as that of poetry and ourselves. Whether we like him or not, whether we understand him or do not, Ghalib's poetry has a quality which, in the essence, is for all. was a classical. Urdu and Persian poet from India during British colonial rule. His also known as. 'Mirza Asadullah Khan Galib', 'Mirza Galib', 'Dabir-ul-Mulk' and. Like Mir Taqi Mir, Ghalib was one of the rare poets to write Urdu verse in a simple language which can be understood by reader of any age and.

Ghalib Poetry Pdf

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URDU BOOKS PDF: Deewan-e-Ghalib Poetry Books, Urdu Poetry, Mirza Mirza Ghalib in Urdu pdf The book "Deewan-e-Ghalib" is a poetry book of the famous. Complete Urdu poetry of famous Urdu poet Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib in urdu text (deewan-ghalib by urduweb). Any urdu word can be searched in poetry. Deewan-e-Ghalib (دیوانِ غالبؔ ) is the collection of + Ghazals, Nazams, Rubaiyat, Qattaat, Marsiya & Qassaid from Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan Ghalib ( مِرزا.

Deewan E Ghalib

You, and adornment of twisting curls. I, and long, faraway apprehensions. A show of dignity—a deceit of simpleheartedness. I am captured by love of the Hunter. Otherwise, I still have strength to fly. Oh your cruelty—entirely overthrowing. An outpouring from the prostrations of the forehead of humility.

Asadullah Khan is done for. Alas—how rakishly he charmed the ladies. With lightning we light the candle in the house of mourning. We are a lamp-display in the bedchamber of the heart of the Moth. I am a burden on the resting-place of manly resolve.

Thousands of longings serve life sentences in it, Asad, I consider my blood-filled breast to be a prison cell. From practice in being beside myself in the garden of thought, I know how to interpret the weedy dreams of strange greenery.

How long have I been in this wretched world? What can I say, If I count the nights of separation too? When did the wineglass ever come round to me, in her gathering? May the Cupbearer not have put something in the wine! Why do I suspect a friend, concerning an enemy? Into what convolutions has illusion thrown you? In agitation, I even forgot to offer up my life. The root of witnessing, and the witnesser, and the witnessed, is one I am amazed—then how to account for witnessing each other?

Shame is one form of coquetry, even before oneself— How unveiled they are, who are like this within the veil. Dust be upon my life—I am not a stone! On the tablet of the world, I am not a repeated letter. Let me be given punishment, not torture. Why do you not consider me valuable?

I am not ruby, emerald, gold, and pearl. Why do you keep your feet away from my eyes? In rank, I am not less than the sun and moon. Am I not even equal to the sky? Ghalib, you have a pension now, give blessings to the King. In the dust, what hidden faces will there be? By day, the Daughters of the Bier hid in the heavens behind their veils. At night, what came into their heads, that they became naked? Sleep is his, composure is his, the nights are his, On whose shoulder your curls lie disheveled.

The Nightingales heard my laments and began singing ghazals. Although I suppressed them, more welled up, one after another— My steady sighs came like stitches for the rip in my collar.

All the blessings I knew, I used up on the Doorkeeper. Wine is life-enhancing—when one has a glass in hand, All the lines of the palm become, so to speak, the jugular vein. We are monotheists; our sect is the renunciation of customs. When the communities were erased, they became parts of the faith.

When a person gets used to grief, then grief is erased. So many difficulties fell upon me that they became easy. If Ghalib keeps on weeping like this, then, oh people of the world, Look at these towns—all a desolation.

I will weep a thousand times—why would anyone torment me? Since that heart-kindling beauty, like the noonday sun, Would itself be sight-melting, why would she hide her face in a veil?

The glance-dagger, deadly; the coquetry-arrow, unerring. Even your own reflection—how could it come before you? The prison of life and the bonds of grief—in essence, both are one. Before death, how could a person be freed from grief?

She has confidence in herself; why would she test another? How would we meet in the road? Why would she invite me to her gathering? All right, she has no fear of the Lord! Anyone who values faith and heart—why would he enter her street? Why would you weep and sob? Why would you lament? You should make a lone house, without walls and doors, For a neighbor, no one; for a doorkeeper, no one. If you fall ill, there will be no nurse, And if you die, then to mourn you, no one.

