Letter to a poet

Dear Poet,

I am not a poet. Definitely not one dealing in words. Not yet. May be never! That is not what I am after! But, I am blessed to have read poetry (how many of us do?), I am blessed to have cried reading poetry many times. I say 'blessed' because it indeed is a rare ' approval' of God that allows one to understand poetry. Understanding poetry is not about chance of getting exposed to it. It is about being ready for it. Understanding poetry needs, I would like to believe, one to be more human than others. To be at a higher stage of emotional evolution among men.

And, to be a poet one has to be loved by God. Has to be highest of humans. In love with everything, not only in love of passion, but of compassion (which is free from pity), not only in love with tenderness but with coarse innocence, a love which frees him, time to time, of worries of surviving. And, when that happens words come to him by themselves, effortlessly, all of a sudden. There is no other way, there is no possibility of another outcome (but to become a poet). It is also evident in the fact that the highest degree of love known to men, the love of God, finds expression only through poetry. Kabir sang, Nanak sang, Tulsi sang, so did Sufis. And, they were best among humans too (perhaps not even human, except for the fact that death conquered them too). Writing poetry is not a skill. It is a state of being. It is not about learning to fly. It is about becoming a bird.

All, I believe, before they are poets, struggle to figure out beauty and so struggle with words in expressing it. With growing love, when they develop an eye for beauty, words will not be a problem. Because, beauty, in its most elegant form is always simple, and can be described in simplest of words. The true ability of poet is not in 'describing' but 'seeing'.

For all lovers of poetry it is impossible not to be in awe of poets. The remarkable gift of these men (poets) puts them so much above the rest of us. This awe is not same as one feels for beautiful eyes, or fair skin, or melodious voice, but is deeper than all of that. This awe is for ultimate blessing bestowed on a man by God, the godliness. Awe of the moment when God shared a part of his most important creative power, the imagination, with a human, the poet, and said the magical words " let there be beauty in everything for you". And, to the credit of poets, God did this with a hidden self interest, as all the poetry goes to the archives of God as a reference for his future creations. That's the reason ( gift of imagination, remember!) poets always seem to be speaking of future, of not what is, but of what can be, what should be. It is Poet who decides the course of future of humanity. It is poet who brought us from the days of being little more than a monkey to the days of being some one who dares to dream of looking at God himself eye to eye.

So, dear brother! O poet! Teach us how to love, or, otherwise, we all will keep on struggling with words.

In awe,

A brother.

(Pulastya)

थकन

इस हसरत से देखना पाँव के 'छालें' का खार को !
वो थक चुका है मेरे साथ साथ चलते हुए ।

छूटेगी आवारगी, तो बहलाऊँगा कैसे 'इंतज़ार'को ?
वो थक चुका है मेरे साथ साथ चलते हुए ।

सफ़र में बढ़ूँ कैसे थकन की क़ैद मैं छोड़ 'यार' को ,
वो थक चुका है मेरे साथ साथ चलते हुए ।

-पुलस्त्य

( "वो थक चुका है मेरे साथ साथ चलते हुए " Line is by Liaqat Jafri- a well know Kashmiri poet)

पलटना

अभी कुछ और दूर तलक बाक़ी है हदें-नज़र
वो जा रहा है पलट कर ज़रूर देखेगा ।

आँसू नहीं, ये उम्मीद से भरी है मेरी नज़र
वो जा रहा है पलट कर ज़रूर देखेगा ।

ग़ुबार रह गया राह में, ज़ुबान दोहराती है मगर
वो जा रहा है पलट कर ज़रूर देखेगा ।

-पुलस्त्य

( "वो जा रहा है पलट कर ज़रूर देखेगा " Line is by Liaqat Jafri- a well know Kashmiri poet)

To a fellow traveller

Some beauties are special. They are not only carved in beauty, but also move with beauty. Through their mannerisms of body movement, constantly add a new dimension to beauty.  These mannerisms have a special effervescent charm, they enhance observer's sensitivity to beauty. Like alcohol, they fuel thirst for themselves. It is their soothing effect on body and mind that does so. Like fragrance rides the breath and disperses in whole body, they are a delight not just for eyes but whole being of a man. They trigger the virtuous cycle of sensitivity to beauty in the man.

