د اسرار اتل غزل

دا چې په جرګو دى راولم جـــــــــــــــانانه

راشه په پښتو دى راولم جـــــــــــــــــانانه

دا ځلې اختر به سره يو ځـــــــــــــــــاى وي

كلي ته په شپو دى راولم جـــــــــــــــــانانه

راشه په پښتو دى راولم جــــــــــــــــــانانه

زړه مي يې په ژوند مې كورته نـه راتلى

ساه مي يې په تلو دې راولم جـــــــــانانه

راشه په پښتو دى راولم جــــــــــــــــــانانه

بيا د چا غمونو تښتولــــــــــــــــــــــى يـــې

خوبه په ګولو دى راولم جـــــــــــــــــــانانه

راشه په پښتو دى راولم جــــــــــــــــــانانه

داسى يې اتله راته ويــــــــــــــــــــــــلې دي

شور له د بنګړو دى راولم جــــــــــــــانانه

راشه په پښتو دى راولم جـــــــــــــــــانانه

راشه په پښتو دى راولم جـــــــــــــــــانانه

 اسرار اتل

اختر مو مبارک شه

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبارک شه
حساب شی په حاجیانوهم غازیانو روژی مو شه قبولې
دا صبر مو مبارک شه

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبارک شه
د هوا په لور وچته والوتلي دا د هسکو غرو د پاسه

  لوی وزر مو مبارک شه

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبارک شه
چی درد پکی لرې په غم د وروڼو داسی زړونه هم

  ځیګر مو مبارک شه

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبا رک شه
چی کتل په یوه قیسم کړی د وروڼو

داسی سترګی او نظر مو مبارک شه
 

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر خو کور د پښتونخوا ده ټول پکی ځای شوی

 دا ټغر مو مبارک شه
 

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبارک شه
په تاسی چی د زړه مینه راوړی

 داسی زړونه هم بشر مو مبارک شه
 

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبارک شه
هم د لر او هم د بر شوی

 دا د وصل جوړ بندر مو مبارک شه
 

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبارک شه
ادیبان او شاعران به تا سره وی

 دا دعلم په میدان کی لوی لښکر مو مبارک شه
 

اختر مو مبارک شه
لر او بر مو مبارک شه
لټون درته سلام او احترام کړی

 ای پښتونه وروره دا خبر مو مبارک شه
 

اختر د مبارک شه
لر او بر د مبارک شه

داود لټون

A Hundred Types of Prayer

 صد گونه نماز

امروز چو هر روز خرابیم خراب

مگشا در اندیشه  و برگیر رباب

صد گونه نماز است رکوع است و سجود

آن را که جمال دوست باشد محراب

 Today, like every day, we are ruined, ruined.
Don't open the door of worry, but take up the rubâb,
There are a hundred kinds of prayer, bowing, and prostration
It is the beauty, dear friend, of the mehrab

Maulana Rumi

Image: zawaj.com

"My People"

For a while Mariam Jaan had a presence on the blogosphere and today one of her poems gets a mention. This posting in fact is an 'archive' posting that sat in my drafts tray and never got published. It's about 2 years late as it goes as is the introductory paragraph here. Still, I think it is relevant: 

I had a conversation a couple of days ago with someone who said that the descent into chaos in the Pashtun lands was firmly attributed to the Pashtuns themselves. Typically people like him propose that Pashtun suffering is somehow deserved. The issues that plague us are complex, and there are manipulators on the outside, so that assertion is not entirely true in my opinion.We have our faults, but we have such untapped potential. We are not known for bowing our heads before others; and this is surely one of the reasons that manipulation by others continues to blight us.

"My People"

At times I feel I am writing to those who can't read.
Some of you say that God is punishing us for some sin
but how do we win a battle we have yet to even begin?
It is said that God helps those that help themselves.
What have we Pashtuns done to heal our nation's pain?
I see us doing nothing but blame "fate" and just complain.
As far as sinful people there are many than us far worse
yet do they suffer as we do with what we call our curse?
No, they rise up and for freedom they give a brave fight
God will always be on the side of his people who are right
Wishing doesn't make things happen, only our actions do!
My people, you act as if this simple fact is something new!

