Pygmalion and the Statue

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Pygmalion and Galatea by Jean-Leon Gerome (1824-1904)

 
[From Ovid’s Metamorphosis, translated by John Dryden]
Pygmalion loathing their lascivious Life,
Abhorred all Womankind, but most a Wife:
So single chose to live, and shunned to wed,
Well pleased to want a Consort of his Bed.
Yet fearing Idleness, the Nurse of Ill,
In Sculpture exercised his happy Skill;
And carved in Ivory such a Maid, so fair,
As Nature could not with his Art compare,
Were she to work; but in her own Defence,
Must take her Pattern here, and copy hence.
Pleased with his Idol, he commends, admires,
Adores; and last, the Thing adored, desires.
A very Virgin in her Face was seen,
And she had moved, a living Maid had been:
One would have thought she could have stirred; but strove
With Modesty, and was ashamed to move.
Art hid with Art, so well performed the Cheat,
It caught the Carver with his own Deceit:
He knows ’tis Madness, yet he must adore,
And still the more he knows it, loves the more:
The Flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,
Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.
Fired with his Thought, at once he strained the Breast,
And on the Lips a burning Kiss impressed.
‘Tis true, the hardened Breast resists the Gripe,
And the cold Lips return a Kiss unripe:
But when, retiring back, he looked again,
To think it Ivory, was a thought too mean:
So would believe she kissed, and courting more,
Again embraced her naked Body o’er;
And straining hard the Statue, was afraid
His Hands had made a Dint, and hurt his Maid:
Explored her, Limb by Limb, and feared to find
So rude a Gripe had left a livid Mark behind
With Flatt’ry now he seeks her Mind to move,
And now with Gifts (the powerful bribe of Love):
He furnishes her Closet first; and fills
The crowded Shelves with Rarities of Shells;
Adds Orient Pearls, which from the Conches he drew,
And all the sparkling Stones of various Hue:
And Parrots, imitating Human Tongue,
And singing-birds in Silver Cages hung;
And ev’ry fragrant Flower, and odorous Green,
Were sorted well, with Lumps of Amber laid between:
Rich, fashionable Robes her person Deck:
Pendants her Ears, and Pearls adorn her neck:
Her tapered Fingers too With Rings are graced,
And an embroidered Zone surrounds her slender Waist.
Thus like a Queen arrayed, so richly dressed,
Beauteous she shewed, but naked shewed the best.
Then, from the Floor, he raised a Royal Bed,
With Cov’rings of Sydonian Purple spread:
The Solemn Rites performed, he calls her Bride,
With Blandishments invites her to his Side,
And as she were with Vital Sense possessed,
Her Head did on a plumy Pillow rest.
The Feast of Venus came, a Solemn Day,
To which the Cypriots due Devotion pay;
With gilded Horns the milk-white Heifers led,
Slaughtered before the sacred Altars, bled:
Pygmalion offering, first approached the Shrine,
And then with Pray’rs implored the Powers Divine:
Almighty Gods, if all we Mortals want,
If all we can require, be yours to grant;
Make this fair Statue mine, he would have said,
But changed his Words for shame; and only prayed,
Give me the likeness of my Ivory Maid.
The Golden Goddess, present at the Prayer,
Well knew he meant th’ inanimated Fair,
And gave the Sign of granting his Desire;
For thrice in cheerful Flames ascends the Fire.
The Youth, returning to his Mistress, hies,
And, impudent in Hope, with ardent Eyes,
And beating Breast, by the dear Statue lies.
He kisses her white Lips, renews the Bliss,
And looks and thinks they redden at the Kiss:
He thought them warm before: Nor longer stays,
But next his Hand on her hard Bosom lays:
Hard as it was, beginning to relent,
It seemed, the Breast beneath his Fingers bent;
He felt again, his Fingers made a Print,
‘Twas Flesh, but Flesh so firm, it rose against the Dint:
The pleasing Task he fails not to renew;
Soft, and more soft at every Touch it grew;
Like pliant Wax, when chafing Hands reduce
The former Mass to Form, and frame for Use
He would believe, but yet is still in pain,
And tries his Argument of Sense again,
Presses the Pulse, and feels the leaping Vein.
Convinced, o’erjoyed, his studied Thanks and Praise,
To her who made the Miracle, he pays:
Then Lips to Lips he joined; now freed from Fear,
He found the Savour of the Kiss sincere:
At this the wakened image oped her Eyes,
And viewed at once the Light and Lover, with surprise.
The Goddess present at the Match she made,
So blessed the Bed, such Fruitfulness conveyed,
That e’er ten Moons had sharpened either Horn,
To crown their Bliss, a lovely Boy was born;
Paphos his Name, who, grown to manhood, walled
The City Paphos, from the Founder called.