I am in a place where even to me No news comes about myself. Perhaps you have no sense of shame! Wine has unveiled her self-adorning beauty.

To see the pearl glow on her beautiful neck— At what a height is the star of the pearl seller! The Cupbearer in his glory is a foe of faith and awareness.

The musician with his tune waylays your dignity and senses. These themes come into my mind from the unseen— Ghalib, the scratching of my pen is the voice of an Angel.

She thinks that the goods she can get for free are better. Another can be brought from the bazaar, if it breaks— Compared to the cup of Jamshed, my clay cup is better. One Brahmin has said that this year is good. Of whatever kind, in anyone, accomplishment is good. That task is good, of which the outcome is good.

May the Great Creator keep Khizr Sultan flourishing! She takes it for a game—may she not quit, or forget about it! Damn her delicacy! If she fell into my hands, not a hand could be laid upon her. Who can say whose glorious appearance this is? Night and day is a spectacle, before me. The miracle of the Messiah is nothing much, before me. The aspect of the world is only a name, to my mind.

The existence of things is only an illusion, before me. The river rubs its forehead in the dirt, before me. Why not? An idol with a mirror-forehead sits before me. Then look at my rose-scattering style of speech!

Let them first place a flagon of wine before me. My longing from the nights of separation has come before me. A whole sea of blood is rippling—if only this were all! Wait and see what now will come before me.

For now, leave the wineglass and flagon before me. He and I share our work, our wine, our secrets— Why do you insult Ghalib? And that too, here before me! Although you became notorious everywhere for your wandering, Finally you became shrewd about human nature. The being and nonbeing of the ardent—why even ask? They became the straw and twigs of their own fire. We went to complain to her of her negligence. She gave us a single glance—and we became dust. After all, let someone, sometime, open the knot of the heart.

The wildness of the inventive temperament gives rise to despair. This is not the kind of pain that anyone would not create. The radiant beauty of the candle of poetry is far off, Asad.

First one should create a melted heart. How is it madness, to write about self-lessness? Many of my longings emerged—but still, few emerged. As if it would stay on her hands! Perhaps someone wants a letter written to her, and me to write it!

At dawn, I tucked a pen behind my ear and left the house. In this age, I was put in charge of wine drinking. Again the time has come for the cup of Jamshed to emerge.

The one we thought would understand our suffering Turned out to be worse wounded by the sword of tyranny.

The winehouse door, Ghalib—and the Preacher?! But I know this much: There is such mischief in your image that with a hundred ardors The mirror, like a rose, opens to embrace you. The turtledove, a handful of dust; and the Nightingale, a cage of color. Oh lament, what is the mark of a burnt-out liver? Compulsion—and a claim of captivity by love!

A pledge of faithfulness is a hand placed under a stone. The sword of tyranny is a picture-showing mirror. A strange time has fallen upon us like a shadow. Again passion has come to comfort the wounds of the heart, Bearing a hundred thousand salt dishes. Again the heart circumambulates the street of disgrace, Leaving desolate the idol temple of pride. Again my mind dwells on every rose and tulip, Having equipped the gaze with a hundred gardens.

Again I want to open a letter from her, Having made my life an offering to the charm of the address.

Again desire wants someone at the edge of the roof, Who has loosed her black curls to fall around her face. Again longing wants to face off with someone Who has sharpened her eyelash daggers with collyrium. Again the gaze is seeking a new spring of coquetry, Making the face a garden through the radiance of wine.

Again I seek that same leisure, so that night and day, I would sit for hours, envisioning the beloved. Just a passing thought of wildness—and the desert burned. May God have mercy on him—he was a strangely free man. In the time it took for my rolled-up bedding to unfurl.

The house of Majnun the desert wanderer was without a door. Existence itself drowned me; if I were not I, then what would I be? Was any man of ours there when they wrote?

In the eyes is the drop that did not become a pearl. Heart is pressed upon heart—a pair of vexed lips, so to speak. So what if the house is wrecked? We have no hope even of living. In the desert I find such pleasure that I hardly recall my home. The beggar in the street of the winehouse is not disappointed. No more worry about theft—I bless the highway robber. It may be a mosque, it may be a school, it may be some Sufi lodge.

The face ought to be toward the prayer niche, at the time of prayer. In my net of longing, that too is a single, inferior prey. Just keep quiet.

