Outside The Furnace- By Aziz Qaisi

Every day, she threw her supple arms,
soft and silken thighs,
young and rounded breasts,
rosy lips and cheeks,
glossy black hair,
her every limb
into the burning furnace.
A thick liquid, gold and silver colored,
set in the hot and cold forms of her breaths,
and then became her body.

One night when she threw her body
into the burning furnace,
the gold and silver would not set,
in the hot and cold forms of her breaths,
first her lips,
and then her cheeks,
and then her arms were sundered,
her hair was scorched,
breasts consumed, waist seared,
thighs parched;
Then the heavy liquid, turning in to jagged gold nuggets,
sank in to her bones until she died.
But her eyes still live,
They say to me:
You also throw the steel of your body,
the glass of your heart,
the same in to the furnace.
Look, everyday and night and every moment,
You, too, are dying, just like me.
Everyone is dying, just like me.
But, take this warning
And save your eyes.

( Note: This poem has been published in some of the most prestigious literary magazines of the world in various languages including English. The original poem is in Urdu)

The Grip Of Fear-By Danish Khan

It is a sunday. I have been waiting endlessly , in between numerous cups of tea and cigarettes, sunday newspaper and short stories for the rain to abate. I hate the rain. It makes the frog croak so badly. Folding up my jeans and throwing away my chappals to the sea I feel like running amuck, to feel the rain water splashing up my ankle and the rain beating down fiercely on my face. I never do it . I may fall sick.

It is eleven at night. The rain relents. Should I or should I not go for a walk? I need my stock of cigarettes for the night. I go for a walk pulling up my jeans, armed with an umbrella. The wind is with me. It is delightfully cold. It pushes me, goads me and urges me to towards the small shop at the street corner. It whips around the edges of the building with a sharp cry. It whistles past the leaves of the coconut palms, and they bend obligingly. The palm leaves have just had a marvellous bath and large drops of water shrugged off by them fall on my head.

I buy the cigarettes. I turn around. The rain washed street reflects the light of the street lamps.I light a cigarette. It warms me.I start walking towards home. Now the wind rushes past my face. It tries constantly to push me back.Walking is not easy anymore. It has become an effort. The street lamps suddenly go off. Power failure!

Oh! What a night! Starless, cold and windy.
I feel something strange is going to happen, something unusual. A strange kind of fear seems to take hold of me. It does not make my teeth chatter, but it makes me breathe faster. I wish for a car to pass by or a truck or a beggar or a cat to cross my path, anything! Anything to dispel this loneliness. I want to run. The wind is against me.

Wait! What is that which shines like dulled steel in the darkness? Is it a weapon? Who is holding it? Right at the corner of the street shielded by the building with just the steel sticking out? Is it somebody taking refuge from the rain? But it is not raining anymore. I stand rooted to the spot, waiting for a move. Surely, he has seen me. Where have the police disappeared? I want to shout but I cannot. What does he want? My watch? It is expensive. I do not have much money. Thank God! I have my umbrella with me. I will knock him down with it.

I deal a blow and rush past him with celerity. What is this sound of steel hitting the ground.? I look over my shoulder. I expect him to come after me. But he doesn't. I retrace my steps. Closer, closer. Is it a trick? I have my umbrella with me. A few more steps. I peer. The figure is huddled as though out of exhaustion. Such an unlikely posture for someone who wants to attack and rob me. Surprised, I go very close.

Oh God! It is a woman! Her eyes without reproach or pain are staring at me. Her threadbare saree is hardly enough to cover her emaciated body. I dig in to my pockets. I press in to her hands whatever I have . She is still staring. The lights have come on. Her eyes are almost listless. I am scared. I walk a few steps away from her, accidently hitting the bowl. What a clatter it makes! I break in to a run. The chappals slip away. I am not bothered. It has started raining.

Catharsis- by Danish Khan

Darkness slowly devours the evening. From the folds of the dark clouds lightning shines without its audible threat. The faces half lit by it look like black and white pictures. Some are hurrying home, some amble aimlessly, some have nowhere to go. The dogs whine confusedly and are running amok. The waves swell their chest and hammer at my feet where I stand rooted. Memories steal upon me like the sudden burst of wind
Each pompous wave takes away the sand from beneath my feet and makes me sink more. I look heavenwards. Now those dark clouds are rushing towards me. The wind is blowing with a certain urgency as though it wants to subjugate those tall stately palm trees. The strong wind billows in to my clothes and blows them out. It leaves a cool sensation on my skin. I am alive!
The waves have become more arrogant now. They beat against my chest violently. The clouds have swallowed up the horizon. The lightning tears through the clouds with deafening crackle. I look back over my shoulders. I can see my footprints in the sand. I pull my feet away from the holes that the waves had relentlessly dug under my feet. Goaded by the wind I rush towards my footprints in the sand . I want to retrace them before the rains wash them away. I only manage to smudge them. Frustrated I make a deep, deep trail through them.
The rain splashes on my face and flattens my hair. Now there is a steady stream. My clothes stick to my body as though they are scared of losing me. The raindrops are falling in a definite rhythm. The whistle of the wind is like the high note of a flute. The tall stately palm trees are dancing in the rain. Water has collected in the trail that I had made. I splash the water with my foot. It jumps up joyously! I splash it again with my other foot. The rains have washed every trace of my footprints. But through the trail that I had made in the sand a small stream has started flowing.

