Omer Tarin

  As in the vale of sorrow the caged woodlark sings songs of hope for tomorrow, so shall we sing our woodnotes wild, amongst rushes and wildness of wild lemongrass; For hope springs eternal in the heart and some larks are set free  ------------ -------------------- ---------------------- ------------------------  From A Sad Piper, 1994 

I. To lost summers  The sun's cradle is gone gone, the threadbare way of all past summers, my own soul's beggar shuffling for golden rays of sunshine, hoarding by-gone treasures of warmth in the patched overcoat of my heart, close to the bone,  in the marrow muttering furtively  I tip-toe in the autumnal dread daily documenting the death of leaves all thoughts of restful repose banished by the wind coiling its scornful lash across the weltered visages of fluttering trees recoiling against the dreadful sacrilege of their  plundered limbs; It is the time of barrenness come- and we are as naked as the rest stripped of our summer foliage, under our garments all bundled, the whiteness of ivory is embellished.  II. To lost lives Three women have their heads together one black one brown and one in between; Huddled in this feverish clinch they contrive some nameless conspiracy and though  there is enough gale to blow them away, spinning their arms and legs like win...

 Let prayers and bells ring out loudly proclaiming grief for the vanished, vanished dreams of a vanished generation- of poets who embraced their vocation with virginal passion; They were never old; Great edifices fell in their times, enraptured in their song, encaptured in arcs of blood, shuffling their broken, dusty wings,  to new flights, new things,  poised like the vapourous ethers tremulously on the brink of transmutation; Young gods,  who worked their magic within, blazing their words like galaxies across the threshold of time- words of water, falling like the rain rising with the mists, hovering like hawks, fierce-eyed and beautiful, beautiful immortal birds; They have all gone, now,  This, the last hawk stooping  like a stream to the hillock, erased by lightning, cleansed by thunder, silenced lyre delivering words to the wind, forever rattling  the windowpanes of our being into new visions of hope; Somewhere, on a field of gold,  this flut...

''Salaam sahib, I beg thee give this poor beggar a rupee or a paisa, please, for I have no work and must feed my children three''. ''Yes, I will give you alms'',  he told the beggar, ''Out of charity'' ''But remember-- You must bow to me respectfully and cringe before me in  fearful servility fawning at my feet; After all, I expect this as my due, for my Philanthropy''.    ------------  ------------------  ----------------- ------------  from Burnt Offerings, 1996 

 So much has already  been said about Kashmir on all sides that if I said another word it would simply explode   -------- ---------------- ----------------- ------------------  from The Anvil of Dreams, 1995 

 Why cant we be at peace  with ourselves?  Karachi retches out its pain loudly asserting to our collective indifference;  Gory heads,  bloodier by the dozen,  piked heads, pickled heads,  packed in brine,  the ruddy dye of our nasty minds; I have been reared on a diet of lies, just like the rest of the molly-coddled babes, fattened for slaughter and made sterile, formula-fed fowl bartered and bled, stuck pigs  that squeal in the streets; Urban warfare six more die Karachi cries blown brains and rapid-fire rains;  The birds want to stay  but they are right,  they must die-- so must everyone else;  Some still say we are quite well, thank you, and going to be an Asian Tiger;  A stuffed one, I'm sure . . . .  ----- ---------- -------------- ------------- ----------------- --------------------- from The Anvil of Dreams, 1995 

  I.                     You are not dead  Why do they call you Mohenjo-daro “Mound-of-the Dead”? You are not dead! You have never been dead Or buried Or cremated By the scorching banks of the Sindhu;   Historians have conspired against you   A thousand and one tales Have besmirched your name Misguided fools have imagined Your obituary to be true; Sentimental fools have sung elegies By their own graves Garlanded their own biers, Cursed the stars and howled at the heavens Self-piteous tears, in the hope That some part of their practiced grief would be remembered As poetry, A fitting tribute to your eternal face; Maybe, they would be able to, by their ululations, Raise demons from the earth Or bring forth specters From the darkest shadows of the thinnest air, precipitating Some prophecy, nameless and foreboding, a small ...