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Kinarey wala sofa

Kinerey wala sofa aaj soona rehta hai,
Subah ko ramu kaka kuch pochha kartey hain,
Shaam tak dhool mein sama jata hai.
Shayad aaj bhi gaddey par kuch chhap chhoota hai,
Shayad aaj bhi rajnigandha murjha pada hai,
Shayad aaj bhi harey churi ka kaanch gira hai,
Shayad.
To aaj, kinarey waley sofey pey gaya,
Dil ki dhadkan jyon ka tyon tha,
Na asmaan sey bijli giri,
Na ped sey nariyal gira.
Haath mein ek khali botal chamak raha hai,
Saamney meri TV par ek chehra nazar aaya,
Kahin dekha hai? Kahin dekha hai.
Dekha hai isi kamrey mein,
Pakda hai inhi hathon mein,
Chooma hai apney hooton sey,
Bithaya hai isi kinarey waley sofey pey.
Wohi kisi namakool shaayar key janazey pey taarif si khokli hansi,
Wohi baisakh key aasman sa bedaag chehra,
Aaj kisi ki kaali daari ko khanroch raha hai,
Kisi aur sofey par,
Isi shahar kinarey.

___________________________________________________

Vivek Oberoi thinking of Aishwarya and Abhishek.

Hindi versus English

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Poetry has its many facets, many motives, and many inspirations. We shall deal with them later when we have time. Suffice it to say that poetry, much of the time, is an expression that waits to be expressed. It’s like poetry writes itself through you – you are just the vehicle. Much like the Muse does the writing through the pen of the poet.

There can be many disputes about what can be the right language for poetry. Even today, the first day of this website, I had something of a debate with a friend regarding the language to be used. To speak for others is a foolish venture; one can only speak for oneself. And often times I have felt that there is a certain deficiency when I write a couple of things in English. Of course my knowledge of English being much better, I am in a better position to express myself. But there are things that are not translatable. You lose some meaning when you do that. And so, Hindi has inspired me at times. This website is a bi- or tri-lingual effort at creation of poetry (considering whether you consider Hindi and Urdu as two different languages or only one language) to overcome that lacuna that I felt there was with certain ‘spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions’.

Of course, there is the problem of transliteration – since I am not conversant with the use of Indic scripts, I have to make do with Roman script. It is inevitable that the twenty-six letters are quite incapable to reproducing the vast array of Hindi and Urdu sounds – and that is something I have to live with. You comments are most welcome.

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Pardesi, pardesi, jaana nehi

Ek haseen shaam ki kahani,
Raja ke haathon mein rani,
Ek zaalim sooraj loafer ki tarah pichhey paraa,
Bayen se kisi kaminey ki seeti,
Dayen mein pallu pichhey koi thahakey chada.
Bedard shaam, dusman duniya,
Haseena ko haath liye kisi chhaawni mein main chala,
Kuchh meethi baat karenge,
Ek duje ko aankhon mein lenge.
Lambi kwahish thi,
Do chaar lamhe yun hi saath guzaroon,
Do chaar yadon ko kismat sey churaoon,
Ki kal jab nazrein kuchh kamzor parengi,
Chandi ke bartan sa ghiskey yahdoon ko chamkaoon.

Karah raha hai aaj woh shaam,
Chandi ka chamak aaj pheeka hai,
Kamzor yaadein kuch na seekha hai,
Shaayad.
Shaayad kehin sey mere kaano mein kuch goonja hai,
Woh door galiyon ki deewaron sey takrati kisi Alka ki vaani,
Yadoon mein jawani, kisi bedardi ki kahani,
“Pardesi, pardesi, jaana nehi”
Jana nehi.

Aishwarya ki choli, mere dil mein rangoli

Ek hansta pari meri aankhon par aa baitha,
Uski aankon mein ek ajab si khushi thi,
Mano aandhi mein parinda ek ghonsla dhoonda ho,
Mano Savitri sa Jum ke paley se kisi pyarey ko chhuraya ho,
Mano jungal mein koi hirni apney navjaat ko chhupaya ho,
Usi khushi ki jhalak aaj diwali mein sajti hai,
Holi ki rangon mein aasman mein udti hai,
Kisi aashiq ke dil ke khoon mein khoulti hai.
To lo, aaj diwali hai, aaj holi hai,
Laal mein rangi kisi dulhan ki doli hai,
Jee haan,
Is kehani ki chamak Aishwarya ki choli hai!