Kuch Sunao

what's beautiful is broken

LaraCD — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 18:47:53 +0000

'Northbound 35' written by Jeffrey Foucault, recited by LaraCD

English

Northbound 35
Through the iron hills
Under infidel skies
It's two hundred miles to drive
You won't be home

I saw an elsebound train
On the overpass
In the driving rain
Every ticket costs the same
For where you can't go

Chorus:
Mustang horses, champagne glasses
Anything frail anything wild
It's the price of living motion
What's beautiful is broken
And grace is just the measure of a fall

So I rolled into your town
I passed the smokestacks
And the ore docks down off of Main
And the sky spun around
With her diamonds on fire

We fought all night and then we danced
In your kitchen
You were as much in my hands
As water or darkness or nothing
Can ever be held

Chorus

It's just flashes that we own
Little snapshots
Made from breath and from bone
And out on the darkling plain alone
They light up the sky

It's 51 and driving south
Ain't it funny
How things'll turn out
I never even kissed you on the mouth
When we said good-bye

Chorus

This is the first sung song on kuchsunao, with a guitar no less!

This is performed by the wife and husband combination of Lara and Basit. With Lara on the guitar. Initially I was unsure of whether kuchsunao should have sung songs. However, after having listened to this recording, it is clear to me that Basit is simply reading. So it counts as a reading.

-- adnan

memories

adnan. — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 18:46:54 +0000

'memories' written by adnan., recited by adnan.

English

my old memories
are long gone and
i cannot make memories
for more than a day

every book i read
is like deja vu
a faint thread
a slight sense of connection
but that too falls
my memory fails me
but brings me
a new day everyday

in ways it is good
i can cry today
and not remember tomorrow
but i can love today
and not remember tomorrow
that thought hurts me today
but will not hurt me tomorrow

i am reborn every day
a reminder of death from yesterday

sink

adnan. — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 03:22:30 +0000

'sink' written by JonArno Lawson, recited by adnan.

English

You're driven by desire
I'm drifting on a whim
You're headed for the centre
I'm clinging to the rim
You keep growing brighter
I keep going dim

You go I stop
You lift I drop
You stare I blink
We're out of sync

And when it's time to dive straight in
You won't need to stop and think
You'll dive in and swim and swim --
I'll slip off the edge and sink.

Source:

There Devil, Eat That

I had been intending to read a JonArno poem here for a while. This is from his new book: There Devil, Eat That

-- adnan.

and she will

chhoti — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 21:35:15 +0000

'selecting a reader' written by Ted Kooser, recited by chhoti

English

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.
She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf. She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.

This is another first time reader on kuch sunao! chhoti does another fantastic reading of Kooser's poem.

Sonnet XVII

Basma — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 16:57:59 +0000

'Sonnet XVII' written by Pablo Neruda, recited by Basma

English

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

We have a new reader! This is Basma reading a slightly different translation of Neruda's poem than what we've had before here.

regretting

adnan. — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 01:15:29 +0000

'Regret' written by Troy Jollimore, recited by adnan.

English

I’d like to take back my not saying to you
those things that, out of politeness, or caution,
I kept to myself. And, if I may —
though this might perhaps stretch the rules —I’d like
to take back your not saying some of the things
that you never said, like “I love you” and “Won’t you
come home with me,” or telling me, which
you in fact never did, perhaps in the newly
refurbished café at the Vancouver Art
Gallery as fresh drops of the downpour from which
we’d sought shelter glinted in your hair like jewels,
or windshields of cars as seen from a plane
that has just taken off or is just coming in
for a landing, when the sun is at just the right angle,
that try as you might, you could not imagine
a life without me. The passionate spark
that would have flared up in your eye as you said this —
if you had said this —I dream of it often.
I won’t take those back, those dreams, though I would,
if I could, take back your not kissing me, openly,
extravagantly, not caring who saw,
or those looks of anonymous animal longing
you’d throw everyone else in the room. I’d like
to retract my retracting, just before I grabbed you,
my grabbing you on the steps of the New York
Public Library (our failure to visit
which I would also like to recall)
and shouting for all to hear, “You, you
and only you!” Yes, I’d like to take back
my not frightening the pigeons that day with my wild
protestations of uncontrolled love, my not scaring
them off into orbit, frantic and mad,
even as I now sit alone, frantic and mad,
racing to unread the book of our love
before you can finish unwriting it.