Word " delicate" is constantly floating in my head, tied to an emotion which gently but persistently keeps nudging me. I am wondering about the source of this emotion. Perhaps it is the perfume that she is wearing, subtle, sweet, and alive, this essence of flowers slowly merging into my breath and my vitality, of which this emotion is born. I am in thrall of this, struggling with two confronting urges, of breathing fast or breathing slow. The greed of taking, through her fragrance, whole of her quickly in me versus slowly, very slowly, savouring this sublimate of her beauty and extracting every atom of her being from this charming air in to my blood stream.  "Whole of her" versus "all of her". And I suspect word "delicate" is my cue for going slow.

Or perhaps it is the "delicate" movement of her long beautiful fingers. Those supple fingers crowned with black nail paint, except for index finger nail which is painted silver. It is in embrace of a silver beetle with two shining dark green eyes-a ring in beetle shape and two small rubies that made up the eyes of the insect- which keeps on riding the gentle movements of the finger when she plays with her phone. Finger moving like painter's brush, moving in divinely fluid movement, with complete lack of stiffness but with total control, on food tray, on handle of fork, on the neck of water bottle, on her phone. She touches the app icons on her phone as a master gives final touches to a masterpiece. God, in a moment of unbridled generosity, has moulded her hands in pure elegance.

With corner of my eyes, I steal these looks. My eyes, riding a perfect wave of her finger movement, are so lost that they lose their footing, and yet smoothly glide up another wonder of her being. Her arms. Flawless, like a snow covered field, shining under the mild sun- of her orange sleeveless top. These arms, like mother, are watching over those playful fingers; proud and unobtrusive and yet in perfect harmony with those elegant fingers allowing them their scope, with minimum of movement or guidance; and perfectly worthy of bearing such beautiful fingers on accord of their own beauty. These arms appear so well trained to cut down on all the unnecessary movements that the symphony played in the rhythmic dance of fingers is elevated to a new level.

Or perhaps it is her hair which are fragrant. Of shoulder length, with a tinge of brown- or rather gold, thick and smooth. So neatly untangled that one of the romantic thoughts that is constantly suggesting itself to me is of counting them. One by one, each time running down my finger on their length to feel the texture of soft but firm fragrant fibre. And when she moves those fingers in her hair it hits the limit of poetic imagination leaving me in frustration of failure to capture the moment in words.

And, a few time when she say ' thank you' or 'its ok' those words are no less fragrant to my ears than her perfume, or her hair. That is a new dimension added to sense of hearing, the fragrance.

-Frequent Flier's Notes:(Chandigarh to Mumbai flight)

To Monday

I mourn today- on a Monday. A craving had died, yesterday. I mourn its young death, a sudden death in full bloom, a death caused by its young age. Cravings, the strange creatures that they are, must die young. They always do. If nurtured- they die, if ignored- they do not age. And, in death they turn in to longings. All longings are afterlife of cravings who died young. They always die young! This moment there is a fire raging, the next-there is nothing, not even ashes, but only a longing. I wail, in denial of loss, still hoping for a bad dream to break and hear the sound of flowing music of bloom again. But,  it doesn't happen that way. Happiness is always a dream and nightmare is always the real world. Only dream breaks, nightmare lasts for ever. That's the nature of the world, to chase cravings and live in longings.

Life is a summation of all cravings and longings of a man. And, if, a week is the life span of desire, today is, the day on which seeds of future and past of desire are sown on a common ground. It is a Monday. And today is a day of mourning, of death of a craving that died yesterday night, died young and vigorous, suddenly, died of clock hitting the hour. Today, in my longing, I wail on the death of this beloved craving. But, today, a new craving is born too. Drowned in my own wailing, I am unable to hear its infant cry though. Mondays are sanatorium of desires, with a nursery and mortuary of cravings side by side; on this day, in wailing of death of a mature craving, that died yesterday, I can't hear infant craving cry with a new sound of life next door. Today is Monday, and on Monday I only mourn, the death of a craving, that died young, died yesterday.