We have a tongue in our mouth, too. Since Majnun has died, the wilderness mourns. A desertful of rose-glory is a doormat. The lightning that strikes its comfort is the hot blood of the farmer. Despite its composure, the rose has uneasy dreams. We thought there was just some elder traveling with us. The intoxication is not in proportion to the hangover.

To the extent that the flagon and glass are filled, the winehouse is empty. She stopped, when she saw my flowingness. Oh Nightingale, go, for the days of spring have gone. In faithfulness is the test of Shaikh and Brahmin. Now whom would anyone trust as a guide? My pilgrimage robe is very much stained with wine. The universe, apart from the radiance of the oneness of the Beloved, is nothing.

Where would we be, if Beauty were not self-regarding? The song of the depth and height of existence and nonexistence is absurd, The mirror of the difference between madness and dignity is a trifle.

All images of meaning are a hangover from the presentation of appearances, All speech about Truth is the wineglass of the taste for praise.

The boast of intelligence, false; and the gain from worship—none! Like a theme of faithfulness the breeze shows the hand of submission, With the aspect of a footprint, the dust shows the dispersal of dignity. Passion is the disorder of the bookbinding string of the pages of the senses, Union is verdigris on the mirror face of the beauty of certainty. Kohkan, hungry, is a laborer on the pleasure-house of his rival, The Pillarless Mountain is a mirror of the heavy sleep of Shirin.

Who has seen a fire-flinging breath from the people of faithfulness? Who has experienced an effect from the lament of sorrowful hearts? The mind of the two worlds turned to blood from the tumult of longing, The gathering of despair, on the far side of manifestation and concealment, is colorful.

The devastation of all hope, and the anxiety of terror— The turmoil of Hell is the autumn of the garden of lofty Paradise. The pleasure of the Eid slaughterhouse of rivals—none! I hear the chanting of the people of the world, but I have neither an inclination for praise, nor a mind for reproach. How the nonsense babblers carry on—I take refuge in God!

Entirely devoid of the etiquette of dignity and propriety. The grace of creation is involved with him alone—the way that, always, The breath of the spring breeze is perfumed with rose scent. His glory is so infidelity-burning that it would cause to fade Like the color of the lover, the radiance of the idol temple of China.

Who can praise you beyond what is your due? The flame of a candle—but the candle has been bound by laws. Accorded to enemies: Provided for friends: Speech has its head in its collar: Write of it as the seal on the letter of revered and dear ones, Speak of it as the amulet on the arm of self-adorning beautiful ones. Write of it as the cosmetic-stained fingertip of beautiful ones, Speak of it as the scar on the side of the liver of mad lovers.

Write of it as resembling the signet ring on the hand of Solomon, Speak of it as the equal of the nipple of a Pari. Let it be connected to the burnt-out fortune star of Qais, Speak of it as the musky beauty spot on the charming face of Laila. Why would you write of it as the lock on the door of the treasury of love?

Why would you speak of it as the point of the drawing-compass of longing? Why would it be imagined as an unobtainable pearl? Why would you speak of it as the pupil of the eye of the imagined bird?

Why would you write of it as the button of the robe of Laila? Why would you speak of it as the footprint of the camel of Salma? After all, where did you vanish to, for two days? How could I have escaped?

Bravo, oh common joy of the commoners! Why do you hide from me the secret of your heart? I grant that you have a slave ring in your ear, But is not Ghalib his slave? Do I know better, or do you know better? What degree of acquaintance do you have with him, Except during the approach of Eid, in the month of fasting? I know that thanks to his grace, you Again want to become the full moon.

Without the moon, without the moonlight, who am I? My own affair is a separate one, What need do I have to deal with anyone else?

I long for a specially gracious gift, If you hope for a general mercy. He who will bestow on you the royal glory of radiance, Will he not give me rose-colored wine? Since fourteen heavenly stages Your swiftness of foot has already traversed , 1 They would be recipients of your radiance, Street and palace and courtyard and landscape and roof. Look-in my hand, brimful, In your own shape, a crystal cup. Then I moved on, along the path of the ghazal, You, in your own style, were champing at the bit.

