Mallika Pukhraj

 हवा भी ख़ुशगवार है, गुलों पे भी निखार है

तरन्नुमें हज़ार हैं, बहार पुरबहार है कहाँ चला है साक़िया, (इधर तो लौट इधर तो आ) - 3 अरे, यह देखता है क्‌या? उठा सुबू, सुबू उठा सुबू उठा, पियाला भर पियाला भर के दे इधर चमन की सिम्त कर नज़र, समा तो देख बेख़बर वो काली-काली बदलियाँ - 2, उफ़क़ पे हो गई अयां वो इक हजूम-ए-मैकशां, है सू-ए-मैकदा रवां ये क्‌या गुमां है बदगुमां, समझ न मुझको नातवां ख़याल-ए-ज़ोह्द अभी कहाँ? अभी तो मैं जवान हूँ अभी तो मैं जवान हूँ - 2 इबादतों का ज़िक्‌र है, निजात की भी फ़िक्‌र है जुनून है सबाब का, ख़याल है अज़ाब का मगर सुनो तो शेख़ जी, अजीब शय हैं आप भी भला शबाब-ओ-आशिक़ी, अलग हुए भी हैं कभी हसीन जलवारेज़ हो, अदाएं फ़ितनख़ेज़ हो हवाएं इत्रबेज़ हों, तो शौक़ क्‌यूँ न तेज़ हो? निगारहा-ए-फ़ितनागर - 2, कोई इधर कोई उधर - 2 उभारते हो ऐश पर, तो क्‌या करे कोई बशर चलो जी क़िस्सा मुख़्तसर, तुम्हारा नुक़्ता-ए-नज़र दुरुस्त है तो हो मगर, अभी तो मैं जवान हूँ अभी तो मैं जवान हूँ - 2 ये ग़श्त कोहसार की, ये सैर जू-ए-वार की ये बुलबुलों के चहचहे, ये गुलरुख़ों के क़हक़हे किसी से मेल हो गया, तो रंज-ओ-फ़िक्‌र खो गया कभी जो वक़्त सो गया, ये हँस गया वो रो गया ये इश्क़ की कहानियाँ, ये रस भरी जवानियाँ उधर से महरबानियाँ, इधर से लन्तरानियाँ ये आस्मान ये ज़मीं - 2, नज़्ज़राहा-ए-दिलनशीं उने हयात आफ़रीं, भला मैं छोड़ दूँ यहीं है मौत इस क़दर बरीं, मुझे न आएगा यक़ीं नहीं-नहीं अभी नहीं, नहीं-नहीं अभी नहीं अभी तो मैं जवान हूँ - 3 न ग़म कशोद-ओ-बस्त का, बलंद का न पस्त क न बूद का न हस्त का न वादा-ए-अलस्त का उम्मीद और यास गुम, हवास गुम क़यास गुम नज़र से आस-पास गुम, हमन बजुज़ गिलास गुम न मय में कुछ कमी रहे, कदा से हमदमी रहे नशिस्त ये जमी रहे, यही हमा-हमी रहे वो राग छेड़ मुतरिबा, तरवफ़िज़ा आलमरुबा असर सदा-ए-साज़ का, जिग़र में आग दे लगा हर इक लब पे हो सदा, न हाथ रोक साक़िया पिलाए जा पिलाए जा, पिलाए जा पिलाए जा अभी तो मैं जवान हूँ - ' हाफ़िज़ जलंधरी '

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SHE

SHE

A torchbearer, he scoured the times,

looking for the traces she left behind.

The druidess, her paths were occult, her language strange,

her words were hid in myths.

Centuries passed; there is something which breathes.

Over time she was seen by many in their deepest dreams

as the druidess watching and guiding the steps

of those who searched over time,

The torchbearer pronounced her life in the changing scenes,

the times of test and trials of mankind.

Her image, misty, vague took on a shape and contours strong, until it became a vision.

