Bare ghazal

Bare ghazal


  • Ghazal hoti hai-Elizabeth Kurian mona
  • Quick Ghazal
  • Wo Bewafa Hai To Kya – Naseer Turabi | Ghazal
  • Poet Rahat Indori, who tested positive for Covid, dies of cardiac arrest at 70
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  • Ghazal hoti hai-Elizabeth Kurian mona

    Poet Rahat Indori, who tested positive for Covid, dies of cardiac arrest at 70 Poet Rahat Indori, who tested positive for Covid, dies of cardiac arrest at 70 Indori was one of the most famous Urdu poets in the country at present.

    He could fill up auditoriums and deliver rousing poetry in mushairas that people would line up for. He used to sing ghazals at mushairas right from the beginning. In times of Covid , Indori was documenting a crisis and finding new meanings for life, death and everything in between. Zindagi aur maut par hi likh sakte hain Now, in times of corona, what political points should I write about?

    He was Indoris son Faisal said the poet was admitted on Monday after he tested positive for coronavirus. Indori had announced his Covid positive status at 7. Indori was one of the most famous Urdu poets in the country at present. But he could also sell books, which showed his deeper understanding of poetry when read on paper. Indori belonged to the more modern generation of poets that included Munnawar Rana and Bashir Badr.

    He changed his name to suit the world of Urdu poetry and mushaira, and to turn it into an ode to the city of Indore, which he called home for 70 years. In , one of his old poems, Agar khilaf hai hone do, found a new lease of life amid protests against the Citizenship Amendment Act. Indori was sometimes criticised for his theatrical presentation of his poetry. But his sharp poetry on matters of political interest, polarisation and communal issues found attention among his detractors and admirers alike.

    Click here to join our channel indianexpress and stay updated with the latest headlines For all the latest Lifestyle News , download Indian Express App. The Indian Express website has been rated GREEN for its credibility and trustworthiness by Newsguard, a global service that rates news sources for their journalistic standards. Tags: Advertisement More Lifestyle.

    Quick Ghazal

    Three men who look like Bedouin, but are not, pause with their camels in the snow— Photo shot through a bus window, twenty-nine years ago on the Khyber Pass.

    Was, the mad poet said. That poet understood the rent collector. Rats run closely along a wall, the wall and body always touching. Flight here uneventful, homicide movie in the main cabin. A soldier is writing a story about a soldier writing a story. Who is afraid? Wild strawberry not yet bloomed, wild geranium tangled in the monkshood.

    The guards wear helmets with plastic shields drawn down over their faces. The prisoners wear white hoods with black circles drawn to replace their faces. On the cover of a glossy book, a soldier from my home town uses his rifle to push a crowd Farther away from the camera. Street noise used as a painter uses paint. My ancestors were prisoners of war, transported to a colony where half died in the first year. Their children bought black slaves and became white. In the foreground, bodies half wrapped in cloth, in shadow.

    And farther back, Behind the black figure of the grieving woman, a pile of white bundles in the sun. In a sandy ditch, army scouts found the body of a Sioux woman. Shot in the throat, She had bled so much her foot looked to them like the foot of a white man.

    Oil is black. Salt is white. He identified the dead because he had to, then he zipped them back into their bags. Between the words man held captive and the words stands bound Are twelve words of army-speak and a lot of white paint worn off the wall. When refugees ask directions, say yes. Clean salt from shoes. White paint Over red paint. Conventional forms of lions and the bridge burns all night. Because I was trying to eat less, I woke up hungry in the middle of the night.

    Distant, bloody, tedious, my radio said, and in that order. Exhibit of work by photographers killed in the war. It is black and white, Hanoi is rainy, Our plane is leaving and one of the dead has a daughter here wiping her eyes. Some of the dead were mercenaries. Helmeted soldiers cry in the street.

    Mad poet stamps and whirls, says every death is one, one, one, one, one. Open a book. Watch harbor turn to harry, army, barrow, borough, A fortified town, a room with a closed door.