Bravo to the hairsplittingness of your arrow — 2 Praise to the temperedness of your sword— Your arrow, an arrow with no target left, Your sword, a sword sheathed in an enemy. How it makes thunder hold its breath— How it shows the inferiority of lightning— The trumpeting of your heavy-bodied elephant, The gait of your swift-reined steed. When, in the eternity before time, it was written down On the pages of nights and days, And in those pages, by the pen of fate, In brief, orders were included, It wrote down beautiful ones as lover-slayers, It wrote down lovers as what their worst enemies wished.

About the sky it was said that it would be called A swift-revolving blue-colored dome. The imperative order was written, to write down The beauty spot as a seed, and the curls as a net. Fire and water and wind and dust took The style of burning and wetness and wildness and rest.

To the grandeur of your kingship too It gave the established aspect of a decree. The writer of the order, according to his order, Gave to this decree perpetual dominion— From all eternity, there is a primordial proclamation, To all eternity, let there be an outcome fulfilled! Ruba c fs Quatrains A quatrain on childhood and old age After the end of the Eid festival of childhood The days of youth kept offering us the wine of ecstasy— Until we arrived at the outskirts of the clime of nonexistence.

Oh passed-away lifetime—one footstep to welcome the future! The way fireworks are a pursuit of children, The burning of the liver too has an ecstasy just like that. The inventor of passion was a Doomsday disaster— In passing, what a game he devised for boys! Noble sir! Islam requires one to cultivate faith in the unseen— Oh you who are hidden from my sight, love for you is my faith.

And, brother, the fame of this poetry-circulating of yours enhances my reputation too. But indeed, from my Hindi [i. Thus from time to time, when my heart begins to sink, then five or ten times I recite this closing-verse: When our life passed in this way, Ghalib, Will even we remember that we used to have a God? Then when I feel extremely anxious and full of annoyance, I recite this line and fall silent: Oh sudden death, what are you waiting for?!

Among the Hindustanis, some dear ones, some friends, some pupils, some beloveds. Thus every one of them was mingled with the dust. How harsh is the mourning for one dear one! He who would be a mourner for so many dear ones—how could his life not be difficult? She has also shown me your verses in her praise. The reason was that my stature too is conspicuous for tallness.

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Because when I was alive, my complexion was fair, and people of insight always praised it. Now, if ever I recall that complexion of mine, something like a snake crawls on my breast. I recalled such pleasure—what can I say about what passed through me? In addition to this, it happened that two of my front teeth broke off.

Having no choice, I gave up missl [a gum-darkening cosmetic], and my beard as well. But please remember that in this uncouth city there is a common uniform. The day that this fakir grew a beard, that same day he had his head shaved. And his reply, in Persian, came by post on the tenth of March, with praise and admiration and the expression of pleasure.

Then I sent him a Persian ode in congratulations for his lieutenant governorship. Upon receiving it, he sent a Persian letter praising the poem and expressing his appreciation, by way of the post, on the fourteenth.

Then I sent a Persian ode of praise and congratulation in the service of Janab Robert Montgomery Sahib, Lieutenant Governor Bahadur of the Punjab, through the good offices of the commissioner sahib of Delhi.

Yesterday a letter with his seal arrived through the good offices of the [commissioner sahib] bahadur of Delhi. With regard to the pension there is as yet no order. Grounds for hope keep accumulating. I have half a ser [a pound] of meat in the day, and a pdfon-bhar [a glass or two] of wine at night.

If we are a true fakir, and the seeker of this ghazal [Mihr] has a perfected taste, then this ghazal will have arrived before this letter.

There remains the salaam, and that we ourself will send. Your saddening letter arrived. I read it. He told me about the relationship between the deceased lady and you. That is, her devotion and your love for her. I was severely grieved, and felt complete sorrow. Listen, my friend, among poets Firdausi, and among fakirs Hasan Basri, and among lovers Majnun—these three men, in their three arts, are the heads and chiefs.

The excellence of a poet is that he should become Firdausi. The limit for a fakir is that he should rival Hasan Basri. The sign of a lover is that he should have a destiny like that of Majnun. Laila died in his presence. Your beloved died in your presence—or rather, you have gone beyond him, because Laila died in her own house, and your beloved died in your house. I too am a Mughal type. In the course of my life I too have killed a very cruel dancing girl [ domnl ]. This happened forty or forty-two years ago.