Source:

Walrus Magazine

friday

iffat — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 21:40:27 +0000

'friday' written by Patrice Wilson, recited by iffat

English

(Yeah, Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-Ah-Ark) Oo-ooh-ooh, hoo yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah
Yeah-ah-ah
Yeah-ah-ah
Yeah-ah-ah
Yeah-ah-ah
Yeah, yeah, yeah

Seven a.m., waking up in the morning
Gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs
Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal
Seein' everything, the time is goin'
Tickin' on and on, everybody's rushin'
Gotta get down to the bus stop
Gotta catch my bus, I see my friends (My friends)

Kickin' in the front seat
Sittin' in the back seat
Gotta make my mind up
Which seat can I take?

It's Friday, Friday
Gotta get down on Friday
Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend, weekend
Friday, Friday
Gettin' down on Friday
Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend

Partyin', partyin' (Yeah)
Partyin', partyin' (Yeah)
Fun, fun, fun, fun
Lookin' forward to the weekend

7:45, we're drivin' on the highway
Cruisin' so fast, I want time to fly
Fun, fun, think about fun
You know what it is
I got this, you got this
My friend is by my right, ay
I got this, you got this
Now you know it

Kickin' in the front seat
Sittin' in the back seat
Gotta make my mind up
Which seat can I take?

It's Friday, Friday
Gotta get down on Friday
Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend, weekend
Friday, Friday
Gettin' down on Friday
Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend

Partyin', partyin' (Yeah)
Partyin', partyin' (Yeah)
Fun, fun, fun, fun
Lookin' forward to the weekend

Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday
Today i-is Friday, Friday (Partyin')
We-we-we so excited
We so excited
We gonna have a ball today

Tomorrow is Saturday
And Sunday comes after ... wards
I don't want this weekend to end

R-B, Rebecca Black
So chillin' in the front seat (In the front seat)
In the back seat (In the back seat)
I'm drivin', cruisin' (Yeah, yeah)
Fast lanes, switchin' lanes
Wit' a car up on my side (Woo!)
(C'mon) Passin' by is a school bus in front of me Makes tick tock, tick tock, wanna scream
Check my time, it's Friday, it's a weekend
We gonna have fun, c'mon, c'mon, y'all

It's Friday, Friday
Gotta get down on Friday
Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend, weekend
Friday, Friday
Gettin' down on Friday
Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend

Partyin', partyin' (Yeah)
Partyin', partyin' (Yeah)
Fun, fun, fun, fun
Lookin' forward to the weekend

It's Friday, Friday
Gotta get down on Friday
Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend, weekend
Friday, Friday
Gettin' down on Friday
Everybody's lookin' forward to the weekend

Partyin', partyin' (Yeah)
Partyin', partyin' (Yeah)
Fun, fun, fun, fun
Lookin' forward to the weekend

kuch sunao's take on Friday as performed by iffat.

Ummm... yeah.

nazam

iffat — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 16:04:55 +0000

'nazm' written by Gulzar, recited by iffat

Urdu

nazm uljhi hui hai seene mein
misre atke hue hain hothoon par

urte phirte hain titliyoon ki tarah
lafz kaagaz pe baithte hi nahin

kab se baitha hoon main jaanam
saade kaagaz pe likh ke naam tera

bas tera naam hi mukammal hai
is se behtar bhi nazm kya hogi

English

a poem tangled in my breast
verses stuck on my lips

fluttering like butterflies
the words fail to settle on paper

i have been waiting for a long time, love
with your name on blank paper

your name alone is complete
could there be a better poem than this?

Punjabi

ik nazam ulji eh seenay'ch
misre arrhay nein otthan te

udhthe pirthe ne titliyan aar
lafaz kagaz te behnde i nain

kaddoon di betthi an main jaan
saade kagaz te lih ke na tera

bas tera na ee makammal eh
ethe tu behtar nazam ke ove di

I am tremendously pleased to present the first punjabi reading on the site. This is translated by Iffat from Gulzar's urdu.

-- adnan.

selecting a reader

iffat — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 22:23:39 +0000

'selecting a reader' written by Ted Kooser, recited by iffat

English

The second reading of Kooser's "selecting a reader" here.

naak

adnan. — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 06:23:44 +0000

'your nose' written by adnan., recited by adnan.

English

i saw someone with a nose,
a nose that can only be described
as the nose that you carry.
perhaps you had lent it out
or maybe it's the latest fashion.
but it reminded me of you,
as it should have.
it was practically your nose.

