Reader’s annotation: Quest for the “Self”
Dear readers, today I invite you to read Maryam’s “Self Searching” minstrels in writ crit blog. I personally enjoyed the apparently less allegorical simplicity of the minstrel. Does the poet say something new? Not like that, but she represents her inner self and to combine it with the larger self of everything existed in this planet and the universe. Her minuscule self (the great Urdu poet and philosopher Allama Iqbal liked to address the Self as Khudi, to search the interior meaning of everything related with the visible world) positively travel on the realm where everything is inter-chained and inclined to follow each other.
True objective of any poet should perhaps lie under the fact that the named poet always try to locate the beauty and agony of life. Maryam’s minstrels germinate in the oriental’s spaces and her inner self inspired by the natural reality of everything germane here. Life in orient (even today) tried to belong in natural self, love to involved and conflict to the self to find the meaning of minuscule, —the Khudi (the secret of the Self). The world is ocean and your minuscule addition of self just swim on the ocean to meet the larger and unseen unknown, maybe it’s God (Khuda) or maybe anything alike the God. Maryam echoing the search with little quest and question.
I see her lilting with the most confusing words of the century “the self”, and it’s enough for me to read her.
Does she represent new? Does her imagination and quest bit newish to the vast land of mystic or metaphysical landscape of poetry itself? Maybe and maybe the not, but it doesn’t denote anything here. I think she represents her great ancestors of continental poetry and the rest to reach the sublime landscape of poetic quest just like the holy pilgrimage.
As a reader I would be more contented if she deals with her quest in a greater extent of philosophical doubt and reasoning, it would be more plausible to read if she uses the infamous poetic allegories to hide the direct meaning into the veil, because poetic thinking deserve this. I think inner objective of poetry is not to disburse the meaning, rather to vanish it forever in the labyrinth, so it could make the duality and provoke the reader to partake a hide-and-seek game, where the reader could have invented new meaning for the maze.
However, it’s very tough to play with thinkable words in poetic language, because thinkable words always driven us to the philosophical quandary, where we try to refute that in light of logical sequence (the utmost pattern of testimony, perception, inference and causal logic) to complete the whole notion. The great Mansoor Hallaj, Mawlana Rumi, Allama Iqbal and the Persian mystic boozers… all of them deal with the thinkable words to use the poetical allegory and keep the validity for philosophic investigation too.
Maryam try to walk on their directed trajectory. She walks in the thorny gravelled road with bravery and tried to echo the thousands years quest with fine simplicity. Is it not enough to read her minstrels, her less allegorical but touchy simple intonation? I see her lilting with the most confusing words of the century “the self”, and it’s enough for me to read her. I think readers will enjoy her lilt even more than the annotation of mine.
Our Inner Self
Something that threatens our existence, our origin,
Every day, every minute, every second, all our lives,
Is something that lives within us,
And is deemed exceptionally precious,
It is something that is a conundrum,
Something that keeps us restless,
In quest of some sudden revelation.
It is our struggling inner self,
Our inner self that is full of tantrum,
And is ever prepared to crush our souls.
In our combat with the exterior world,
We are able to conquer and get pearled,
But that conquest, which we have with our inner self,
Always ends up in our humiliation and defeat.
We nourish an enemy within us,
That drags us towards self-destruction and self-annihilation,
Making us helpless and flawed,
Pressurizing us to indulge in conscienceless doings,
Staining our souls with the dark permanent paints.
We are never able to liberate ourselves,
As it resides within us slowly poisoning our souls,
Reminding us of all the dark paints we used once.
Living with you for millions of years
To seek support and blood supply,
They remain close clumsily,
Just for their own survival.
Showing you that they are very dear and near,
But actually very far and quite distant,
Within the same premises,
But actually very far and quite distant,
With the availability of an option,
Of a separate survival,
Finding another shade and blood bank,
They take milliseconds to liberate themselves,
Of your love, care and devotion,
By just negating,
Your efforts of millions of years,
By exclaiming about their captivity,
By shrieking about your exploitation,
By rejecting everything that once provided them,
with the life energy, the very source of survival.
Undying lies seeping into our souls,
Make us candid no more,
Taking away all of our liberty,
Putting us in chains of unbreakable ceramic,
Prone to make our future so tragic,
And to make our lives so enigmatic.
We are made to live with fading realities,
Haunting us throughout our lives with guarantees,
To take away all of our peace and tranquility,
And throw us in a quagmire of lies,
That continue asking for more and more like an undying thirst.
Paints in Life
Have you ever seen the paint-less pictures?
They resemble the lives of unfortunate
Who lose all the colors of their life frame.
They perceive that they have nothing to claim,
like a living stone that is not to blame.
The colors left on the frame are black and white.
The darkness of black is always there to bite,
But they should not ignore the flight,
That they can enjoy with the white.
They should leave alone the hate paint,
And should adore the humane paint,
That retains its texture and substrate for the ultimate.
The Watching Clock
The watching clock with its hands wiping its face continuously
To remove any signs of anguish and torment sinuously
Constantly waiting for the masked to show his learning
But he is not ready to meet Nature but constantly hurling
All his stored brain files as a dream sequence
Geared up to trouble him hard with frequence
Clock with its tireless tick tock is a silent hawker
Telling him at all times that he is a in a locker
Where the clock awaits his knowledge deliverance
While his bewildered eyes indicate his ignorance.
The Confused Home
The confused home is waiting for its dweller
It aspires to listen to the giggling child
And the mystifying soul moving in the cellar
Who were not ready to depart as per the fortuneteller.
The wind blew strong with its sharpened propeller
Making the home no more but the topic of a storyteller
The dwellers ran away because of the murdering wind,
All in different directions making the world an interstellar.
Constant learning, gaining knowledge,
Knowledge polishing our brains,
Bestowing us with all the artificiality—
The knowledge of known and unknown—
Snatching all of our innocence,
Converting us from raw to refined,
Teaching us the ways of the world,
Polluting our guiltless souls,
Teaching us to be treacherous,
We are never the same having Nature within us,
We are artificial, enemies of ourselves.
Luxury of being Alive
We have the luxury of being alive,
But what about those who have lost this luxury,
It may be an authoritative effrontery.
The losers of this luxury consider it drudgery.
In reality, this luxury is quite expensive,
As it exhausts all of our senses.
We keep ourselves busy in finding a motive
While the life combats the body making it corrosive.
With combating powers around always ready to usurp this luxury,
To live contentedly is a fantasy.
Those who no more enjoy this luxury,
Have gone to the mode of discovery.
The soul enjoys no such sumptuousness,
As it marvels its freedom and disgusts voluptuousness.
The losers aspire to have wings,
To enjoy getting rid of darkening things.
“… inner objective of poetry is not to disburse the meaning, rather to vanish it forever in the labyrinth…”