पाब्लो नेरूदा । Pablo Neruda

Ode to Salt by Pablo Neruda

Ode to Salt by Pablo Neruda

We often hear that poets have their muses, they get inspiration from the nature, from the bounties of the skies, from ravishing waterfalls, from delicate beauties and so on. But have you ever heard that someone got inspired from salt! Yes, salt, our very own, the homely, white, fine-grained beauty that quaintly sits in the uniquely designed porcelain shakers.
And not only inspiration, Neruda decides to render an ode to this taste enhancing grain from the oceans.
Read this wonderful poem titled ‘Ode to Salt’ by Pablo Neruda. Read it again till you start feeling the taste of salt lingering on your lips. Then, you would have actually read what Neruda meant.

This salt in the saltcellar
I once saw in the salt mines.
I know
you won’t
believe me,
it sings,
salt sings, the skin
of the salt mines
with a mouth smothered
by the earth.
I shivered in those solitudes
when I heard
the voice of
the salt
in the desert.
Near Antofagasta
the nitrous
a broken
a mournful

In its caves
the salt moans, mountain
of buried light,
translucent cathedral,
crystal of the sea, oblivion
of the waves.

And then on every table
in the world,
we see your piquant
vital light
our food. Preserver
of the ancient
holds of ships,
the high seas,
of the unknown, shifting
byways of the foam.
Dust of the sea, in you
the tongue receives a kiss
from ocean night:
taste imparts to every seasoned
dish your ocean essence;
the smallest,
wave from the saltcellar
reveals to us
more than domestic whiteness;
in it, we taste infinitude.


यूजीन फ़ील्ड । Eugene Field

Eugene Field

A spring poem from Bion

One asketh:
“Tell me, Myrson, tell me true:
What’s the season pleaseth you?
Is it summer suits you best,
When from harvest toil we rest?
Is it autumn with its glory
Of all surfeited desires?
Is it winter, when with story
And with song we hug our fires?
Or is spring most fair to you–
Come, good Myrson, tell me true!”

Another answereth:
“What the gods in wisdom send
We should question not, my friend;
Yet, since you entreat of me,
I will answer reverently:
Me the summertime displeases,
For its sun is scorching hot;
Autumn brings such dire diseases
That perforce I like it not;
As for biting winter, oh!
How I hate its ice and snow!

“But, thrice welcome, kindly spring,
With the myriad gifts you bring!
Not too hot nor yet too cold,
Graciously your charms unfold–
Oh, your days are like the dreaming
Of those nights which love beseems,
And your nights have all the seeming
Of those days of golden dreams!
Heaven smiles down on earth, and then
Earth smiles up to heaven again!”

विकास राणा । Vikas Rana


Poetry, it’s not just about the bearded men in their royal robes. It is as much about a budding flower as it is about a dated tree. Here at Mukarrar, we keep an eye for gems of poetry all around us. While many popular poets still manage to find a place amid readers, it becomes difficult for works of masters who have long perished from the memory of public to find its relevance. While Mukarrar started with the thought of curating collections of master poets across the world, somewhere down the road, we thought it is equally rewarding to feature young poets as well. 

In this post, we are featuring Shayar Vikas Rana from Delhi. His poetry has a unique flavour of age old stories and copybook romance as well as portrayal of imagery in such simple instances that you would wonder why didnt it come across to you. 

Read, share, comment if you like how Vikas, who goes by the pen name of ‘Fikr’ leaves you drowned with subtle melody of urdu shayari. 

Vikas Rana

Vikas Rana

कैफ़ी आज़्मी । Kaifi Azmi


या दिल की सुनो दुनिया वालों
या मुझको अभी चुप रहने दो
मैं ग़म को खुशी कैसे कह दूँ
जो कहते हैं उनको कहने दो

ये फूल चमन में कैसा खिला
माली की नज़र में प्यार नहीं
हँसते हुए क्या-क्या देख लिया
अब बहते हैं आँसू बहने दो

एक ख़्वाब खुशी का देखा नहीं
देखा जो कभी तो भूल गये
माना हम तुम्हें कुछ दे ना सके
जो तुमने दिया वो सहने दो

क्या दर्द किसी का लेगा कोई
इतना तो किसी में दर्द नहीं
बहते हुए आँसू और बहें
अब ऐसी तसल्ली रहने दो

हरिवंश राय बच्चन । Harivansh Rai Bachchan

Harivansh Rai Bachchan

Harivansh Rai Bachchan

है अन्धेरी रात पर दीवा जलाना कब मना है?