Urdu

kalhi main ne kisi pe ek naak dekhi,
ek aisi naak jo aksar
tum chale liye phirte ho.
shayad tumne usse udhar de rakhi thi
ya koi naya fashion hoga.
jo bhi ho, tumhari yaad aagayi.
aur kyun nahin aati,
aakhir tumhari hi to naak thi.

nose

adnan. — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 06:05:59 +0000

'your nose' written by adnan., recited by adnan.

English

Urdu

nazm

adnan. — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 16:38:22 +0000

'nazm' written by Gulzar, recited by adnan.

Urdu

nazm uljhi hui hai seene mein
misre atke hue hain hothoon par

urte phirte hain titliyoon ki tarah
lafz kaagaz pe baithte hi nahin

kab se baitha hoon main jaanam
saade kaagaz pe likh ke naam tera

bas tera naam hi mukammal hai
is se behtar bhi nazm kya hogi

English

a poem tangled in my breast
verses stuck on my lips

fluttering like butterflies
the words fail to settle on paper

i have been waiting for a long time, love
with your name on blank paper

your name alone is complete
could there be a better poem than this?

Punjabi

ik nazam ulji eh seenay'ch
misre arrhay nein otthan te

udhthe pirthe ne titliyan aar
lafaz kagaz te behnde i nain

kaddoon di betthi an main jaan
saade kagaz te lih ke na tera

bas tera na ee makammal eh
ethe tu behtar nazam ke ove di

pilgrim soul

adnan. — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 19:40:10 +0000

'When You are Old' written by William Butler Yeats, recited by adnan.

English

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

More Yeats.

teri zulfon ki narm chhaon

adnan. — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 03:32:16 +0000

'kabhi kabhi poem' written by Sahir Ludhianvi, recited by adnan.

Urdu

kabhi kabhi mere dil main khayal aata hai

ke zindagi teri zulfon ki narm chhaon mein
guzarne pati to shadab ho bhi sakti thi.

yeh ranj-o-gham ki siyahi jo dil pe chhayi hai
teri nazar ki shuaon main kho bhi sakti thi.

magar yeh ho na saka aur ab ye aalam hai
ke tu nahin, tera gham, teri justajoo bhi nahin.

guzar rahi hain kuchh iss tarah zindagi jaise,
isse kisi ke sahare ki aarzoo bhi nahin.

na koi raah, na manzil, na roshni ka suraag
bhatak rahin hai andheron main zindagi meri.

inhi andheron main reh jaoonga kabhi kho kar
main janta hoon meri hum-nafas, magar yoonhi

kabhi kabhi mere dil main khayal aata hai.

English

sometimes, this thought enters my heart -

were i able to spend life in the soft shadows of your flowing hair,
it might have been delightful.

that this shadow of despair cast over my heart
could have been lost in your piecing gaze.

but this did not happen, and now i'm in a state where
there's no you, no sorrow, nor any desire for you.

life is passing by in such a way
that it does not even hope for someone's support.

there is no journey, no destination, no hint of light,
my life has gone astray in this darkness.

i'll be left lost in this very darkness,
i know this, my soulmate - but it's just that

sometimes, this thought enters my heart.

Sahir had an original version which can be found here. The version recited here was refitted for the film.

Skip to 2:06

wild geese

adnan. — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 07:38:33 +0000

'wild geese' written by Mary Oliver, recited by adnan.

English

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Yes, I do wish I was more monotonous sometimes. But this will have to do.

softly

adnan. — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 03:01:37 +0000

'He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven' written by William Butler Yeats, recited by adnan.

English

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.

dil-e-man, musaafir-e-man (mere dil, mere musafir)

adnan. — Mon, 03 Jan 2011 02:01:32 +0000

'dil-e-man, musaafir-e-man' written by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, recited by adnan.

Urdu

mere dil mere musaafir
huaa phir se hukm saadir
ke vatan badar ho.n ham tum
de.n galii galii sadaaye.N
kare.n ruKh nagar nagar kaa
ke suraaG koii paaye.N
kisii yaar-e-naamaabar kaa
har ek ajanabii se puuchhe.n
jo pataa thaa apane ghar kaa

sar-e-kuu-e-naashanaayaa.N
hame.n din se raat karanaa
kabhii is se baat karanaa
kabhii us se baat karanaa

tumhe.n kyaa kahuu.N ke kyaa hai
shab-e-Gam burii balaa hai
hame.n ye bhii thaa Ganimat
jo koii shumaar hotaa
hame.n kyaa buraa thaa maranaa
agar ek baar hotaa

English

My heart, my fellow traveler
It has been decreed again
That you and I be exiled,
go calling out in every street,
turn to every town.
To search for a clue
of a messenger from our Beloved.
To ask every stranger
the way back to our home.