-Pulastya

नशा

पीकर शराब, तेरी नज़र से पीने वालों की क्यूँ सज़ा करती हो,
क़ुदरत के मयखॉने हैं तुम्हारी आँखें, फिर क्यूँ और नशा करती हो ।

खींची जाती है तुम्हारे ही सुर्ख़ गुलाबी गालों कि भट्टी में ये मय,
और फिर इसको तुम ही अपनी आँखों के सागर मैं जमा करती हो।

यूँ भी दीवानो को बर्बादी के दाम पे भी मिलती है बस दो ही घूँट,
तुम अपने मुँह लगा कर क्यूँ इस मगरूर मय को खुदा करती हो।

मत निकालो रिवाजे मोहब्बत की नयी रीत निराली,
जिसमें दर्द आशिक़ों को देकर तुम मय को अपनी दवा करती हो।

ऐ शमा, ये कौन परवाना इस क़दर तड़पा है तेरी लौ में जलके,
जिसकी याद को तुम जाम-ऐ-मय से रवां करती हो।

-पुलसत्य

Rajasthan

I met him during one of My field trips, in Barmer Rajasthan. In a sparsely populated land filled with such great solitude that it has afflicted its inhabitants. An effect so clearly visible, on men and women- who speak with their silence, on houses- spaced out in such a way that each looks like an island in the sea of isolation, on trees- so still that even during the day land appears to be in deep midnight slumber, or near dead. The only defiance to intimidating isolation that human spirit shows here is the noise of colour, of attire of men, of outer walls of houses. The intensity of colour, it seems, takes fuel from the depth of isolation, like true arch-enemies, who are engaged in a battle to death, draw strength from each other. The isolation imposed by nature has pushed human soul to such desperation that it would do anything to attract attention of fellow human soul, like, lighting a lamp in the night in a hope that someone will be noticing at a distance. Even the assumed attention of a fellow human is comforting in this desperate isolation.

In a land so still I met this gentleman, whose name I did not have a chance to ask. He caught my attention, among so many things still, only because of his eyes. His face was a replica of the land he inhabited. The isolation of land was unmistakably visible on his face. The same stillness of his land which makes it impossible to find out if it is tranquility caused by contentment or stillness caused by death lurking nearby. A face petrified not by fear, but by complete lack of it. As if all emotions have been fossilised by  monotony of isolated living. The only sign of life flickered in his eyes, which despite the barrenness of the landscape that they always looked at did not lose their curiosity, in a never dying hope which gives strength to human spirit to find contentment even in torture, if it becomes daily life.

Penance

When you prohibited responding to your last message I thought it implicit that you were also taking responsibility of reconnecting. But, sense of finality, wrapped in that message, have started unraveling itself to me now. I am now becoming aware that it was not a message but a termination order.

Your message, which did a perfect job of conveying your hurt, made me believe that, perhaps, I did deserve some punishment! Any act of physical or verbal violence, however necessary one might feel, demands penance to cleanse oneself of the resurrected traces of animal instinct and be human again. Therefore, I, with difficulty, resisted the temptation to write back to justify and accepted the punishment pronounced by you, as penance.

Reformation is implicit in punishment, therefore punishment is a pious act. It is a suggested penance based on some form of system, legal, religious or social. It gives strength to both, one who pronounces it, and one who bears it. First one gains as a protector of morals and the other one as a reformed soul. However, execution can never be a form of punishment, because anything that takes life forfeits the moral stand for cruelty. And all cruelty is born of fear. So, pl let me know what is frightening you?