Mariam Jaan

ملالې تا خو لر او بر وژړو

Dedicated to Malala Yousafzai 

ملالې تا خو لر او بر وژړو
هم دې شمساد هم دې خیبر وژړو
یه د هلک په وار پیدا ملالې
نن د افغان هر ټبر دې وژړو
د پښتونخوا هر بوټی ګل خپه دی
تا خو د ګرد وطن هر غر وژړو
ستا د قلم زوره نن خبر شو
د تور تمیانو دی لښکر وژړو
مئندې زامن نه، لوڼې غواړي
نجوني خو ژاړي تا هر نر وژړو
کاش د ضیا په ځای کي زما لورکئ وی
د وطنپال خو دې ځیګر وژړو

http://www.facebook.com/watan.pal

ستا په مخ - د رحمان بابا کلام

  ستا په مخ - د رحمان بابا کلام

I believe that a timely reminder is due and so I share a rendition of Sta Pa Makh from the works of Rahman Baba. I love the haunting beauty of the words that reminds us how we are but tiny specks before Allah. Rahman Baba's words never cease to amaze.

Tor_Khan تور خان

Peace and Togetherness

The art of classical calligraphy is famed across the Muslim world, and many of the languages that are written in an Arabic-based script have fine examples of calligraphy in manuscript, carvings and other décor.

With Pashto, this is harder to find, but I include an example here. It is a peace message for Afghan unity entitled سوله او یوالے (Peace and Togetherness) that reads beautifully.

 

Tor_Khan تور خان

Haroon Bacha

د سیند د سپینو شګو نه می جوړ کړ یو محل

This is a special presentation of three greats - the poetry, the voice and the music. Ghani Khan writes, Haroon Bacha performs and Homayun Sakhi plays the rubâb.

Tor_Khan تور خان

جنګونه ودروئ

 جنګونه ودروئ
* * *

ای د جنګ غاړو دا روان جنګــــــــــــونه ودروئ
دا د افغــــــــان په وینو ډک سینــــــــدونه ودروئ

ترڅـــــــــــوبه هره ورځ روانې جنــــــــازې وي دلته
د خـــــــــــدای په پار دا ناروا قتلــــــــونه ودروئ

ولې دبل په لمســون خپل ښکلی وطن ورانوئ؟
په خپل وطـــــــن کې د جګـــــړې اورونه و دروئ

د کونډو رنډو یتیمانو غږ اسمــــــــــــــــان ته رسي
نور مو په کليــــــــــــــــــو راروان بمـــونــــه ودروئ

زمـــــــــوږ د خاورې هر قـدم په هــدیرو ډک سوی
بس کړئ ، وطن کې په هر کور غمــــــونه ودروئ

تر څو به دا وطن سوزیږي د جـــــــګړو په اورکې
جنـــــګونــــــــه ودروئ دا مـــرګــــــــــونــه ودروئ

د وطن مــــــــــوردی چې ځوریږي دبچو په ویرکې
نور دې ویرجنې وطــــــــــــن مور دردونه ودروئ

* * *
حفیظ الله خالد
ویانا / ۷ /۹/ ۲۰۱۰

تش کاغذ - ‌‌‌‌Blank Paper

تش کاغذ

محمد نواز طایر

تش کاغذ
تا ته مې خط لیکلو
لا مې لیکلی نه و
چې په کاغذ دپاسه
دوه ملغلرې
د دوو سترګو نه راپرېوتلې
ما وی بس دهغه بس دی
ستا دهغه تش کاغذ مې تا ته دهغه شان درواستولو
وروستو مې سوچ کولو
چې ته به څنګه د دې تش کاغذ په راز پوهه شې؟

BLANK PAPER
Mohammad Nawaz Tahir

I was writing you a letter
No words were yet written
When, over the paper,
Two pearls
Fell from my two eyes
I thought, this is enough.
I sent you this letter as it was
Later I wondered
What meaning will you make of this blank white paper?

 from the BBC Pashto compilation available in PDF format here

Tor_Khan تور خان

Kabul Jan - کابل جان

Ah! How beautiful is Kabul encircled by her arid mountains
And Rose, of the trails of thorns she envies
Her gusts of powdered soil, slightly sting my eyes
But I love her, for knowing and loving are born of this same dust

My song exhalts her dazzling tulips
And at the beauty of her trees, I blush
How sparkling the water flows from Pul-e-Mastaan!
May Allah protect such beauty from the evil eye of man!