Her eyes, watchful, the gold on her body,

a luminous ray in the dark.

She left a trail in history of all that mankind sought

but could never define.

Originally shared by Perry Krasow

The first general strike in North America was a peaceful, organized event. It occurred in Seattle during 1919, when industrial workers in the US barely had a living wage. Union members in a variety of industries worked together to insure that most segments of the city's commerce were shut-down. However, necessary services, like hospitals and food delivery, continued to function. There was no violence by protesters and arrests for property crimes declined during the strike. Though the strike did not attain it's goal of a raise in wages, it is remembered as a well-executed, non-violent action. Enjoy the review.

http://greatnonfictionbooks.blogspot.com/2016/03/the-seattle-general-strike-by-robert-l.html

#peace #justice #protest #workers #union #history #seattle #usa #bookreview #strike #liberal #progressive #politics #leftist #book #blog #review #nonfiction #nonfictionbookreviewblog #nonviolence #satyagraha #activist #organizer #labor #proletariat #IWW #anarchism #optimism #northamerica #twentiethcentury

The Seattle General Strike by Robert L. Friedheim.

greatnonfictionbooks.blogspot.com

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Pasajul Noapte on MeWe 5-07 2020

Take me,

ravish me,

and bring me back

after the moon comes back to the sea.

If I reach the sky

with my head in the cloud,

bring me back to the ground o wind.

If you found me digging my feet i the sand

holding to the bark of a solitary palm

rush with your cool shadow, o sun, and sweep me across the beach

Venus in the sky of a moonless night,
a swan in a shimmering lake of dawn,
single on the occult path strewn with specks of light,
the stillness of the mist in a lake without a ripple,
she comes with the dawn, and melts
with the coming of the sun.

For more than a quarter of a year
the Venus shines in the east
only to disappear for long,
and comes back with opulence
once again in the west.

She resonates with lovers.
Her reverberations fall on earth
and brighten her occult path.
As like an angel cursed
she stays for a borrowed interval of time
tossing her mystical rays on the evening sky
in waves of orange, blue and mauve 

in the arms of the darkness waiting at the end of the sky.
When the evening arrives, I pray,
: Let the light of Venus stay.
There are innumerable pages yet to be written;
they are fair and blank.
Venus shine; be not dim.
Fear not, faint not, hold up
the lamp which we can dimly see.
Show us beauty, show us sense.

Venus, shine and spread your rays.

Sushama Karnik

A SUBTLE BIRTH

A Subtle Birth
Listen, lay your head down,
close to the earth and breathe,
and listen, quietly,
you will hear
the sounds of waters rising forth,
the A Subtle Birth

Listen, lay your head down,
close to the earth and breathe,
and listen, quietly,
you will hear
the sounds of waters rising forth,

 osmosis,
of the surface and the depth of sounds,
blending, merging into one
earthy sound
breaking forth
grains parting
and speaking
a new language
not yet known,
a tightness , parting
with a gentle pain
into the darkness below the earth,
the seedling tearing the cover apart,
and a subtle sobbing,
a sobbing of joy,
the joy of the seed, the earth and the sun
watching a stem breaking into light 

 The Broken Pitcher

You broke that pitcher;

or was it someone else who did it?

Going by the majestic, double face you wear,

that perhaps is closer to the truth!

The hurt, oh that hurt in your eyes,

while you repress the pathos,

how it seeps like some ominous sillage

to overshadow the poise

of your precarious, vulnerable stance!

Something else broke with the pitcher in your hand,

something more precious and sad,

which you so carefully held to your heart!

I can see it in the way you clasp

the folds of the only satin dress you have!

Yes, I don't want to shrink from that word:

"the only one you have"!

I can see the hurt and the anger,

which you don't see perhaps!

I can see it the way you clasp at the folds

as if to withhold

something else from breaking

along with the pitcher;

your fencing anger in a subtle transformation

moving closer to a desperate defiance.

