Omer Tarin

  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 ...

  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,...

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 

  Somewhere they dance with abandon round and round the cedar pole at midday, in some sunny breeze life dances with them and much love, all earthern bonds and heavenly promise knitting them close, with ties of destiny and common thought, where little is said but much understood;   Not so in my country--   In my country dust devils dance and blood runs riot in the streets and dogs howl under the hollow sky and black rains fall when she-wolves whelp in deserted streets;   Where much is said but little done, that is my country.   -------  ----------  -----------  ------------  * Published in 1995