A Walk On A Moonlit Night – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi


If I walk on a moonlit night,
My shadow walks beside me,
O my life.

Moonlight hides in every lane,
Which lane should I take?
O my life.

The night-scents are vigilant,
And the wind is soothing,
O my life.

I am ignorant about these rays of moonlight,
Will I awaken one?
O my life.

If I awaken a ray of moonlight,
I will be branded a sinner,
O my life.

So I walk in fear,
Treading lightly,
O my life.

Separation was put in our swaddling cloth,
By our mothers,
O my life.

Since the beginning, light has been our enemy,
How can I let it touch my limbs?
O my life.

If I come to you on a moonlit night,
My shadow walks beside me,
O my life.

Moonlight hides in every lane
Which lane should I take?
O my life.

Please follow and like us:

The Request – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

The Request

The sun that you stole
Was mine.
The house that you threw into darkness,
Was mine.

The sunshine that smiles in your home, is mine.
My life is bleak without it,
The odor of my grief is heavy on it,
It was mine yesterday and is mine today.

It is I, bereft of light, who am its father.
It is my fire that is embedded in its limbs.
The smell of my sun is in it,
The sun that was stolen from me in broad daylight.

But you cannot be blamed for this theft.
The sun has been stolen in every era.
An afternoon has always died,
Weeping for the sun.

I, lightless, beamless, have a request,
I, a faithless father, stand at your door.
Let me place a sun upon your forehead,
And beg you for my sunlight.

I, who died long ago, beg you to bestow this on me.
Never utter my name again in the sunlight.
If ever some ray asks a question, remain silent,
Or call me a ‘black sun’ and let it go.

This is the request of a father of sunlight.
From this day, on my sunshine is dead to me
Along with the sun it is yours now,
Wherever it smiles, is the home if its father.

The sun that you stole
Was mine.
The house that you threw into darkness,
Was mine.

Please follow and like us:

Butterflies – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Butterflies

I catch butterflies,
I catch butterflies.

From the beautiful
Flower-scented garden
Of life, I catch
Golden-colored, blue,
Shimmering and yellow ones!
I think that if catch them all,
From the entire forest.
I will jab their butterfly wings
To their shoulder.

But whenever I try to catch them,
My heart begins to tremble
Like a branch of henna
That shivers in the breeze.
And the butterfly takes flight.

Flowers of sin, like some black sun ,
Bloom in my dreams
Their perfume-sodden fragrance
Spreading through each heartbeat.

A delicate, queenly butterfly
Comes fluttering by,
Delighted to see the flowers of sin,
She alights, intoxicated.
I, unaware, pluck all the flowers
And put them into my cloth bag.

But when I start to leave
The cloth tears,
And the butterfly takes flight.

How foolish I was to think
That I could catch a butterfly!

The cold winter of grief
Scorched my flowers of happiness.
The green vine of hope
Shed its healthy leaves.

Seeing this darkness,
They slipped back to the valley, they returned,
The red birds that had flown far to seek
Their desires.

It is the evening of life
Lotus-hearts lie asleep.
The dew drops of my life
Have spilled, some sipped
Deliciously, by the butterflies.

As the night goes by,
I think that day will surely dawn,
That once again the sun will not err,
Regarding darkness.

A milky lotus of the evening
Will bloom upon this earth again.
I hope that once again,
In that perfumed garden
I will be able to catch butterflies.

Please follow and like us:

The Pan Of Sorrows – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

The Pan Of Sorrows

I will give you the grain of tears,
Roast my sorrows in your pan,
O, tender of the fire.
Tender of the fire, branch of magnolia,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.

I am late already,
The shadows are fading,
The cattle have returned,
From the forest.
The birds have raised their clamor.
Roast my sorrows in your pan,
Tender of the fire.

Hurry, be quick,
I have far to go,
To the place
Where my companions have gone.
I have heard the road to that town is difficult
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

When my turn comes,
Your bale of kindling is damp.
Why has your earthen pan
Become flaccid?
What has gone wrong with your fire?
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

Mine is just a handful of grains,
Roast them, and let me go on my way,
Don’t leave them raw,
Roast them well.
I beg you, bring an end to this wrangling,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
Tender of the fire.

The wind has dropped,
Its mournful weeping ended.
A sweet heat
Is rising in the stars.
My breaths are like a marriage procession
Whose bridegroom is displeased.
Roast my sorrows in your pan.
O tender of the fire.

Tender of the fire, branch of magnolia,
Roast my sorrows in your pan.

Please follow and like us:

Say Something – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Say Something

Say a word, say something
O my dark beloved!
Stir spring into my life!
O my dark beloved!

If you stir spring into my life,
I will become a doe.
In the dense garden of your beauty
I will forage for fragrance.
If you shoot arrows of separation at me
I, infatuated, will swoon!
I will not drink, though you pour upon me
Delicate, sweet words.

If you stir spring into my life,
I will become moonlight.
At midnight, in a sandalwood forest
I will come to you.
Heavy with perfume
I will lay a bed for you.
While you sleep, I will kiss you,
And fall back, unbalanced.

If you stir spring into my life,
I will become a cloud.
Whatever road you walk
Upon it I will shower myself.
The wells of grief, I know, are deeper than life itself,
I will fill them, neck high.
These wells that have no rope,
And no pail.