Wrath and anger were never your privilege perhaps!

And as I gather the fragments

of the thing that broke

something from the fragments comes to me in a continuous stream, unbroken.

At the touch of the world of one

with another world lived apart,

edged with a mist that melts,

we flow into each other

with words that melt into

colours and shadows.

Sushama Karnik (c)

Found on Google from topofart.com

GOOGLE.COM

Image: The Broken Pitcher | Jean-Baptiste Greuze | Painting Reproduction ...

Found on Google from topofart.com

KW

Dec 27, 2015

I looked up.
+Kevin Walsh​

and looking up
I noticed I was late,
found my coat and grabbed my hat
made the bus in seconds flat.
somebody spoke and I went into a dream.......
I had this dream once
that I was covered with feathers
and the shadows of feathers,
and that I could fly.
did you ever just dream
of being something else,
maybe some thing that flies.
I do.

Watch the Evening

Watch the Evening

There in those distant rims and the sky
the evening is cradled in the lap of the hills.
 Far away behind the mountains
and far behind the ranges of hills,
far, but not so far as they seem to be;
warm and yet so cool, shimmers her light
through the veil of clouds.
Lavish is this damsel, throwing away her wealth,
spreading and stretching her languid spirit
as she gathers in her folds
 the remote ramparts of mountains and their billowy crests.

Sushama Karnik (c)

The Cloud Dreams

The night opens
  a portal of the sky
 and the cloud dreams.
and the stars and the moon
 float
in the cloud's dream.
Galaxies come and go;
the milk of paradise flows.
The cloud imagines an eternity,
and herself, a vision of the star and the moon 

Image Courtesy +Pasajul de Noapte 

Between walls of silence
the words suffocate,
making it our duty to speak.
Words, sometimes dense like metal balls,
and if at all they move,
they go and tumble down a hill.
Rarely, sometimes like crystal balls, they hold and refract the single ray
into a spectrum of colors of the sky.
Sometimes when it rains on the sea,
they swing in ecstasy
like dolphins in the swirling tides.
Sometimes a fairy gives them wings,
and light as a feather loosened from her wing,
they float until tired and sleepy;
they fall on the earth and die.
The words which you left behind,
suddenly spring into sight
as I amble through the ways of life.
They break the husk, and leaves of grass
sway in the breeze of memory.
I hesitate to touch their green sun,
lest I destroy the kernel of the truth they hold.

Sushama Karnik (c)

Needle's Eye

Spilled over space,
distracted, gathering the venom in the air,
dark precipice,
gall, vendetta, icy gloom,
you name it and it sprang
like a doomed flower,
until the day the raindrop fell
fortuitously in the pond.
All that was spinning in the madness of mind
now went through the needle's eye,
transformed into a single thread,
it moved straight
through the emerald gate
in the pond.

Kostas 21Nov15

Self-Portrait

I know I promised to stop
talking about it,
but I was talking to myself.
The truth is, it’s a child
who stopped growing,
so I’ve always allowed it
to tag along, and when it brings
its melancholy close to me
I comfort it. Naturally
you’re curious; you want to know
how it became a gnarled branch
veiled in diminutive blooms.
But I’ve told you all I know.
I was sure it had secrets,
but it had no secrets.
I had to tell it mine.
(C. Twichell ; adapted)

Truth, our personal truth
and trust, our fragile truth
have both a need of surveillance.
Like the breath they follow us
in slumber, sleep and dreams
and like the breath we know them not.

Do we stop the breath, or does the breath fail us
if the truth, the trust, the sleep and the dream fail us?
It's the child in us then holds our hand and leads.
The child holds neither a belief nor any truth.
It holds no secret, no shadow of a self to precede or follow.

When the child steps ahead of me
I have to catch it and pull it behind
to walk alongside me,
 because I am all alone
without its pristine innocence,
 my primal shadow, this child