But even now sometimes I remember those coquetries. I know what must be passing through your heart. Be patient, and now leave behind the turmoil of worldly passion. A [Persian] verse: Sadi, if you would be a lover in a youthful spirit, The love of Muhammad and his family is enough.

In my early youth, an accomplished master gave me this advice: Drink, eat, take your pleasure; but remember this: He who will not die himself is the one who should grieve at the death of another.

Give thanks for freedom! Alas— that houri will grow tiresome! That same emerald palace, and that same branch of the Tuba tree; and— may the evil eye be far from us!

Brother, come to your senses, and attach your heart somewhere else. The thought is entirely pleasing; the expression, on the whole, is not pleasing. There remains the question of meeting in person; for that there are two approaches: You are under compulsion, I am excused.

I myself say, beware! Thus I, on the eighth of Rajab, AH [December 27, , his birth date], was sent here for my trial. For thirteen years I remained in custody. On the seventh of Rajab, AH [August 18, , his wedding day], an order of life imprisonment was issued. They fastened a shackle to my foot, and designated Delhi as my prison, and placed me in that prison. They assigned me as hard labor the composition of poetry and prose.

After some years, I ran away from the prison, and for three years wandered in the eastern regions. In the end they captured me in Calcutta, brought me back, and sat me down again in that same prison. When they saw that this prisoner was an escape risk, they added two handcuffs more [i.

With my foot wounded by the shackle, with hands chafed by handcuffs, the hard labor became even more difficult, my strength entirely failed. I am shameless—last year I left my foot shackle in the corner of the cell and, with both handcuffs, fled away. Through Meerut and Moradabad I arrived at Rampur.

I had stayed there a few days short of two months when again I was captured and brought back. And how would I run away? I no longer even have the strength to run away. In any case, after release a man goes nowhere else except to his own home. I too, after liberation, will go straight to the world of the spirits; [in Persian: In singing, seven verses of a ghazal are usually enough. Khan, is a rare example of his Urdu prose that was meant for publication.

Like many such romances, the Bostan-i Khayal is populated by marvelous characters and represents a world in which sorcery is not uncommon. Ghalib draws a comparison between it and the archetypal Persian high romance, the Shahnama , or Book of Kings—this is the work to which he alludes by way of his mention of the great Shahnama hero Rustam, son of Zal, who is aided by his avian foster parent the simurgh in his battle against his enemy Isfandyar.

Shamsur Rahman Faruqi points out the uncertain value of public praise coming from Ghalib when its object is a relative or friend.

There can be little doubt, however, that Ghalib was a great fan of a variety of romances. He had read some version of the Bostan-i Khayal previously but expressed particular fondness for the story of Amir Hamza. God be glorified! What matchless beauty has Speech, that comely beloved! To imagine him is to set ablaze a gathering of thoughts.

In the eyes of those who deal in spiritual meaning, his literal aspect is the mirror of the cheek of beauty. Even without wine, we would grow drunk with the sight of this heart-enchanting plaything, and if they were to see this sense-stealing body, the people of spiritual meaning would become form-worshippers all at once, in a single pen stroke. He has a separate style in poetry; he has another way in prose.

He has a separate melody in Persian, he has a different harmony in Urdu. You may see in biographies and histories what happened hundreds of years before you. You may listen, in stories and romances, to what no one has ever seen or heard. Though the wakeful brains of intellectual men will incline by temperament toward histories, nevertheless in their hearts they will admit to the tastefulness and delightfulness of romances and tales. Sam has his son thrown upon a mountain, the simurgh comes and carries the boy off to its nest, rears him and turns him into a warrior, teaches him the ways of warring and wounding.

Rustam slays a raging elephant at the age of ten , and when he grows into a young man—evil eye, avaunt! What results is not all sermons and preaching, but a collection of friendly trifles. Romance crafting is among the verbal arts.

He has shown us a unique spectacle in the Garden of Imagination. Among these romances there is a volume called the Mu c izznama. Bravo for its courtly assemblies, its battles, sorcery, tilisms [enchanted worlds created by magical arts], and the heat of the tumult of its beauty and love! If he were to hear of its tilism conquests, Amir Hamza would be in such a state that he would go hunting for his own Lordship of the Auspicious Conjunction and would find neither hide nor hair of it.

When he turned his attention to the sitar, he played it so well that he had Miyan Tansen dancing at his fingertips. When his temperament inclined toward painting pictures, he created such a picture that when they saw it, Mani and Bihzad were astonished.