-Anatomy of An Extramarital Affair

Frequent Flier's Notes

The head of cabin crew, 'leading lady' as they called them, was making introductory announcement and she fumbled. In an attempt to introduce the crew she mixed up their demographic backgrounds. Which fliers would not have otherwise discovered had she not flashed that broad, embarrassed, guilty smile and corrected her self. The correction was an innocent act done without provocation, may be triggered by some intact sense of integrity which strong winds of practicality had not yet withered away, not at that young age.

She must have been 20-22 years of age with a sweet round face painted black on the head because her black hair were tightly pulled back and rolled in to a bun ( which was part of the dress code as other female crew members were similarly hair styled) and a big slit for mouth hiding in thin red glossed lips. She spoke in a practiced monotonous, crackling voice which somehow appeared very soothing to me, perhaps because what it spoke about could hold no surprise. Peculiarly, whenever she spoke the tip of her hook like nose would seem to be peeping into her mouth and twitch, like a reluctant diver summoning last moment courage before taking plunge in to abyss.

Air travels are generally a very boring affair for me, only sense of excitement I get from them is because of my fear of flying which keeps the adrenaline flowing. I often try to counter this morbid excitement, by imagining a beautiful fellow traveller being on the way to sit next to me ( which by the way never happens and I have always wondered why!) before takeoff and, after take off, fantasising  about the female cabin crew. And I have always found Nietzsche's observation that 'lust soothes fear' invalid on a flight.

There are many other worthy female passengers on the flight, but it is cabin crew which  seems to be a easier target for male fantasies. Perhaps men get emotionally confused, because the only other women that ask them " what would you like to eat today" happens to be their wives.

On birthday

Just for you on your birthday sweet love: ( with tight hug and gentle kisses)

Rose bud blooms in to a flower
makes world a place more beautiful.....
In an act of greatest of kindness
shares its treasure-chest-full.....
Its gift of pristine colour,
Its unharmed tenderness.....
A scent of virgin youth, lifts
to glimpse of a love so endless......

-Pulastya

Many many happy returns of the day dear. May you always walk in beauty!

From a "Bad Girl":

I am not born on a Friday
Aquarius is not my sign,
No vampire blood in my vein.....
But, my passion glows like fire
My kiss of  love is  autumn rain.....
dance with me, dance with fire,
Feel simmering love, feel fire in the rain....

Call me a bad girl, but
No one escapes sensuality of my pose.....
I am no wild flower
But, I am no red rose.....
I am heart of your dark desire
Yes I am that black rose!
And your denial makes you vain,
Dance with me, dance with fire,
Feel simmering love, feel fire in the rain...

-Pulastya

On poetry

Understanding poetry is not difficult, all it takes is to be little more human than others. If you have ever seen dance of joy in a swaying flower, if a rising thunderstorm has given you impression of fury of love building up before it showers the blessing, if in naughtiness of a child you have sensed innocence trying to share its abundant pleasure with you, if on seeing a thing beautiful your first thoughts are not of  possessing it but of savouring the moment, then you are ready for poetry. When God sees you fit to share his vision of the world with you he gives you ability to understand poetry.

-Pulastya

Time

Time, the endless, the indestructible, the most powerful, is nothing without man, because it can not exist outside the head of a man; it needs a body concept carved out of human thoughts to exist. And yet man doesn't command it, not the least bit. In this strange relationship slave commands the master.

-Pulastya

To her

O! Essence of all that is beautiful in me,
O! Verve of life that pulsates in my veins,
O! Meaning of my life,
O! Warmth of my soul,
O! Beat that my heart relentlessly caresses,
O! Dear beloved,
Thanks for being the awareness that my consciousness has tasted....
You're the exaltation of Mother Nature
And spirit of joy she most kindly shared with me
And reason for her gift of consciousness to five elements in my being...

-Pulastya

Time

Joy knows no clock. It is oblivious to passage of time. It is in pain that the sound of ticking clock gives comfort, in a belief that with time pain too is passing. Joy or awareness, only one will exist. Pain is awareness, joy is a void, and time is the resistance put by the soul in going through the pain. Hours, minutes, seconds ticking are scratch marks of this protest. Harder you protest slower the clock ticks.

