would cry.
Up the tender crops jump from joy,
Throw their hats into the sky high.
The lazy wind lay embracing still,
The fragrance of Mint’s beloved girl.
The tulips blaze sparkling
The joys fall tick-ticking.
In the embrace of green feeling
I wish I were a tulip flaming.
The autumn passes carrying
On its shoulders the heavy coffin
Of the dizzy rose.
The coffin is as heavy as the grief,
And as light as the fallen leaf
There is the grief in the glance’s shadows.
The heart of the grief would widen,
The crows are entertainers
of the fallen leaves.
The birds of missing
As yellow as the desert
Would hit their proud heads
Against the window
The secret luckless dreams
Which have not entertained
Would hang on the dry branches.
The letters the spring hang on the trees
Would tear in the black rains
I left, Shurqurghon remained
Leaning at the thoughts
The oaks hardly kept
From crying of shame
I came back
Now I’m a very important person
Changing their robes
The trees ran
To the edge of the roads
With their hands
1. Shurqurghon-my village
Of a country
Would do both:
Sacrifice his soul,
Take the souls.
You, the prince
Of an alien country
My treasure – heart
Guarded by snakes
Lying around it,
All my spirit
This violence started
Would drive me mad
Entirely some day, my lad.
Posted by Swarnjit Savi at 10:04 PM