This child of fortune decided to make an Urdu translation of the Persian prose Mu c izznama. Consider it thus: He has abandoned floridity, all in such a way that you might say that he has given a garnish of writing to speech. After he had finished writing, he communicated his longing that the sky-oppressed Ghalib should write a preface. Though I pleaded helplessness and begged to be excused, the unjust one would not hear a word and would not accept any excuse at all.

Now what was the cure for his insistence? How far would this relentlessness go? He was after all my nephew—and a dear nephew at that—and so I was helpless, and there was nothing left to do but to scribble something.

Following such a preface, I saw no way of proceeding except to go straight to the world of spirits and procure a verse from Nizami. Thank goodness this epistle arrived at its destination— That too before my life could arrive at its termination! Grace comes from God, and He is the Best of Companions. Notes Introduction 1. Research may eventually show that he was born a few years earlier. Hali All translations not otherwise attributed are our own.

Russell and Islam Chittick See in the original edition; see also Pritchett and Faruqi Khaliq Anjum , 1: Pritchett and Faruqi For an inventory of this commentarial literature, see Ansarullah Ghazal in the divan. For details of Urdu prosody, see Pybus See for an example 5, 8. This verse is not contained in this translation. It can be found with the standard divan number 78, 2. Ghalib did not choose to include all his verses in his published divan; these unpublished verses are almost entirely very early ca.

Hamid Arshi Raza Part One: Ghazals 1 1. Instead, this verse with its faux-naif question suggests a legal complaint against divine carelessness and indifference. The verse is full of wordplay involving terms for writing and drawing: The sense is of something shamelessly resilient and primitively unkillable.

The task was never completed but ended in his death. The multivalence of dam is perfectly exploited: The imagined bird, the Anqa, is by definition uncapturable by the bird trapper of awareness, with the net of hearing. Idiomatically, to call something an Anqa is also to suggest that it is nothing at all. This enigmatic verse raises questions of Sufistic terminology.

This and the following verses are among those omitted by Ghalib from his published divan. The description of the sky evokes its eyelike spherical shape. Is the azure eye that of the sky, or that of some still more potent power? Or does it suggest that the speaker was destroyed not by cruelty but by beauty? The beloved beauty is testing the courage of the speaker the lover through a show of heedlessness and obliviousness.

Or does the first line simply marvel at those contrasting qualities, without necessarily assigning them to anyone in particular? And so on, unresolvably. Despair is vast and cosmically powerful, the very opposite of poor hope with its childish dust castles. For the liver to turn to blood is, idiomatically, to suffer and torment oneself.

More literally, the process creates a river or channel of brilliant redness—and thus evokes, or invites inside, or permits the lover to reach out to the brilliantly red rose, perpetual emblem of the human or divine beloved. The Doorkeeper now makes his living cutting and selling the tall weeds and grass as fodder. Who is the visitor to whom the lover is paradoxically showing off his allegedly unvisited house? This is a verse chiefly of wordplay. The second line relies on bookmaking terminology: The first line offers up long, thin, binding string-like things: Does the verse suggest that only the human gaze makes meaning out of the dispersed, inchoate world?

The second line is exclamatory—but in what mood, what tone of voice? In the ghazal world the liver makes fresh blood, so an arrow shot through the liver as opposed to the heart would finish off the victim at once.

Is the lover complaining about the extra pain of a slow death, or delighting in it? Either way, the lover no longer has any support.

The final clause can be read to suggest either that dying never happened at all death was longed for but never appeared or that dying happened over and over the night of grief was a kind of endless death.

Against strong Muslim traditions, the dead lover wishes he had died at sea, so that his funeral procession and tomb would not recall his disgraceful behavior.

In this case, unusually, it is clear that the beloved is God. Is the excuse being made by the longing of the heart to the lover, or to the longing of the heart by the lover? The first line is idiomatic and exclamatory inshafya. It may be a compliment to the desert it is almost as desolate as my house , or an insult to the desert it is not nearly as desolate as my house. Or it may be a compliment to the house it is at least as desolate as the desert. The first line may also be read as a question is there any desolation that really is a desolation?