-Pulastya

Politics: Art of losing sorely

Clearly, Modi has more haters than opponents. This is scary. Scary, because opposition assumes parity of status with opponent, but hate implies hidden surrender. Hate is a form of defiance post mental or physical subjugation.

And, it's funny when these losers, who neither have moral courage nor intelligence to match up, try to cover up this hate with flimsy reason. It is as preposterous as trying to hide your own nudity by blinding others. Modi, like an extremely motivated General of a well oiled war machine, is conquering new territories every day, and these people, running away for their lives and hiding in political jungle, to (so called) their ravaged followers selling stories of good and evil ( fascism, dictator, intolerance-loser, renamed as oppressed, is always good and victor, renamed oppressor, always evil in these stories of losers) to save themselves from humiliation. They should know, it is always the loser who shouts evil!,evil!.

Like all truly, and irretrievably, corrupt people they are unwilling to go through the pain of living the humiliation, acknowledge mistakes, rebuild from ground and counter Modi. This is the paradox which will doom them further because those who are responsible for preparing a culling list suspect that they will be on top of it. They, still, in some way are hoping for a miracle of mistake by Modi. Who should tell them that it is the decline which is powered by mistakes, not ascendancy. They forget that it is because of the incompetence of better son ( as they think they are) mother ( people of India) has chosen the lesser son ( which they think Modi is).

Pegeon

He admires
A Pegeon's life.......
Closes the eyes
when cometh the strife,
So he closes
When cometh the wife,
Thus, O! Dear
Though living in this world
He enjoys:  After life.......😝😝

-Pulastya

उदासी

दौर-ऐ-तमन्ना तो पल में गुज़र गया
फिर उसके बाद मेरी उदासी ना गयी,
हाय सुरुर तू चढ़ा चढ़ के उतर गया
फिर उसके बाद मेरी उदासी ना गयी,
लौट आयी देख मेरे दिल की विरान्गी
फिर उसके बाद मेरी उदासी ना गयी ।

-पुलसत्य

( "फिर उसके बाद मेरी उदासी ना गयी " Line is by Liaqat Jafri- a well known Kashmiri poet)

मोहब्बत की मौत

मुमकिन नहीं हश्र-ऐ-आरज़ू(1) से निजात,
मैं मोहब्बत की मौत मारा गया ।
जिस्म को जला गयी गरमी-ऐ-जज़्बात(2),
मैं मोहब्बत की मौत मारा गया ।
गुम, हाथ में थामे निहारता रहा आबे हयात(3),
मैं मोहब्बत की मौत मारा गया ।
फिर चाहे जो ज़िल्लत(4) ही मिले सौग़ात,
मैं मोहब्बत की मौत मारा गया ।

-पुलसत्य

Key to words:

Doomsday of desire
Heat of emotions
Nectar of life ( अमृत)
Insults

( "मैं मोहब्बत की मौत मारा गया " Line is by Liaqat Jafri- a well know Kashmiri poet)

loving you...

A touch of your finger on my cheek may triggers this. It lights something inside me. Or, is it something in your eyes! In your eyes, I see my self as the fuel of desire, with such intensity that It makes me believe that I could burn. And I do burn, every single time. There is no better form of truth than the expression of passion in the eyes. I know this because, in those moments, when I glance in to your eyes they captivate me as sighting of God would do. Inside me, they touch something which distills my desires in to their purest form to the very edge of my senses. When that happens, perhaps, that is the moment when consciousness has served its purpose. Because soul can see its reflection; in the object of its desire.

The surroundings melt away. Senses crave for nothing else but you, unlimited you. Eyes can see no other light but my own glow, sprinkled by your eyes, purified by your passion. My skin is filled with brilliant sensations, as if tenderness of love is touching me in thousand forms. I descend in to the silence of farthest reaches of ocean and  still hear universe humming in your passion filled voice. I sublimate your scent intending to preserve it as my final memory before death.

