Wednesday, January 27, 2010

"Uff Teri Adaa"



Jogi nachle ..
Rang rachde ..
Jogi nachle ..
Rang rachde ..
Lehraake balkhake tu, duniya bhula ke naach
Dil ko ae gunguna le, gaane tu gaa ke naach
Rangeeleon mein to kho ja, pee ke peela ke naach
Matt bhare naino se tu, naina mila ke naach
Uff teri adaa, I like the way you move
Uff tera badan, I like to see you groove
Uff teri nazar, it says I wanna dance with you
Uff teri adaa, I like the way you move
Uff tera badan, I like to see you groove
Uff teri nazar, it says I wanna dance with you

Sun le sahiba ..
Tu hai ik nasha ..
Hosh hai mera ..
Saara kho gaya ..

Hosh gawa deewane, hosh gawa ke naach
Paas tu aa deewane, paas tu aake naach
Dil mein hai armaan jitne, saare jaga ke naach
Tann mein badan mein jaise aag laga ke naach
Uff teri adaa, I like the way you move
Uff tera badan, I like to see you groove
Uff teri nazar, it says I wanna dance with you
Uff teri adaa, I like the way you move
Uff tera badan, I like to see you groove
Uff teri nazar, it says I wanna dance with you

Dekh ke bhi nahi ho yakeen
Itni kyun hai btaa tu haseen
Tere husn se zindagi haseen
Tere husn ke aagey koi haseena kujh bhi nahi
Aankhon mein mere saare sapne saja ke naach
Mujhko tu dil mein rakh le, dil ko dhalka ke naach
Pyaar agar hai mujhse, pyaar jaga ke naach
Jaan o dil hai jo teri, mujhpe luta ke naach
Uff teri adaa, I like the way you move
Uff tera badan, I like to see you groove
Uff teri nazar, it says I wanna dance with you
Uff teri adaa, I like the way you move
Uff tera badan, I like to see you groove
Uff teri nazar, it says I wanna dance with you

Friday, January 22, 2010

"The Emptiness of Man"

I.
The emptiness of man is not like
any other: not like an empty coat
or empty sack (things which do not stand up
when empty, such as an empty man),
the emptiness of man is more like fullness
in swollen things which keep on swelling,
the way a sack must feel
that is being filled, or any sack at all.
The emptiness of man, this full emptiness,
is not like a sack of bricks' emptiness,
or a sack of rivets', it does not have the pulse
that beats in a seed bag or bag of eggs.

2.
The emptiness of man, though it resembles
fullness, and seems all of a piece, actually
is made of nothings, bits of emptiness,
like the sponge, empty when filled,
swollen like the sponge, with air, with empty air;
it has copied its very structure from the sponge,
it is made up in clusters, of bubbles, of non-grapes.
Man's empty fullness is like a sack
filled with sponges, is filled with emptiness:
man's emptiness, or swollen emptiness,
or the emptiness that swells by being empty.
~Joao Cabral De Melo Neto, translated from Portuguese by Galway Kinnell

Friday, January 15, 2010

Saturday, January 09, 2010

"Dream Dust"

Gather out of star-dust,
Earth-dust,
Cloud-dust,
Storm-dust,
And splinters of hail,
One handful of dream-dust,
Not for sale.
~Langston Hughes

"We who are your closest friends"

We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
~Philip Lopate

Friday, January 01, 2010

"The Hunt in the Forest"

How children think of death is how the shadows
gather between the trees: a hiding place
for everything the grown-ups cannot name-
Nevertheless, they hurry to keep their appointment
far in the woods, at the meeting of parallel lines,
where everything is altered by its own
momentum – altered, though we say transformed -
greyhound to roebuck, laughter to skin and bone;

and no one survives the hunt: though the men return
in threes and fours, their faces blank with cold,
they never quite arrive at what they seem,
leaving a turn of phrase or a song from childhood
and waiting, while their knives slip through the blood
like butter, or silk, until the heart is still.
~John Burnside