Khizr chose the path to Kabul in order to reach Paradise
For her mountains brought him close to the delights of heaven
From the fort with sprawling walls, a dragon of protection
Each stone is there more precious than the treasure of Shayagan

Every street of Kabul is enthralling to the eye
Through the bazaars, caravans of Egypt pass
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs
And the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls

Her laughter of mornings has the joy of flowers
Her nights of darkness, the reflections of lustrous hair
Her melodious nightingales, with passion sing their songs
Ardent tunes, as leaves enflamed, cascading from their throats

And I, I sing in the gardens of Jahanara, of Sharbara
And even the trumpets of heaven envy their green pastures.

Mirza Mohammed Ali Saib

I am in Kabul, Afghanistan - both in the historic and the personal sense - I am at home.

Fuzzy Sense of Something

Finding the strength and the energy to deal with the many changes surrounding a person is never easy. I am, by all accounts, not exactly the most flexible person that I know (I think), but here I am several weeks after recognising and accepting fate, bidding farewell to the part of the world that has been home for several years.

Take this week. Being a primary teacher is about relationships - with the children and with colleagues - and I really do care. To that end, I am sad, however, my last days of work brought a sense of release. I have found it incredibly cathartic letting go of material possessions and looking forwards. Not sure to what I've been looking, however. I just know that I wanted to pass over the job that I was doing, take a fresh look at myself and press on with whatever Allah has scribed for me. As I write this, I'm still figuring things out that all my life have eluded my sometimes fuzzy sense of focus. I do not guarantee that I will be any closer to knowing.

Confused? Sure. Here are some select lines that "speak" to me from a poem by Rumi. It fits a common theme of questions I ask and finishes with a line I often contemplate myself.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field.  I'll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.

Rumi

Oh, and I posted my tutor the first draft of the dissertation that I am writing. I'm not completed, but really want to be. More on that another time.

Alone

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then - in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. 

Edgar Allen Poe.

Credits here.

د مور او پلار حق

I love the accessibility of Kabir Stori's writing. I owe him a mention as he remains a modern literary master whose published work range from writings on psychology, philosophy, politics to poetry.

Dr Stori died in 2006, but he is impressioned forever, in many of his verses. His signature trick was to have a little mention of himself somewhere (quite often at the end) of his verses. I like this - it's a clever writing device indeed. In this poem, entitled Haq, حق from his Khwagai Misrai خوږې مسرۍ collection, we are reminded of the importance of our parents. Next to our duty of faith and love of Allah, our parents rank very highly. May Allah bless all of ours.

I dedicate this one to mine.

Tor_Khan تور خان

حق

اول حق په هر بنده د خداى غفار دى

پس د داى نه، بيا حق د مور او پلار دى

پس له مرګه به ئى هم روح ناارام وى

چې اخستى چا د مور او پلار ازار دى

په د نيا كى هم ښه ورځ موند لى نه شي

چې خد مت د مور او پلار نه څوك انكار دى

د بخت ستوری به ئى روڼ وي تل تر تله

چې رښتيا د مور او پلار څوك خد متګار دى


ډاکتر کبير ستوری 

Talking Through The Door

The words inspire, and as such, Rumi, gets the occasional mention here. This verse, I dedicate to someone who has taken the time to call me a friend. I am humbled, so may I be so honourable as to live up to that ideal. 

Talking Through The Door

You said, Who's at the door?
I said, Your slave.

You said, What do you want?
To see you and bow.

We talked through the door. I claimed
a great love and that I had given up
what the world gives to be in that love.

You said, Such claims require a witness.
I said, This longing, these tears.

You said, Discredited witnesses.
I said, Surely not.

You said, Who did you come with?
This majestic imagination you gave me,

Why did you come?
The musk of your wine was in the air.

What is your intention?
Friendship.