I have come to realise my darling, that I love myself the most when I love you.

-Pulastya 

World of passion.....

Last night I dreamt of you. A dream of bliss. Never knew subconscious could serve pleasure. All I ever got from it were nightmares. But, last night it paid back infinitely more than the cumulative trauma it ever caused me. My faith in the fairness of subconscious is restored. My amazement on the perfection of design of the pleasure it dished is no less than the bliss it left me in. The trigger, the buildup, the peak, and the blissful void it left afterwards, can only be handy work of God himself. I am sure of that; because I saw God in my dream. I saw  you my dear in your full glory.

Dreams are, when your subconscious is trying to protect you from cruelty of conscious.  I disagree. Because, It doesn't reckon the fact that passion is the other name of self inflicted cruelty. In the world of passion, spark can't be blamed for igniting; it is living its nature, so is what catches fire and burns. Here, life is a drudgery and death by burning is a reward. Between the two, only thing that matters is how long and how intense is the burning. Last night, ignited by your spark, my desires burnt like nothing I have ever seen on fire before. Though,  I continue to breathe, all residual desires taste like ash in my mouth.

Now, I fear the chance of actual union with you. Because, if we ever come close in reality, my desires may actually come out as ashes and would not respond to your spark, as reality can never match the psychedelic colours of fantasy. And passion doesn't know the difference, it chases only the brightest colour. Last night, may have killed our reality forever and may have made its dream permanent.

I was never such a delight to myself! As it was over the span of last moon. The delirious sensations that I am filled with these days I am yet to befriend. But I love them already. I love my smell, l love my glow, I love the air beneath my feet. I love the awareness of being a woman. You are the root of these sensations? Because, I am full of you these days. Nothing else but you.

Last night, when my conscious, pressed by tired body, tried to put you aside for a sleep, subconscious ( who does not have the luxury of sleep) could not live without you and decided to bribe my body with pleasure to have me filled with you even in sleep. Body gave up to the delight of a dream. Your dream.

-Pulastya 

उम्र

बहार भी आयी, चाँद भी निकला, और खिले फ़ूल भी
पर हमें तो पता ही ना चला रोज़मरा की जद्दोजहद में ।

ता उम्र, रोज़ाना, शिद्दत से खोदते रहें हम क़ब्र अपनी ।

-पुलस्तय

दर-ब-दर

कोई ग़म नहीं के दर-ब-दर फिरता रहा हूँ मैं
मेरी जान तो महफ़ूज़ है तेरी नज़र की क़ैद में ।

-पुलस्तय

फ़क़ीरी

ख़्याल मंज़िल का लगता है.....
जैसे कोई ख़ता हो,
मौज फ़क़ीरी में कहाँ अगर
मंज़िल का पता हो..................

-पुलस्तय

शायर

ये लहूँ है, मेरी ज़िंदगी जैसे चाक़ नब्ज़ से रिसती हुई,
मेरे शेयर मेरी नाकाम हसरतें हैं ज़ुबान पे जलतीं हुई।

-पुलस्तय

ख़ुदा

मिल जाय अगर ये नूर तेरी आँखों का
तुझे बना के खुदा अपनी नज़रों में बसा लूँ ।

मिले अगर सुलगती शबनम तेरे होंठों की
रख लूँ मेरी ज़ुबान पे मौत से निजात पा लूँ ।

मिलजाए अगर नरमीयां तेरी ज़ुल्फ़ों की
उफ ना करूँ तल्खियाँ जमाने भर की निभा लूँ ।

दे सके अगर तू ख़ुश्बू ये तेरे जिस्म की
बन जाऊँ तेरा जोगी, मल लूँ मेरे तन पे लगा लूँ ।

मिल जायें घेरे तेरी बाहों के अगर तो
इनमे मर जाऊँ अपनी रूह को जन्नत में पनाह दूँ ।