If you stir spring into my life,
I will become a butterfly.
The pollen of separation, more precious than wisdom
I will distribute from door to door.
The tree of separation is tinier than a nail
But casts a shadow a million miles wide,
This tree that grows peversely,
Right beside the heart.
O my dark beloved!
Stir spring into my life!
O my dark beloved!

Please follow and like us:

To Be A Bird – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalbi

To Be A Bird

I wish that I could be a bird
That I could fly, that I could sing,
That I could touch untouchable peaks,
That I could forget the roads of the world,
And never return.

I would bath luxuriously
Drinking long sips of water.
By the shore of a great lake,
I would sing a halting song.
I would go into a flowering wilderness
Gulp the perfume laden winds.
I would warm in a tight embrace,
The peaks of mountains,
Deadened by centuries of freezing cold.
I wish that I could be a bird.

My nest would be among the mulberry trees,
On in the caper, the mesquite or the cypress.
When the cold east wind blew
The jewelled branches would bend
As if playing, swaying
With their hair flying in the wind.
One day there would be a storm
And all the twigs would all scatter.
Nestless, homeless, I would become,
For the rest of my life I would drink the nectar of sorrow
And live my life in its intoxication.
I wish that I could be a bird.

Please follow and like us:

Listen Mother – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Listen mother

Listen, mother,
My songs are eyes
Stinging with grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep.

Upon them I lay strips of moonlight
Soaked in perfume,
But the pain does not recede.
I foment them
With warm sighs
Yet they turn on me ferociously.

I am still young,
And need guidance myself.
Who can advise him?
Mother, would you tell him,
To clench his lips when he weeps,
Or the world will hear him cry.

Tell him, mother, to swallow the bread
Of separation.
He is fated to mourn.
Tell him to lick the salty dew
On the roses of sorrow,
And stay strong.

Where are the snake handlers
From whom I can beg for a shroud to cover me?
Somebody give me a shroud that will fit!
How can I wait like a jogi
At the doorstep of these people
Greedy for gold?

Listen, o my pain,
Love is like a butterfly
Pinned forever to a stake.
It is like a bee,
From whom desire,
Stays miles away.

Love is a palace
Where, but for birds,
Nothing else lives.
Love is a hearth
Where the bed of fulfillment,
Is never laid.

Mother, tell him not to
Call out the name of his dead friends
So loudly in the middle of the night.
When I am gone, I fear
That this malicious world,
Will say that my songs were evil.

Listen, o mother
My songs are eyes
Stinging with grains of separation.
In the middle of the night ,
They wake and weep for dead friends.
Mother, I cannot sleep.

Please follow and like us:

A Borrowed Song – Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

A Borrowed Song

Give me, O Lord
A few more songs.
My fire is dying,
Give me a spark.
At a very young age
I exhausted every sorrow.
For my youth
Give me a fresh pain.

Give me a song, like youth itself,
Beautiful, magical.
Like the redness of a rising day
That sparkles in a brimming lake.
Like the first star of the evening
That shines in a treeless desert.

Night is approaching my desert,
Give me a star or two,
Or let me sink, like the evening redness,
Into the brimming lake.

Lord, life is unbearable without a companion,
Unbearable without a song.
We all know that life has to be lived,
That pain has been sewn into it.
Do the deer drink the water
At every shore?
Let the water at my shore
Be washed away, undrunk.
Or take back the songs
That you let me write.

Lord, we should never extol beauty
Which is empty of fire,
Nor praise those eyes
Whose tears lack salt.
We should not sing a song bereft of pain,
Or write a word devoid of fragrance.
If my words are without fragrance
Tear them from the branch,
Or give me another song,
Like youth itself.

At a very young age
I exhausted every sorrow.
For my youth
Give me a fresh pain.

Please follow and like us:

My Friend – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

My Friend

My friend, it is my own sorrow
That has destroyed me.
It is a lie to think
That your love had the strength to do it.
I have no complaint against
Heat or drought.
My garden was destroyed
By the dews of spring.

It is not the fault
Of the black night.
The ocean was defeated
By its beloved moon.

Who is it that
Blames death?
A man is destroyed,
By his birth.

The sun that rises
Is certain to sink.
He lies who says
The west destroyed it.

Yes, one can be destroyed
By grieving for dead friends,
Though it is more likely the result,
Of the display of that grief.

The enemy is not the murderer,
I tell you.
Shiv was killed
By those who loved him

Please follow and like us:

Turbaned On – Poem by Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Shiv Kumar Batalvi

Turbaned On

Like a branch of the pomegranate tree,
We lie here, swaying slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Swaying slowly, o turbaned one.

Like the eyes of a wild deer,
Burning in the forest, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Burning in the forest, o turbaned one.

Like boats left at the shore,
We lie here, sinking slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Sinking slowly, o turbaned one.

Like lumps of sugar candy,
We lie here, dissolving slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Dissolving slowly, o turbaned one.

Like logs of black sandalwood,
We lie here, smoldering slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Smoldering slowly, o turbaned one.

Like a house with walls of unbaked brick,
We are crumbling slowly, o turbaned one.
Turbaned one, black of heart,
Crumbling slowly, o turbaned one.

Please follow and like us: