A dream within a dream

Dawn, April 9, 2006
Article: A dream within a dream

Born in 1943, Iftikhar Arif is a well-known poet. His scholarship and love for learning has earned him great admiration and esteem in the world of literature. His collections of poetry are Mehr-i-Do-Neem, Harf-i-Baryaab and Jahaan-i-Maaloom. His works have also been widely translated. He has received many awards, including the Hilal-i-Imtiaz for his contribution to literature. He is at present, Chairman of the Pakistan Academy of Letters in Islamabad.

Arif’s forte is the ghazal and he chisels his lines to perfection. He has a powerful diction and an expression marked by clarity and forcefulness. Although he remains faithfully bound to tradition in his application of skill and language, he keeps his readers awake and fully involved. His themes are alive and relevant to his times, reflecting his own person in all truth. A recently published selection from his works, Shehr-i-Ilm ke Darwaaze Par, based on his ideology of faith and religion, outlines a significant and unique dimension to his creativity. His concerns, religious, social, political or personal synthepsise into a single, convincing entity in his verse as he effectively applies symbols from the past to understand the issues of his own times. The volume of his work remains small but impressive and distinguished.

The poems selected for translation are from the collection, Harf-i-Baryaab, published in 1994 by Danyaal, Karachi.
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A bad omen

In a strange moment,
the book fell in the mud;
tears trapped in the grimy eyes
of brilliant words
beckoned me
but I was lost,
my eyes beheld another world.
The longing for new horizons
has severed me
from my own sight, my own vision;
orbiting new paths,
I have shifted from my own axis.
Rewards, bounty,
potentiality, hope,
fear, uncertainty, despair;
countless segments split me up.
Before night lays its trap,
I ponder to return.
Who knows, the book
might still be there;
who knows, it might
be awaiting my return.
Tears trapped in the grimy eyes
of brilliant words
may wash off the dust
of ambition,
of lust,
of arrogance;
who knows, my words might condone me
In a strange moment,
the book fell in the mud.
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A few more days

A few more days
to forget the sight
of the ravaged land, my heart;
a few more days
to forget the world of colour,
its soaring trees, its dry grasses.
Journeying to the end, the weary dreams,
where hope had almost built its little home;
a few more days, to forget that home.
But how many now are the days to be?
Night, one day, unknowingly,
will sink into the awaiting vault, my heart,
fulfill the dreams, all the dreams,
buried in the treasures of my sightless eyes;
will make a dream of me too,
a dream that was not to be;
a dream, all ripped,
all tattered,
unable to hold
any bright or blessed day
a few more days.
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— Introduced, selected and translated by Yasmeen Hameed