In this town of unfamiliar folk
we drudge the day into the night
Talk to this stranger at times,
to that one at others.

How can I convey to you, my friend
how horrible is a night of loneliness
It would suffice to me
if there were just some count(down)
I would gladly welcome death
if it were to come but once.

As we roll into a newer year, this is for all those in the world that are displaced.

-- adnan.

And here is Tina Sani performing this poem:

hold on

adnan. — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 03:09:29 +0000

'hold on' written by adnan., recited by adnan.

English

what the hell
is free verse?

this is why
poetry is such
a sham.

how in hell
can charles fucking
bu-
kows-
ki
take a couple
of (run-on)
sentences,

put
one, two
or three words
per line and
call it
poetry?

even kasparov has to
go the full distance
of the board
every time
before he can turn
a pawn into
a queen.

beauty, i suppose,
is in the eye
of the beholder.

it's just that
some of us
have to go through
many more eyes
before someone

holds on.

This is me reading the first of my own here. An appropriate start, I think.

Last Leaf

Syed — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 02:44:49 +0000

'Last Leaf' written by Damian Kulash, recited by Syed

English

If you should be the last autumn leaf hanging from the tree
I'll still be here waiting on the breeze to bring you down to me
And if it takes forever, forever it'll be

And if it takes forever, forever it'll be

And if you should be the last seed in spring to venture forth a leaf
I'll still be here waiting on the rain to warm your heart for me
And if it takes forever, forever it'll be

And if it takes forever, forever it'll be

Source:

OK Go

I'm not sure if my reading is worthy of posting and I really don't do this beautiful little piece justice and this really should be accompanied by an acoustic guitar (and I would not dare subject y'all to my embryonic musical ability). But here goes nothin'.

Side note: If you're not so familiar with the band, I'd highly recommend them.

I don't love you, as if.

adnan. — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 23:01:44 +0000

'Sonnet XVII' written by Pablo Neruda, recited by adnan.

English

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Since we are doing repeats, here's my reading of Neruda's Sonnet XVII.

Regretful

nadia — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 17:28:29 +0000

'Regret' written by Troy Jollimore, recited by nadia

English

Source:

Walrus Magazine

This is nadia's version of Troy Jollimore's 'Regret'.
Thank you for posting this, nadia.

-- adnan.

an ode to death, maut

adnan. — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 17:37:48 +0000

'maut' written by Gulzar, recited by adnan.

Urdu

maut tu ek kavita hai
mujhse ek kavita ka vadaa hai, milegi mujhko

doobti nabzon mein jab dard ko neend aane lage
zard sa chehra liye chaand ufaq tak pahunche
din abhi paani mein ho, raat kinare ke kareeb
na andhera ho, na ujala ho
na aadhi raat, na din
jism jab khatm ho aur rooh ko saans aae

mujhse ek kavita ka vadaa hai milegi mujhko.

English

Death, you are a poem.
I've been promised by a poem, that it shall be mine.

As the pulse of life recedes, when pain & suffering are about to sleep
And a yellowish (young) moon starts to rise and reach its zenith
The day is yet to sink in water, as the night waits, nigh, to the shore
It's not dark, it's not bright
it's neither midnight nor high noon
And as the body loses material, the free soul gets seeped with (fresh) air

I've been promised by a poem that it shall be mine.

Source:

Film: Anand

This is a poem from one of my favourite films, Anand (and yes, I know that it is an anagram of my name, or vice versa). I've taken and slightly modified the translation from here.

There is something about death. Our relationship with it changes over time yet death itself is ever-present. I know that I'm not afraid of death or dying, but it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable in the same way that the thought of losing my hands or legs makes me uncomfortable - except multiply that by a million or so. The undiscover'd country from whose bourn no traveller returns certainly puzzles the will.

It seems odd then to be serenading death when so many succumb to it through unfortunate means. But death does not care. It may just be the only future-proof guarantee that one can make to another.

For some reason this poem reminds me of the saying: "there are no atheists in foxholes." I quite disagree with that. In fact, I'd wager just the opposite. It is belief (and its details) that wanes and matters very little in foxholes. The film No Man's Land captured it beautifully. While in the foxhole we rest a little all the while fighting for survival and we hold all the hands we can without asking or judging. It is precisely when we leave the foxhole that we fight each other based on our differences in what we believe, the colours of our skin or what kinds of hats we wear.