कल्पना के हाथ से कमनीय जो मंदिर बना था,
भावना के हाथ ने जिसमें वितानो को तना था,
स्वप्न ने अपने करों से था जिसे रुचि से सँवारा,
स्वर्ग के दुष्प्राप्य रंगो से, रसों से जो सना था,
ढह गया वह तो जुटा कर ईंट, पत्थर, कंकडों को,
एक अपनी शांति की कुटिया बनाना कब मना है?
है अन्धेरी रात पर दीवा जलाना कब मना है?

बादलों के अश्रु से धोया गया नभनील नीलम,
का बनाया था गया मधुपात्र मनमोहक, मनोरम,
प्रथम ऊषा की नवेली लालिमा-सी लाल मदिरा,
थी उसी में चमचमाती नव घनों में चंचला सम,
वह अगर टूटा हथेली हाथ की दोनों मिला कर,
एक निर्मल स्रोत से तृष्णा बुझाना कब मना है?
है अन्धेरी रात पर दीवा जलाना कब मना है?

क्या घड़ी थी एक भी चिंता नहीं थी पास आई,
कालिमा तो दूर, छाया भी पलक पर थी न छाई,
आँख से मस्ती झपकती, बात से मस्ती टपकती,
थी हँसी ऐसी जिसे सुन बादलों ने शर्म खाई,
वह गई तो ले गई उल्लास के आधार माना,
पर अथिरता की समय पर मुस्कुराना कब मना है?
है अन्धेरी रात पर दीवा जलाना कब मना है?

हाय, वे उन्माद के झोंके कि जिनमें राग जागा,
वैभवों से फेर आँखें गान का वरदान मांगा
एक अंतर से ध्वनित हो दूसरे में जो निरन्तर,
भर दिया अंबर अवनि को मत्तता के गीत गा-गा,
अंत उनका हो गया तो मन बहलाने के लिये ही,
ले अधूरी पंक्ति कोई गुनगुनाना कब मना है?
है अन्धेरी रात पर दीवा जलाना कब मना है?

हाय, वे साथी की चुम्बक लौह से जो पास आए,
पास क्या आए, कि ह्र्दय के बीच ही गोया समाए,
दिन कटे ऐसे कि कोई तार वीणा के मिलाकर,
एक मीठा और प्यारा ज़िन्दगी का गीत गाए,
वे गए तो सोच कर ये लौटने वाले नहीं वे,
खोज मन का मीत कोई लौ लगाना कब मना है?
है अन्धेरी रात पर दीवा जलाना कब मना है?

क्या हवाएँ थी कि उजड़ा प्यार का वह आशियाना,
कुछ न आया काम तेरा शोर करना, गुल मचाना,
नाश की उन शक्तियों के साथ चलता ज़ोर किसका?
किंतु ऐ निर्माण के प्रतिनिधि, तुझे होगा बताना,
जो बसे हैं वे उजडते हैं प्रकृति के जड़ नियम से
पर किसी उजडे हुए को फिर बसाना कब मना है?
है अन्धेरी रात पर दीवा जलाना कब मना है?

एडम ज़ागाजेव्स्की । Adam Zagajewski


Adam Zagajewski

Adam Zagajewski

Between the computer, a pencil, and a typewriter
half my day passes. One day it will be half a century.
I live in strange cities and sometimes talk
with strangers about matters strange to me.
I listen to music a lot: Bach, Mahler, Chopin, Shostakovich.
I see three elements in music: weakness, power, and pain.
The fourth has no name.
I read poets, living and dead, who teach me
tenacity, faith, and pride. I try to understand
the great philosophers–but usually catch just
scraps of their precious thoughts.
I like to take long walks on Paris streets
and watch my fellow creatures, quickened by envy,
anger, desire; to trace a silver coin
passing from hand to hand as it slowly
loses its round shape (the emperor’s profile is erased).
Beside me trees expressing nothing
but a green, indifferent perfection.
Black birds pace the fields,
waiting patiently like Spanish widows.
I’m no longer young, but someone else is always older.
I like deep sleep, when I cease to exist,
and fast bike rides on country roads when poplars and houses
dissolve like cumuli on sunny days.
Sometimes in museums the paintings speak to me
and irony suddenly vanishes.
I love gazing at my wife’s face.
Every Sunday I call my father.
Every other week I meet with friends,
thus proving my fidelity.
My country freed itself from one evil. I wish
another liberation would follow.
Could I help in this? I don’t know.
I’m truly not a child of the ocean,
as Antonio Machado wrote about himself,
but a child of air, mint and cello
and not all the ways of the high world
cross paths with the life that–so far–
belongs to me.