In the ghazal world, village boys taunt madmen—including mad lovers like Majnun—and throw stones at them. At the last moment the future lover realizes the similar risk to his own head in later life. In humid weather metal mirrors acquire a film of verdigris, which must be polished away. The polishing process is imagined as painful to the mirror and thus proves its devotion to clarity of sight.

There will be plenty of such goods on sale cheap in the bazaar, because the beloved will have wrecked the hearts and lives of many other lovers as well.

30 Most Popular Classical Sher of Mirza Ghalib (in Hindi)

But of course, the prostrate lover may never manage to get up at all. Is the deceit done through, or to, simpleheartedness? Lightning is often a cause of grief it burns up the harvest. Thus it may here be both the cause of grief and the cure for it, if we take the lightning- flash candle as marking the end of the darkness of mourning. This and the following verse are among those omitted by Ghalib from his published divan. Here, the rule might be reversed. How extremely angry she must be to wrinkle her brow so deeply that it actually visibly wrinkles her veil.

And how extremely attentive or paranoid the lover must be to have noticed it. For discussion of this verse, see the introduction. Between them, these two possibilities cover a very high percentage of Indian weather. Another mischievous faux-naif question but addressed to a common kind of Sufistic discourse involving Arabic grammatical forms and metaphysical questions.

Jacob is said to have wept so much for Joseph that he went blind; by ghazal convention, this means that his eyes became entirely white. Then she called Joseph in, and the dazzled women, staring at him, delighted Zulaikha by beginning to cut their own fingers without realizing it.

The mad lover rips open his collar, and here he imagines his sighs, repeatedly welling up and then being suppressed, as having the parodic? It can be either a direct quotation from the lover or the beloved or a general adverbial phrase. In most of the verses of the ghazal the same flexibility has been created.

The sound of yun could almost be the moan of the wind blowing. Is the wind helping the lover out, or is it itself a sign of Sufistic transcendence? The footprint is an image of amazement because it lies flat in the dust, unmoving, and has the shape of an open mouth. I lament and scream so constantly, and she is so indifferent, that she notices the silence only if I stop—which is enough to make me scream. The beautiful ones are tall, so the choice pearl star in their collar is high up; also, the fortune star of the pearl seller is thus at its zenith.

This verse is the beginning of a very famous verse set that includes verses 6 - Or is it? Similarly paradoxical idiomatic forms are used in other verses of this ghazal as well. If he had been shrewd earlier, would he still have wandered? Did he wander on purpose to become shrewd? Did the notoriety contribute to the shrewdness? But perhaps that was what the lover wanted anyway. Did she pick it up so tenderly that the enemies were envious, or so disdainfully that they feared for their own fate?

Does the weeping open the knot, or does the speaker weep because nothing will open the knot? Anybody else would start by tearing his collar, and only later consider tearing up his liver. The first line seems to show that with the fertilizer provided by the liver fragments, the desert gardening was a success. So, does the question in the second line express annoyance, boredom, or genuine inquiry? In the ghazal world, stones and bricks are thrown at madmen by jeering boys.

The commercial wordplay is enhanced by the secondary meaning of sauda: Since the verse has two independently meaningful lines, it is also possible that two different hearts are being described. This is a difficult and multivalent verse. When one is really scraping the bottom of the barrel, the Lord may be better than nothing. Circumambulation is a way of showing Muslim or Hindu religious devotion. Part Two: Ghazal Verses 1.

Both halves of the impossible juxtaposition in the first line are supported in the second line: The compliment to Mir is thoroughly backhanded: In Indie and Islamic folk tradition, pearls are born from special drops of rain that navigate a series of hazards before reaching the seabed and being sucked in by an oyster.

In Urdu script, udhar in that direction and idhar in this direction are indistinguishable: The smooth sacred thread is a mark of the Brahmin, and the bumpy prayer beads are characteristic of a pious Muslim. The first line leads us to expect something apologetic; then, most enjoy ably, the second line turns the verse into a boast. Why is he not disappointed? Is it because he gets gifts of wine year-round, not just on Eid though Eid gifts should certainly not include wine?

The arched gateway and prayer niche qiblah of the mosque suggest the shape of an eyebrow. The net is the kind used by hunters to trap wild animals. A single one of the round interstices in its mesh would contain the whole round world. The first line describes a very impious and sinful action; does the second line describe another such treating Zamzam as merely a source of wash water , or is it an absurdly inadequate attempt at better behavior?