Talking Through the Door Part 1

Talking Through the Door Part 2

سپوږمۍ ته سلام

!سلام سپوږمیه

Salaam Dear Moon 

 زما اوستا ترمنځ شوغرونه

سپینې سپوږمۍ ته سلام به کړمه

عبدل کبیرکاکړ

Photograph of the Moon taken by Tor Khan.
Yorkshire, Summer 2010 using a Sony Exmor. 

The landay is dedicated to someone.

Auld Lang Syne

Robert Burns (January 1759 – July 1796) famously took an old Scottish folk song and wrote it in a version that is now associated with Hogmany, marking the tradition of New Year's Eve. Across the world Auld Lang Syne* continues to be heard  in various forms as the end of one year becomes the dawn of another. I share a contemporary version here that carries a feel-good message of hope. Peace and hope to everyone. Ameen. Tor_Khan.

Should old acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne!

The new year brings us hope for peace,
A new day for mankind,
Where we can all live hand in hand
And leave all hate behind.

For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne.
We'll take a cup of kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

When dreams they seem so far away,
Your soul can feel so low.
But love is never far away;
Your heart won't be alone.

Let's make a world where people care,
A world that knows no fear,
Where we can open up our hearts
And hold each other dear.

Our children grow, they need to know
The Future's theirs to hold.
If we can teach them how to love
Then the world can carry on.

For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne.
We'll take a cup of kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

*old long since

Red Is Like A Trumpet Sound

I ASKED THE LITTLE BOY WHO CANNOT SEE

I asked the little boy who cannot see,

"And what is colour like?"

"Why, green," said he,

"Is like the rustle when the wind blows through

The forest; running water, that is blue;

And red is like a trumpet sound; and pink

Is like the smell of roses; and I think

That purple must be like a thunderstorm;

And yellow is like something soft and warm;

And white is a pleasant stillness when you lie

And dream."

ANON

زہ څه یم؟

زہ څه یم؟ asks What am I? and to me it is faintly reminiscent of the question: Who am I? asked in Rumi's Only Breath.

Composed by Taj Rahim Dervaish who has given me permission to share it in this space*. Dera Manana, Dervaish Sahib!

زہ څہ یم؟
تاج رحيم درویش
* * *

دا وجود یم
زہ دا نہ یم کوم چې ښکارم
دا وجود زما دے
خو زہ دا وجود نہ یم
وجود خو پہ دنیا زما لباس دے
نن زما دے صبا بہ نہ وي
* * *
زہ خو د اوبه یوہ قطرہ یم سیند نہ یم
چې سیند لہ اورسم نو بہ سیند شم
وجود خو پنزہ اوښکو تہ غلام دے
زہ د اوښکو محتاج نہ یم
دَ مقام او د وخت پہ قابو نہ یم
د سترگے پہ یوئ رپ کے
پہ عرش یم او بیا تِہ راشم
* * *
زہ ھغہ نہ یم
زہ خو یو خیال یم
او خیال ھم د ھغہ یم
* * *

*Edited slightly, from the original draft with permission.

The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two - is gone.

Edward Fitzgerald (1859)

Omar Khayyám (1048-1131, Neyshapur, Khorassan) was a mathematician, astronomer, philosopher and poet. He spent his early childhood in Balkh, Smarkand and then Bukhara and later taught  when he returned to Neyshapur. A selection of his rubaiyas (4 line poems known as quantrains) are collected in Edward Fitzgerald's The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám are in fact transmogrifications of the Farsi rather than translations. 

A closer translation of the rubaiya shared above is shown here:

Take all the worldly goods, but in lieu
Let the beauty of nature renew
And at night on the grass like dew
And in the morn take me away from view

ایدل همه اسباب جهان خواسته گیر

باغ طربت به سبزه آراسته گیر

و آنگاه برآن سبزه شبی چون شبنم

بنشسته و بامداد برخاسته گیر 

Omar Khayyám

aidal hama asbab jehan khoasta geer 

baagh tarbat ba sabza aarasta geer

wa aanga baraan sabza shab-e chon shabnam

banishta wa bamdad barkhasta geer