  When they flew in that sublime formation On driven, flurried wings Above the rough-edged rushes, I dreamt—I dreamt of the radiance of souls, Children of the morning, Nourished in the warm twilight of eternity Opening their luminous wings To endless flight;   Memories of younger woods, a younger earth Sang to me of old wars, old loves, The undefiled children of nameless eons Children of demons and kings, Starborn and pure, Golden voices ranged against sky and meadow Endlessly raveling the threads of heaven, In rain and wind, In summer storms, In sweet smiles, Sighs, tears, In the careless power of a wilderness Bursting with desire— Poets on wings! Mailed warriors charging in frieze after frieze Flashing by, no heavier than gossamer Or primroses at sunset;   Over the stark white beeches they went, Four in a row, passing that ridge Beyond the skyline of Crenellated mountains, Climbing the waterfalls, Their hoa...

There are some secrets buried deep Within the rocks—   He sought to raise them From their burial grounds Immemorial With his songs To the strum Of strings, and The beat of ancient drums, Breaking open the casques Of many-coloured glass And the midnight sun chasing the stars Across the vineyards of a blinding sleep;   Then, meteors traced Their fiery tails And clouds discharged their lilting tunes, Burning the towers into ashes of remorse   Shadows disappearing Into shadows And all riddles Solved.               ------- ---------- ------------ Pub orig in 1998 with obituary  

  There stands the bunched-up herd And badly infected, more than one-third I am told, and I must make the dread decision Now, the quiet shepherds waiting, not a sound to be heard.   It’s a hard one, this, whichever way you look at it I daresay, watching one sheep stagger in a fit Head wagging, perplexed and more than a little afraid Like every sick animal, sitting and rising, looking for another place to sit.   The silence prevails. None dare say Anything at my own silent, stricken delay; But that’s all—a delay, for I understand I have no choice Anymore—this bleak, windswept, failing day.   There’s no promise or hope As I signal the man with the knotted rope To begin his slaughter. And he paces out slowly Into the meadow, shambling brokenly down the slope.   The first, far ‘Bang’ scares the other sheep Into a bleating, plunging, scrambling sweep Towards the other end where more men wait, and I, I stand watching that gory, growing h...

  Dark boats silhouetted  sail along one bold winter moon shines always bent in pure reflex those hands move with the pacing breeze twisting between ropes, yardarm and cloth deep woes gather in simple contours and dimensions babes and serpents, both ...   ------  ------------  --------------- ------------------ from the collection Riverbeds Flowing , 1999 

  It has been some time, since we spoke in rhyme my love;   And tonight I behold you anew Burning with your adored endlessness   As reckless as the morning dew, caressing the rose in its repose   Rising with the sun, to be one, descending with the rain,   Reborn in pain torn in twain driven insane;   Somewhere, out there, within your vast domain, when we unite there is no day or night.    ---------- --------------- ------------------ ---------------------  from Burnt Offerings, 1996  

  Note: The memory of Jalal Khan’s humble village has been lost in the palace and serai built close at hand by the Emperor Shah Jehan in 1645…(Griffin & Massy, ‘Chiefs and Families of Note in the Punjab’)  Blue dipped with startling accuracy and darted; ‘’Look, a star has fallen!’’, the child shouted- Dragonflies flitted, enmeshed in translucent skeins; Dip, dip and flit; I saw a sudden sparkle of turquoise, caught by sun, Opaque brilliances radiating cobalt confidence; Something rose, something silver flashed--fish, beak and bird? At night, the ripples settled, waters melting into molten Moonlight; The old house was creeper-covered; Once, kings had fished here, where Kingfisher fished. Kingfisher? ‘’Oh, a bird’’, said the child, scornfully- ‘’I thought, perhaps, it was a falling star that surfaced again, Rose to heaven from these limpid shores, or perhaps, Narcissus, admiring himself in tranquil mirrors where princes were wont to, Elephants, with howdahs,...

  This journey is never-ending – And that’s the whole point of it, too, fresh explorations of the self With every passing moment, every breath that rises and falls, Sudden illuminations mingled with step-by-step progressions All grist to the celestial mills.   In each precise instant, this being blooms into an infinite space And is yet contained in a fragile clay jar, smaller than a blot of ink on the page of eternity; Bullay Shah, too, knew that dot, and Sohni entrusted herself to that jar- so Love demands of us all these deaths and rebirths and we dissolve and are reincorporated, time after time after time.   There is no heaving or shoving or forcing anything, here. The river flows on into the ocean, intuitively, And in each forgetfulness there is a greater awareness born, Drop or ocean, milk or honey, vinegar or wine, all substances wax and wane And attain new forms and qualities and patterns in this glorious abandon – abandon that rests beyond words, be...