But that second line keeps teasing the imagination with further metaphorical possibilities. So why not show your face openly in friendship, or in disdain?

In Islamic tradition, Ali is called the Cupbearer of Kausar. The turtledove is dusty gray in color, and its song is melancholy. The speaker may mean that he has sinned by drinking wine, so that he will earn no religious merit; or else that he has already had enough wine, so there is no point in seeking anything further.

This is the last verse of the last ghazal in the published divan. Poems 1. This and the following seven verses are among those omitted by Ghalib from his published divan.

This and the following six verses constitute a verse set. The actual reference is to the letter qaf in tiryaq opium , which looks like the letter o with a tail. The down on the cheeks of a boy just reaching puberty was often compared to greenery. This and the following three verses constitute a verse set. The last line is in Persian. Dated ca. June or July and addressed to his pupil and friend Hargopal Tafta. Dated April 4,, and addressed to his friend Hatim Ali Mihr.

Dated and addressed to the same Hatim Ali Mihr. A second letter of to Hatim Ali Mihr. Thus the poet reflects: Anyone who looks at my Persian divan will realize that I leave sentence upon sentence implied.

If this is Rekhta, then what did Mir and Mirza [Sauda] compose? And if that was Rekhta, then what is this? The circumstances of it are that one gentleman among the princes of the House of Timur brought this rhyme scheme and meter from Lucknow, and His Majesty [Bahadur Shah Zafar] himself composed a ghazal in it and commanded me also [to compose one]. That is, her face is good and her thought is correct; she never misses the mark.

Otherwise, for her part the beloved had been led into error. The Rival was not a true lover, he was a lustful man. Indeed, there is one proof of the existence of the morning—that is, an extinguished candle, through this path: The pleasure of this theme is that the thing that has been established as the proof of the dawn is itself one among the causes of darkness. Thus it is worth seeing—the house in which a symbol of dawn is a strengthener of darkness, how dark that house will be!

Two questions have come into it that he has asked of the beloved by way of reproach and insinuation. Should I not wait for death? Why should I not? For this is one of the things to the honor of death, that one day it will indeed come.

The wait will not be in vain. Should I desire you? What a fine idea! For example, in his present Urdu divan there is one verse [here Hali quotes 29, 5 ].

I myself asked Mirza [Ghalib] the meaning of this. The proof is that Qais, who in life wandered around naked, remained naked even within the veil of a picture. That is, from the beginning of the age of awareness there is the practice of madness.

Up to the present, perfection in the art has not been attained. The whole mirror has not become clear. The meaning is that after me, no downloader of the wine of passion remained; thus he had to give the call again and again. One time he recites it in a tone of invitation Then when in response to his call no one comes, he recites it again in a tone of despair—who can withstand the man-killing wine of passion!

That is, no one. In this, tone and style are very effective. The tone of calling someone is one thing, and the way of saying it very softly, in despair, is another. Well, to get to you is not easy: Neither will we be able to get to you, nor will anyone else be able to get to you. The difficulty then is that that same getting to you is not difficult either. Whomever you want, you can meet with. Kuliyat e Khalil Gibran.

Aab E Hayat. My life and struggle. Umrao jan ada. Aag ka darya. Shehr e … Poochtey hain wo k ghalib kawn hain koi batlaaw k ham batlayen kya Diwan-e-Ghalib is a well known poetry book composed by a renowned Persian and Urdu poet Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. It is a collection of the Ghazals. The book Deewan e Ghalib Pdf is the most famous Urdu poetry book Click here to download Deewan-e-Ghalib. Please note that you will have to have PDF ….I am the confidante of Mir, the playmate of Ghalib.

When she was finally brought to my bed, I could no longer see.

The father ofjoseph. Reportage The structure of a ghazal verse in which the two lines are independent not only grammatically but also semantically, so that it is left to the reader to decide how they are to be connected. If your man is elderly or middle-aged you abuse his daughter Khaliq Anjum. From the typhoon of joy, a whirlpool rises up— Waves of rose, waves of sunset, waves of breeze, waves of wine.

Speak of her grace and her lissom presence.

I agree that Ghalib is worthless.

TESS from Arlington
I do like reading novels curiously. Look through my other posts. I'm keen on harpastum.