Progressive Poetry

Cyber world is huge, yet all I was able to find on the life of Abdul Ahad Saaz, is this small image attached here. This is how we, the connoisseurs of art, show our tolerance for anything which is untainted with media hype.

One of his famous works is uploaded here. Read it and give voice to your silence.
http://urduindia.wordpress.com/2006/07/13/abdul-ahad-saaz-nazm/

His fearless approach has bleached a lot of stereotyped modern poetry that we are used to reading these days. So, consider yourself warned as he uses words with such a brutal honesty that you will require gallons of courage just to read them!

Planned farewells give in to spontaneous settlements.

The idiot inside has always been driven by disparities, but is now learning to walk on a side. Completely visible yet not whole, he remains addicted to the inevitable decay. There is no doubt in his head that he will be castigated for eternity, because his crime is blatant integrity. But instead of reacting, he comfortably waits for the dark robe of night to take over. In an attempt to hush silence, he has unknowingly awakened a palette of colorless chaos in his head. Stillness is red in his head and evolution merely a homecoming to his abyss.

neutralized

Silence is much preferred, especially when you have Pink Floyd’s Dogs barking like crazy in the background. The spectators are, however all dead. Only the song doesn’t care. It hangs around you like a menacing ghost, conjuring illusions of contempt till it develops into a pitiful defense mechanism for your mind. And you are eager; too damn eager to spend your life chasing its elusiveness and find answers to questions you are not even sure of yourself.
This song was to be your exit. Perhaps you don’t need the flight anymore.

dont think anyone can say it better than....

I can’t live the button-down life like you. I want it all: the terrifying lows, the dizzying highs, the creamy middles. Sure, I might offend a few of the bluenoses with my cocky stride and musky odors. Oh, I’ll never be the darling of the so-called “City Fathers” who cluck their tongues, stroke their beards, and talk about “What’s to be done with this Homer Simpson?” – Homer Simpson

my flight

looking at the world through kaleidoscopic eyes, chaeye, tang, electricity, an honest open smile, a surprised hand resting on my knee, the sound of children laughing or is it us, letting someone else drive all the rides, walking to the sound of trees, dreaming with open eyes, listening to the music of silence, taking the long way home- and living, just living life with a joy that never seems to die.
there is no end to it.
there is nothing beyond the magic.

thinking as a non-thinking entity

“Koi guum kaheen hai
Koi guum kaheen
Koi soch bhi unki apni nahee…”

'Thinking' is supposed to purge you of your one-dimensional acquisitive views. except, now it’s merely a tool to ruthlessly crack results from 9 to 5. the very process of unmasking is gradually becoming a thick layered anthropomorphic mask, and most of the times i don’t have the energy or the desire to peel off the scrupulous layers.
hence, i am here on this blog, which is not just a monologue for me. it's an anaesthetic, an energized recuperation through expressing a singular tinge of insanity without any of the routine and painstakingly disciplined copywriting, which i am becoming accustomed to writing.

so many graves to fill tonight...

lights are slowly going out. i am sitting still on a lone desk in my office trying to move towards some transcendental moment. there is no hope of going home yet. not unless i manage to pull off a couple of briefs and that i wont be able to do on this blog. but the will to close the window and get down to work is non-existent. its as if my hands are an extension of this keyboard and moving away for even a minute will be a betrayal to them. i havent enjoyed the zombie phase this much since ages. is this leading somewhere? is this moving onto some profound mahatma phase that will add some meaning to an otherwise routine day? no. perhaps tonight i want nothing to lead anywhere and me to sit amidst my clutter till nothing can be done.

falling for a flight

it is hard to tell where to begin. zillions of words residing in the dictionary atop my table, are all mine. and all my words are songs to sings, but i neither have the voice nor the skill to express them otherwise. so i begin my flight with someone else's words, who said it so brilliantly that his words became my confession.

"even though slow and sluggish
evening comes,
and stops as with a gesture
your song;
even though you are alone
in the infinite sky,
and your body weary,
and in terror you utter
a silent mantra
to horizons hidden by the veil
-bird, o my bird,
though it is darkening,
do not fold your wings." [tagore]