& çâÌæÚUæð´ ·¤è ¥ôÚU Îð¹Ùæ ÁæÚUè ÚU¹ð´ ¥ÍæüÌ ¥ÂÙð ÜÿØ ÂÚU ŠØæÙ ÚU¹ð´Ð ãæÚU Ù ×æÙð´, €UØô´ç·¤ ·¤æ× ·¤ÚUÙð âð ¥æÂ·¤ô ©gðàØ ·¤è Âýæç# ãôÌè ãñ ¥õÚU ÁèßÙ ·¤æ ¹æÜèÂÙ ÎêÚU ãôÌæ ãñÐ ÖÜð ãè ÁèßÙ ×ð´ ç·¤ÌÙè Öè ·¤çÆÙæ§ü €UØô´ Ù ¥æ°, çÁ™ææâæ ¥õÚU ©ˆâæã ÕÙæ° ÚU¹ð´Ð ŠØæÙ ÚU¹ð´, ÜÿØ ã×ðàææ ¥æÂ·Ô¤ Âæâ ãôÌð ãñ´ çÁ‹ãð´ ÂæÙð ·Ô¤ çÜ° ÂýØæâ ¥æÂ ·¤Öè Öè àæéM¤ ·¤ÚU â·¤Ìð ãñ´Ð

Two Poems by Kaiser Haq
Liking It
It's the easiest thing to say
In the grey light of thinning hair:
I liked the world the way it was--If only it had held steady
Time would be unchanging bliss!
What is it you so fondly remember Amidst the glitches in recollection? An album of snapshots, Some video clips at best.
The mood that binds them together Like an invisible rubber band
Comes out of a pocket you're wearing out now.
Maybe you can see
Clearer than your fast-fading fate line An arched gate confettied with creepers Golden green in early morning light, Maybe your olfactories thrill At the musky odor of blossoms On a long-dead mango tree.
Or a remembered tale may set you Dream-walking down village tracks After a hurricane lantern swinging Beneath a bullock cart's creaking chassis Like a luminous pineapple...or scrotum.
But don't forget:
Calm cannot be retroactive.
The willed insouciance of youth Crumpled before manic urgencies. Why look back on such routine tussles? Besides, From the bottom of the well One can only look up.
Not that a benign gaze answers: The twinkling could be tinsel And lights no superior tomorrow. Better just carve a squiggle On softening grey timber At amber-grey dusk And hum under your breath: I like it the way it is. Poor Man Eating
Were I a painter
I am sure
My signature theme would be The title of this poem.
The sun races to the zenith, Imperious as an oriental autocrat. The poor man crouches In imitation Tommy Hilfiger rags In the dwindling shade Of a denuded tree.
His hands cradle
A bowl of fired earth-
It could be an Ouija board
To conjure up goodies,
Courtesy of the weak of conscience.
And when they come, How he falls to it!
Eyes focused in mystic concentration, Left arm protectively around The pile of comestibles. As right hand shovels them Into an eager mouth.
I would paint the scene
Over and over
In luscious oil:
The painted proliferation
Might work magic,
Converting seeming impossibility
Into palpable reality:
All the world's poor Men and women Gathered as if on the mythic day Of final reckoning, On this lowly earth. Devouring earthly fare: O the gods would come down To bless and share!