अगर नहीं क़ाबिल मेरी इबादत तेरी नेमतों के तो भी ,
बराये मेहेरबानी उठा के नज़र मुझे देख लेना कभी
ताकी ऐक आख़िरी बार मैं भी जशने ज़िन्दगी मना लूँ ।

-पुलस्तय

Passion

यार दोस्त भी अब मुझसे कतराने लगे हैं,
सबको फ़रिश्ता बनाने की कोशिश है मेरी।

हंस बोल लेते थे, अब डरे डरे से आते हैं,
घर मेरा अब महफ़िल नहीं, अदालत है मेरी।

ताकि यूँ ही बरक़रार रहे ये शौक़-ए-मसीहाई,
अब हर शय में शैतान ढूँढने की आदत है मेरी।

लगी लत कैसी ये हर दम आग बुझाने की,
अब काँधे पे मश़क और जेब में माचिस है मेरी।

-पुलस्तय

मशक-a leather container used to store water and carried on shoulder

लहू

ये कौनसी स्यांही से लिखा है मैंने कागज पर तेरा नाम
मेरे खून-ए-दिल की महक क्यूँ बसी हुइ है मेरी उंगलियों में.....

-पुलस्तय

Sharab ke naam....

जब से तुझे खुदॉ बनाया
इबादत का ये कायदा आम हो गया,
"पीना" है नमाज मेरी
शराब मेरा दीन-ओ-ईमान हो गया ।

बेहाल हुआ जबीं घिसते घिसते
तो मेरे हसीं खुदा को कुछ रहम आया है,
नूर अपनी आँखों का
भर के इस बोतल में मुझे भिजवाया है ।

नशा शराब का ईश्क़ से है
अर्क पे लगा हर इल्जाम बेमानी है
न दिखे मेहबूब जिसे पीकर
वो मय, मय नहीं रंगीन पानी है  ।

-पुलस्तय

दीवाने

महफ़िल मे हमने कुछ कह  दिया था
उनको हँसाने की खातिर कानो में प्यार से
तीमारदारी गले पड़ गयी है  यार दीवानो की....
घायल  हुऐ बैठे  हैं जलवा-ए-हुस्ने यार से,

ख़ता उस मासूम की क्या है
दीवाने  ही आदतन जान फ़िदा कर जातें है
झेल  जाते  है सीने  पे ज़ख्म  तीरो तलवार का....
नज़र पड़े एक जवां फूल पे तो मर जातें हैं।

-पुलस्तय
 
 I whispered something into her ears
to make her laugh, in the gathering of friends,
And now I am nursing bleeding hearts of all my friends,
For whom the beauty of her laughter was too much to bear.

Her innocent beauty is not to be blamed for this, as
This is typical of those who can really appreciate beauty...
They will bear all physical pain without flinching
But a look at young blooming flower and they die of ecstasy... 

पहचान

हम मिलें हैं पहले भी कई बार.....
यकीनन गुजर चुकी है तेरी रंगो बू
मेरे हसीं ख्वाब से ,

मैंने ही तराशा है भर के आँखों में तुझको....
बिखारतीं हैं मेरी नज़र की शुआऐं
तेरे जिस्म की मेहराब से,

या कभी उठा के देख ले...
हर पुरजे पे लिखा होगा नाम तेरा
मेरी जवानी की किताब के ,

औढ़ले जुल्फों की बदलीयां
पर तू छिपी न रह सकेगी.....
पहचानता हूँ मैं तुझे तेरी शराब से ।

 
-पुलस्तय

मुलाक़ात

ये असर है बरसों बाद तुझसे हुई मुलाक़ात का
खिल उठा रंग किताब में रखे सूखे गुलाब का ।

-पुलस्तय

ख़्वाब

दिन भर मौज़ में उठता रहता है हर क़दम मेरा
तेरे ख्वाबों का असर कई कई रोज़ नहीं जाता......

-पुलस्तय

On her birthday

गिरने लगी है उम्र की बर्फ तुम्हारे बालों मे
शोख़ जलवों को कुछ तो अब राहत दीजिये.....