Wordsmith's Son- By Danish Khan

Its not easy
being a wordsmiths' son my friend...
One does not get land or fortune
all one gets are words as an inheritance
Words that run amok in ones' brain
Words that are sometimes friendly but often times slippery
Words that dwell in the deep crevices of ones' brain- most difficult to pull out
Words that hammer relntlessly till the brain bleeds
Words that crash against each other and die
Words that shriek as they somersault
Words that cause deep furrows as they skid
Words that are very nasty, evil-gnawing at ones' brain all the time
Words that are joyful but they are so few
Words that fall light and quiet like the morning dew
Words that are forever screaming and shouting
Words that sit quiet and mourning till they they die
Words that change their meaning everyday
Words that remain meaningless till doomsday
Its not easy being a wordsmiths' son my dear friend
All one gets are words as inheritance

The Sea Of Our Lives- by Aziz Qaisi

Besides the stone lip of the wall,
A parched, sad land lonely acacia stands,
Lifting both its wooden hands,
It beckons to the sea,
Its shadow hunted by the sun,
seeks refuge in the waters of the well.
The sun knows
a shadows' thirst cannot be quenched,
the tree can never bloom.

Ashamed of its impotence,
The well stone speaks:
This thirst we share is : life,
This desire we share is : water;
What is missing is our completion.
The ocean of your life and mine is nowhere to be found;
The ocean of your life and mine
is somehwere, and right here.
*************************************************************************************

Continuity- by Aziz Qaisi

This is what happens
When you swim against the tide.
Soon I too shall drown,
Battling against the waves.
I see that one before me, too, has drowned

Back there!
Beyond my sinking sight,
Someone else appears to fight the tide.
My God! Its me.
Does that mean the drowning man Was also me?

Wordsmith's Son- by Danish Khan

At The Graveyard- by Danish Khan

1028..920..628..The graves are all numbered. Some are made of cement, some of marble, some are uncared for, some flattened, reminding us that some who walked this earth were insignificant or possibly penniless. The dusk imparts a softer hue to the shanties running along the graveyard. They looked harsh in the mid-day sun. The gravediggers are emaciated wearing threadbare clothes. Their children play unmindful of the graves, their women are hired to water the plants on the graves and to maintain them. The priest is accompanied by an obsequious assistant always ready to pick up his chappals and fold them under his armpits when he does not require them.
There are people walking among the graves stopping at this particular grave and that, to adorn them with flowers, to light a few agarbattis whose fragrance disperses in a moment. Some are moved; for some it is only a duty. Some graves are close to each other. Do the dead talk to each other? Do they compare the number of flowers put on their grave? Do they discuss the fragrance of the agarbattis? Are they seized by the jealousies that troubled them when they were alive? Do they smile at this strange behaviour of the living? Do they laugh at the living who are scared of death?
The place for the mourners is covered with the roof raised high, the floor cemented and shiny. The parapet about a foot above the ground has raised armrests. I slip in to one of these slots. There are people asleep on the floor; fat, indolent men, their faces shiny their bodies covered with sweat ridden vests and dirty trousers. They must be the keepers of the graveyard.
People enter the graveyard, carrying the deceased on their shoulders. The fat man raises himself on one of his hands, looks towrds them and goes back to sleep. The cemented slot feels uncomfortable. The deceased is to be buried between two graves. Right on the top of the dug up heap of earth are large bones which look suspiciously of human form. The deceased is lowered in to the grave with a lot of care. Everyone has an adequate amount of solemnity written on their faces.
Slowly and with equal care planks are fixed to the sides so that the grave does not cave in-or is it to make it more habitable? The mouth is closed with wooden planks and covered with earth. The priest is chanting mindlessly. He has a duty to perform. The grave is covered with sweet smelling flowers. The agarbattis are lighted and fixed in to the soft earth. Everyone prays for the deceased. The rituals completed, their duties fulfilled, they walk away towards their jealousies, their differences, their homes.
The graveyard looks forlorn. It is dark now. The lighted agarbattis seem to be twinkling. Only the flowers adorning the grave can be seen. The graves have been swallowed up by the darkness. I feel lonely. The fat man sits up. Shoos away the flies lazily, stretches out, yawns and looks at me sleepily.

Many Dimensions & More

My father Aziz Qaisi lived for his poetry. He was an Urdu poet, or is an Urdu poet because he still lives in his poetry. He was never a popular poet; he never wanted to be one. Though a few of his Nazms and Ghazals are sung by the singers and have become popular. He wrote from his heart. He believed that his poetry was an extension of his self, his being and his existence. There is no false note in his poems because he never wanted to please the singers or the readers or his comtemporaries.He had a very short life on this planet. He died in 1992 of lung cancer.A lot of people ask me why are you a 'Khan' when your father was a 'Qaisi'. Well, Qaisi was not his real name. It was his penname. His real name was Aziz Mohammed Khan. The word Qaisi is derived from Majnus' name 'Qais'. It is usual for parents to take their children out for picnics. My father never did that. I was taken to Mushairas (poetic soiree) instead when I was about 8-10 years old. I had the good fortune to meet and hear poets and writers like Ali Sardar Jaffri, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, Firaq Gorakhpuri, Akhtar-ul-iman, Jan Nisar Akhtar, Kaifi Azmi, Sahir Ludhianvi, Majrooh Sultanpuri, Qateel Shifai, Ahmed Nadeem Qasmi, Rahi Masoom Raza,Rajinder Singh Bedi, Himayat Ali Shair, Shariar, Waheed Akhtar, Indeevar, Ahmed Faraz, Nida Fazli, Shaaz Tamkanat. My heroes have always been poets and writers. I believe it is the gentle heart of the poets and writers that is holding this world together-left to the wily politicians this world would have been rubble a long time ago.