शायर का दर्द

It's been quite some time since I wrote a poem. I looked back at a couple of old poems of mine (आँसूओंकी बारिशें, सच्चाईका इकतारा) and I was overwhelmed by the intensity of emotions. Where has the passion gone? Where did the burning desire to “pen it down” go? I wondered.

“If there is nothing going on in your life worth writing a poem about, you aren’t living enough!” kept on echoing and re-echoing in my head. I needed to write a poem. But where’s the passion? Where’s the intensity? Has life really gotten so boring?

Then I wondered, could it be the other way? It might be that I am having a poet’s block and hence things seem boring? Could it be? Maybe… And thus was this attempt to woo back poetry, my seemingly lost companion…

उड़ गये हैं रंग आज मोर से
चाँद भी ख़फ़ा-ख़फ़ा चकोर से
कलम ही तो थी ज़िन्दगी मेरी
बता अब जीनेमे मज़ा क्या है
क्यों ख़फ़ा है मुझसे, शायरी मेरी
बता इस बंदे की ख़ता क्या है

गंगा-जमुना बहे अश्क़ोंकी
सूखी मेरी सरस्वती
ख़ून की स्याही बेअसर काग़ज़पे
बता इस मर्ज़ की दवा क्या है
क्यों ख़फ़ा है मुझसे, शायरी मेरी
बता इस बंदे की ख़ता क्या है

ज़िन्दगी है मेरी थम-सी गयी
ढूँढू मैं, जुनूँ मिले ही नहीं
एहसासों बिन खोखले अलफ़ाज़ मेरे
बता बिन गुनाह की यह सज़ा क्या है
क्यों ख़फ़ा है मुझसे, शायरी मेरी
बता इस बंदे की ख़ता क्या है

“दोस्तों” की ख्वाइशोंमें जनाज़े हमारे
“अपनों” की बंदिशोंमें तराने पराये
तू ही तो थी एक हमसफ़र मेरी
बता बेझिजक, तेरी रज़ा क्या है
क्यों ख़फ़ा है मुझसे, शायरी मेरी
बता इस बंदे की ख़ता क्या है 

Translation in essence:
Peacock's colors have faded
Moon has spurned the Chakor (a bird enamored by Moon)
The pen was my life,
now tell me, what's the fun in living?
Why are you angry with me, O poetry?
tell me what did I do wrong?

Rivers of tears are flowing,
while my imagination and creativity has dried off
(Also, Ganga-Jamuna-Saraswati is a literal reference too)
Now, even the ink of my blood fails to make an impression on the paper
please tell me, what's the cure of this disease?
Why are you angry with me, O poetry?
tell me what did I do wrong?

My life has become stagnant
I am searching for passion, alas, in vain
My words have become hollow, no intense feelings to substantiate them
tell me, what non-existent crime am I being punished for?
Why are you angry with me, O poetry?
tell me what did I do wrong?

So called friends wish and dream of my demise
Whom I thought "my own", their compositions are full of alien tunes
I thought you were one true companion of mine,
don't hesitate, tell me what is it that you want
Why are you angry with me, O poetry?
tell me what did I do wrong?