-पुलस्तय

प्यार

मज़े में कट रहे हैं दिन यूँ तेरे प्यार में.......
कभी पिछली मुलाकात के ख़ुमार में
कभी अगली मुलाकात के इंतज़ार में।

-पुलस्तय

तस्वीर

बातें कर रहा हूँ खाली कुर्सी से न जाने कितनी देर से
आँखों से तेरी तस्वीर नहीं जाती तेरे जाने के बाद भी।

-पुलस्तय

अहसास

मोबाइल बजता भी नहीं और हम रह रह उठा के देखते रहते हैं
के शायद तूने आज़ हमें चुपके से ही कोई मैसेज भेज दिया हो...

-पुलस्तय

Reply to doubts raised on expression of Ishq

जलते मेरे होठों से होठ छुआ के देख लो
गिन लो धड़कने,या बाँहों में आके देख लो
न भूल जाओ सुधबुध तो इल्जाम लगाना
हुए हम फरेबी हाल-ऐ-दिल एक फ़साना....
हुस्न से कही ज्यादा इश्क़ की सच्चाई है
अगर ये सच नहीं तो वो भी है अफ़साना....

-पुलस्तय

फ़ुरसत

तुम्हे एक पल की फुरसत नहीं हमारे लिए, 

हमें तुमसे एक पल भी फुरसत नहीं मिलतीं.....

-पुलस्तय

वो आँखें...

वो ऑंखें .....
गहरे समंदर सी मौन थीं,
एक अरसा गुजर गया उन्हें तकते हुए
एक लहर भी नहीं उठी,
फिर, न जाने ख्यालों की किन गहराईओं से उबर कर
तुमने अपनी पलकें झपकी,
और उस एक पल में....
एक ज्वार उठा और दब भी गया,
और मै, देर तक उस ज्वार की थाह ढूंढ़ता रहा
अनंत गहराइयों मे उबरता डूबता  रहा.....

-पुलस्तय

For the late bloomer in love

मत पूछ मुझसे क्या था मेरा रंग बाग़-ए-बहार में
मेरी नज़र के फूल पर ही देर से शबाब आया है...
अब रंग देखती जा तू ऐ शमा बज़्म मे परवाने का
तेरी आँखों से छलकी मय रगों मे उतार, आया है....

-पुलस्तय

To all the ladies who know how to enjoy their drinks...

वजह कुछ और नहीं के बेखुदी मे छलक रही है जाम-ए-मय तेरे मुह से लगी हुई,
बेसब्र पैमाना चूमता है लब तेरे, या मय नमाज़ी है तेरी आँख के सिजदे में झुकी हुई ।

-पुलस्तय

मय

इस कदर कातिलाना हैं तेरी नशीली आँखों में ये डोरे सुरूर के,
मेरी जान पे बन आती है तेरे हाथों में मय का गिलास देख कर ।

-पुलस्तय

To those beautiful eyes

सुरमई ठण्ड मे, महकती वादी की
रेशमी दूब पर,
सोने में ढली पहाड़ीयों के पीछे से झांकते हुऐ सूरज की अालसी किरणे
जब होले होले बिखरती है,
तो जो समां बनता है
उसका रंग तेरी आँखों के रंग से
बिलकुल मिलता है ....

-पुलस्तय

एक मुलाकात की कुछ यादें

होंठ जैसे पंखुड़ी गुलाब की,
रंगत चेहरे की रेशमी ख्वाब सी,
देती इसे जिंदगी तेरी आँखे....
दो छलकती झीलें शराब की।

-पुलस्तय...

तासीर

कहीं कुछ न कुछ तो बात है
होठो पे हंसी, ऑंखें उदास हैं ....
इतना तो न बोलती थी तुम
अब हर बात पे कुछ कहती हो,
तब हर लफ़्ज़ खनकता था
अब जो कहती हो दास्ताँ, उदास है.....

-पुलस्तय