Recitation of poetry is deeply regarded for expressing your true feelings. It has been observed that Urdu poets in the past used to say poetry that depicts the social, cultural surroundings of their era. Last Updated on Sunday, October 14 2018 ... Read more

Le Monocle De Mon Oncle - Poem by Wallace Stevens | Urdu Poetry

Poet : wallace-stevens
Le Monocle De Mon Oncle - Poem by Wallace Stevens
“Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds, 
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon, 
There is not nothing, no, no, never nothing, 
Like the clashed edges of two words that kill.” 
And so I mocked her in magnificent measure. 
Or was it that I mocked myself alone? 
I wish that I might be a thinking stone. 
The sea of spuming thought foists up again 
The radiant bubble that she was. And then 
A deep up-pouring from some saltier well 
Within me, bursts its watery syllable. 

A red bird flies across the golden floor. 
It is a red bird that seeks out his choir 
Among the choirs of wind and wet and wing. 
A torrent will fall from him when he finds. 
Shall I uncrumple this much-crumpled thing? 
I am a man of fortune greeting heirs; 
For it has come that thus I greet the spring. 
These choirs of welcome choir for me farewell. 
No spring can follow past meridian. 
Yet you persist with anecdotal bliss 
To make believe a starry connaissance. 

Is it for nothing, then, that old Chinese 
Sat tittivating by their mountain pools 
Or in the Yangtse studied out their beards? 
I shall not play the flat historic scale. 
You know how Utamaro’s beauties sought 
The end of love in their all-speaking braids. 
You know the mountainous coiffures of Bath. 
Alas! Have all the barbers lived in vain 
That not one curl in nature has survived? 
Why, without pity on these studious ghosts, 
Do you come dripping in your hair from sleep? 

This luscious and impeccable fruit of life 
Falls, it appears, of its own weight to earth. 
When you were Eve, its acrid juice was sweet, 
Untasted, in its heavenly, orchard air. 
An apple serves as well as any skull 
To be the book in which to read a round, 
And is as excellent, in that it is composed 
Of what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground. 
But it excels in this, that as the fruit 
Of love, it is a book too mad to read 
Before one merely reads to pass the time. 

In the high west there burns a furious star. 
It is for fiery boys that star was set 
And for sweet-smelling virgins close to them. 
The measure of the intensity of love 
Is measure, also, of the verve of earth. 
For me, the firefly’s quick, electric stroke 
Ticks tediously the time of one more year. 
And you? Remember how the crickets came 
Out of their mother grass, like little kin, 
In the pale nights, when your first imagery 
Found inklings of your bond to all that dust. 

If men at forty will be painting lakes 
The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one, 
The basic slate, the universal hue. 
There is a substance in us that prevails. 
But in our amours amorists discern 
Such fluctuations that their scrivening 
Is breathless to attend each quirky turn. 
When amorists grow bald, then amours shrink 
Into the compass and curriculum 
Of introspective exiles, lecturing. 
It is a theme for Hyacinth alone. 

The mules that angels ride come slowly down 
The blazing passes, from beyond the sun. 
Descensions of their tinkling bells arrive. 
These muleteers are dainty of their way. 
Meantime, centurions guffaw and beat 
Their shrilling tankards on the table-boards. 
This parable, in sense, amounts to this: 
The honey of heaven may or may not come, 
But that of earth both comes and goes at once. 
Suppose these couriers brought amid their train 
A damsel heightened by eternal bloom. 

Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love, 
An ancient aspect touching a new mind. 
It comes, it blooms, it bears its fruit and dies. 
This trivial trope reveals a way of truth. 
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof. 
Two golden gourds distended on our vines, 
Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost, 
Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque. 
We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed, 
The laughing sky will see the two of us 
Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains. 

In verses wild with motion, full of din, 
Loudened by cries, by clashes, quick and sure 
As the deadly thought of men accomplishing 
Their curious fates in war, come, celebrate 
The faith of forty, ward of Cupido. 
Most venerable heart, the lustiest conceit 
Is not too lusty for your broadening. 
I quiz all sounds, all thoughts, all everything 
For the music and manner of the paladins 
To make oblation fit. Where shall I find 
Bravura adequate to this great hymn? 

The fops of fancy in their poems leave 
Memorabilia of the mystic spouts, 
Spontaneously watering their gritty soils. 
I am a yeoman, as such fellows go. 
I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs, 
No silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits. 
But, after all, I know a tree that bears 
A semblance to the thing I have in mind. 
It stands gigantic, with a certain tip 
To which all birds come sometime in their time. 
But when they go that tip still tips the tree. 

If sex were all, then every trembling hand 
Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words. 
But note the unconscionable treachery of fate, 
That makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shout 
Doleful heroics, pinching gestures forth 
From madness or delight, without regard 
To that first, foremost law. Anguishing hour! 
Last night, we sat beside a pool of pink, 
Clippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes, 
Keen to the point of starlight, while a frog 
Boomed from his very belly odious chords. 

A blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky, 
On sidelong wing, around and round and round. 
A white pigeon it is, that flutters to the ground, 
Grown tired of flight. Like a dark rabbi, I 
Observed, when young, the nature of mankind, 
In lordly study. Every day, I found 
Man proved a gobbet in my mincing world. 
Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued, 
And still pursue, the origin and course 
Of love, but until now I never knew 
That fluttering things have so distinct a shade. 
Wallace Stevens

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Urdu Poetry – Poetry is the language of heart. Emotions and feelings take the shape of words and are delivered in a poetic manner. Urdu poetry draws its existence from past 18th and 19th century which are rich in tradition and composed in various forms. Most of the Urdu poetry derives from Arabic and Persian origin. From time immemorial, Urdu poetry has been written and narrated by renowned poets of all times. Urdu poetry is enriched with such true emotions and feelings. It has been observed that Urdu poets in the past used to say poetry that depicts and highlights the social, cultural issues of their era.

The poets used Urdu poetry as a medium of expression to put their thoughts forward for the readers. The Urdu poets are known for reviving romance, culture, social & political issues in the form of Urdu poetry collections. Urdu poetry is considered as an integral part of Pakistani culture. Our history is rich with numerous poetry collections from renowned poets like Mirza Ghalib, Allama Iqbal, Mir Dard, Mir Taqi Mir, and the list goes on. Allama Iqbal and Mirza Ghalib are considered to be the flag barrier of Urdu poetry. Iqbal Urdu poetry is based on philosophy, love, and for encouraging Muslims of India. Mirza Ghalib is regarded as the greatest Urdu poets of all times. They have contributed incredibly in the form of Ghazal, Hamd, Nazm, Ruba’i, Shayari and much more. Apart from them, Mir Taqi Mir and Mir Dard are known for romantic and sad Urdu poetry. Several other maestros of Urdu Poetry have been passed who added some valuable pearls and gems to the poetic collections from time to time.

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The Urdu poetry collection of Ghalib and Iqbal are researched, read and shared by masses worldwide.The modern Urdu poets possess a progressive and practical state of mind that is far from the narration of female beauty and romance. Urdu Ghazals has been associated with emotions earlier, but now the trends are changing to give it a completely new domain of expression. Many Urdu poets become popular because of their Romantic poetry include Ghazal Ahmed Faraz, Habib Jalib, Sagar Siddiqui, Muneer Niazi, Mohsin Naqvi, Farhat Abbas Shah and many others.

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