  The rocks stretch out their arms To homeless pebbles in the sand As the white waters leap Downhill in headlong pursuit Of happy, lapping hours. The riverbeds also flow With the rivers And there is no stillness  In nature; Pebbles and stones plunge forth, Racing with invisible things in the mud A thousand times chafing the reeds, Green-swirling--- Excited by the kick of fish-tails, In the willow-strands The leaping surprise  Of otters sliding down parapets Like rain off a woman’s hair Awakened by the wind’s insistent love Tossing dead boughs away Upon waters, children, flowers, Eyes; Riverbeds flowing, There are once more  Traveling tales to tell.  ---- ----------- ------------------- ------------------ ---------------- from the collection, ''Riverbeds Flowing '', 1999; reprint 2009  

  You draw your breath yearning a sadness infinite in its contemplation;   I, who embraced death in dumbfounded rapture am reborn in the eternal question imprisoned in your eyes;   Are we to celebrate this reprieve relying on our doomed songs of desperate desire?   Let's be buried together.  ----------- ------------- ---------------- ---------------  from Burnt Offerings, 1996 

  (i) I remember the dream, before the birth, how gently the soul breathed silken strands of magic sleep spun on sensuous songs, with crystal-clarity and the eye turned inward to the eye; The sifting of jewels the selecting of silks, ''Fine feathers make finer birds'' -only, peacocks strut and honk, strangled cat-calls- somewhere, they say, shapes that shimmer change, transform, transcend, Troubadours of Amazon forests, small birds circle in homage, dappled green, the emerald is my stone, verdant and strange, stones dancing in the Palais Royale; The Quetzal is a sacred bird!   (ii) They were the musicians of motionless sleep; They knew the softness of the deep, Blue sapphires dyed the ocean shores I washed my hands in pearls- The partridge sang in the pear tree. she sighed to think of bracelets three, those I did not give her, but planned to, on her wedding day; The stag bellowed his cynical call- the old owl i...

Had I seen the ghosts of this place They would dance their victory dance; Glorious vale Cup, chalice, Basin; The glacial streams Empty into that lake Quiet, ever so silent, Rippling lyre, reflection; Snows and rocks frame it — I have no words Only emotions Which boil and rise With the thunder of horses, The sound of stick And ball thudding Across the turf; The ghosts of this place, Had I but seen them, Pale as the snow Cold as the lake As vivid as the night-fires That light the valley; The whistle of wind The throb of drum The chant of song   Had I seen the ghosts dance Their victory dance….   --------- ---------------- -----------------  --------------------  from A Sad Piper, 1994 

  I One quarter of a century has elapsed the diurnal movement of a life-cycle rotating on its own axis turned inwards and away from hung by a nail upon the casement II Two of the nine lives have drifted sinking somewhere near the embankment while out prowling the empty streets at night digging in this corner and that poking here and there in the trashcans lining the alley III Three horsemen have appeared riding on fiery horses, spewing their sulphurous flame into the darkness scorching one and all with their terrible message blazed ominously across the bedstead IV Four has come arrayed the number of an ephemeral end a hermetic transmutation ordained by the fluctuations of fatality, falling like some ill-omened comet helter-skelter with the dice. ----- ----------- ------------- -------------- ----------- (from ''A Sad Piper'', 1994)

  ‘’The Muse is a reality’’ (Martin Lings)                   Song 1 The month of Shravan Is the month of love When the skies burst forth with desire Thunderously . How could I know You would steal silently into my heart?                     Song 2 I travel this road With your longing Looming in the dark clouds, Endless hours. Endlessly, I melt in the rain That falls , like tears from my eyes , On the threshold of love. When will you open your doors for me?                   Song 3 I remember How Mira dreamt Of her Madhan. You reminded me And I danced like Radha In the moonlight of Vrindivan, The universe danced with me .     Song 4 Take all I have, And let me sit with m...