    I am buying bread when the war begins. The baker, who has never talked to me before, Teaches me the word for oppose. In barracks, soldiers play video games and bang their fists on the air conditioners. I lie down between the cactus and the pines. Beaver-cut trees in an aspen grove. Cutthroat trout in pond shadow. Listening to lies on the radio all morning.

    When a tank shoots through a brick wall, a little piano riff in a minor key. On a shelf above the television, one toy cyclo cut from a beer can, red and white Training jets in pairs buzz low, stampede horses through the barbed-wire fences.

    In Hanoi I bought no souvenirs. In Saigon I bought a white stone dragon Packed in a box with a pool of red ink. Five cans of gasoline, two small boys, riding together in a blue cart. If you fire shots into the air the boy in the green shirt winces. In a notebook, my list of belongings: I wanted to leave each thing to its rightful heir. When you walk against wind in a sandstorm, shield your eyes and cover your teeth.

    The man with the gun is standing up. The man without a gun is lying down. The car is red and white the sky is blue the building brown.

    I asked what the woman in black was searching for. She said For scissors, with which to cut one lock of his precious hair. When the tree fell, we were lying asleep in grass near the beaver ponds. This is why I can say that we were spared.

    Wo Bewafa Hai To Kya – Naseer Turabi | Ghazal

    Indori had announced his Covid positive status at 7. Indori was one of the most famous Urdu poets in the country at present. But he could also sell books, which showed his deeper understanding of poetry when read on paper.

    Indori belonged to the more modern generation of poets that included Munnawar Rana and Bashir Badr. He changed his name to suit the world of Urdu poetry and mushaira, and to turn it into an ode to the city of Indore, which he called home for 70 years. Inone of his old poems, Agar khilaf hai hone do, found a new lease of life amid protests against the Citizenship Amendment Act. Indori was sometimes criticised for his theatrical presentation of his poetry.

    But his sharp poetry on matters of political interest, polarisation and communal issues found attention among his detractors and admirers alike. Click here to join our channel indianexpress and stay updated with the latest headlines For all the latest Lifestyle Newsdownload Indian Express App. On the cover of a glossy book, a soldier from my home town uses his rifle to push a crowd Farther away from the camera.

    Street noise used as a painter uses paint. My ancestors were prisoners of war, transported to a colony where half died in the first year. Their children bought black slaves and became white. In the foreground, bodies half wrapped in cloth, in shadow. And farther back, Behind the black figure of the grieving woman, a pile of white bundles in the sun. In a sandy ditch, army scouts found the body of a Sioux woman.

    Shot in the throat, She had bled so much her foot looked to them like the foot of a white man. Oil is black. Salt is white. He identified the dead because he had to, then he zipped them back into their bags.

    Poet Rahat Indori, who tested positive for Covid, dies of cardiac arrest at 70

    Between the words man held captive and the words stands bound Are twelve words of army-speak and a lot of white paint worn off the wall. When refugees ask directions, say yes. Clean salt from shoes. White paint Over red paint. Conventional forms of lions and the bridge burns all night.

    Because I was trying to eat less, I woke up hungry in the middle of the night. Distant, bloody, tedious, my radio said, and in that order. Exhibit of work by photographers killed in the war. It is black and white, Hanoi is rainy, Our plane is leaving and one of the dead has a daughter here wiping her eyes. Some of the dead were mercenaries. Helmeted soldiers cry in the street.

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    Mad poet stamps and whirls, says every death is one, one, one, one, one. Open a book. Watch harbor turn to harry, army, barrow, borough, A fortified town, a room with a closed door. I am buying bread when the war begins.

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    The baker, who has never talked to me before, Teaches me the word for oppose. In barracks, soldiers play video games and bang their fists on the air conditioners. I lie down between the cactus and the pines.


    thoughts on “Bare ghazal

    1. I risk to seem the layman, but nevertheless I will ask, whence it and who in general has written?

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