Death is something we share with everything that lives, well, that and life.

Singular Shadow

nadia — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:42:21 +0000

'Singular Shadow' written by Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore, recited by nadia

English

A singular shadow stood on a road
and scratched its shadow head

wondering which road to go down
toward what shadowy goal

He tried to call out
but his voice was merely an echo

“If I could only be more substantial”
he thought to himself yet as the day waned
he became less so

He was shocked to see himself become
even more vague and indistinguishable

Some things like the imprint of tree branches as the
sun filtered down seemed to have
equal weight and some things like rocks
had more so

Yet he wasn’t without life
certain things made him tremble slightly
though other things like the wind
didn’t affect him at all

Where was he to go that was
different from where he came from?

And where was he now?

The road grew darker as the night came on

and he watched himself become
nothing at all

and the night become everything

Source:

Ecstatic Exchange

Sonnet XVII

Anjum — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 15:47:55 +0000

'Sonnet XVII' written by Pablo Neruda, recited by Anjum

English

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

This is Pablo Neruda's first appearance on kuch sunao, read by Anjum.

The Poems I Have Not Written

adnan. — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 16:11:14 +0000

'The Poems I Have Not Written' written by John Brehm, recited by adnan.

English

I’m so wildly unprolific, the poems
I have not written would reach
from here to the California coast
if you laid them end to end.

And if you stacked them up,
the poems I have not written
would sway like a silent
Tower of Babel, saying nothing

and everything in a thousand
different tongues. So moving, so
filled with and emptied of suffering,
so steeped in the music of a voice

speechless before the truth,
the poems I have not written
would break the hearts of every
woman who’s ever left me,

make them eye their husbands
with a sharp contempt and hate
themselves for turning their backs
on the very source of beauty.

The poems I have not written
would compel all other poets
to ask of God: "Why do you
let me live? I am worthless.

please strike me dead at once,
destroy my works and cleanse
the earth of all my ghastly
imperfections." Trees would

bow their heads before the poems
I have not written. "Take me,"
they would say, "and turn me
into your pages so that I

might live forever as the ground
from which your words arise."
The wind itself, about which
I might have written so eloquently,

praising its slick and intersecting
rivers of air, its stately calms
and furious interrogations,
its flutelike lingerings and passionate

reproofs, would divert its course
to sweep down and then pass over
the poems I have not written,
and the life I have not lived, the life

I’ve failed even to imagine,
which they so perfectly describe.

Of course, the poems I have written are shit.

Regret

iffat — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 15:43:47 +0000

'Regret' written by Troy Jollimore, recited by iffat

English

Source:

Walrus Magazine

I'm from the "read poems slowly" school of thought. So when I first heard this my instincts were to ask iffat to try it again slower (and I did). But there is something deceptive about this reading, so here it is as is. I'll be posting my reading of this poem soon, and it will be an interesting comparison. =)

This is iffat's first reading on kuch sunao. If you've heard her in person, you know that this is exactly how she talks.

-- adnan.

All Along the Watchtower

baji — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:51:06 +0000

'All Along the Watchtower' written by Bob Dylan, recited by baji

English

"There must be some way out of here," said the joker to the thief,
"There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief.
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth,
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth."

"No reason to get excited," the thief, he kindly spoke,
"There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke.
But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate,
So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late."

All along the watchtower, princes kept the view
While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too.
Outside in the cold distance a wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.

Dylan + Hendrix + BSG + The Watchmen = SOLID GOLD!

Gaeta's Lament

LaraCD — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 02:27:21 +0000

'Gaeta's Lament' written by Bear McCreary, recited by LaraCD

English

Alone she sleeps in the shirt of man
With my three wishes clutched in her hand.
The first that she be spared the pain that comes
From a dark and laughing rain.
When she finds love, may it always be true.
This I beg for the second wish I made too.

But wish no more, my life you can take
To have her please just one day wake.
To have her please just one day wake.

Source:

Battlestar Galactica

This is Lara's first reading on kuch sunao.

This was a song written especially for an episode of Battlestar Galactica. We occasionally pass it off as a folk song if someone asks us to sing something. We think Bear McCreary is impressive for creating a song for a sci fi show that we can pretend is folksy and earth-bound.

A Journey

Anjum — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 02:44:34 +0000

'A Journey' written by Edward Field, recited by Anjum

English

When he got up that morning everything was different:
He enjoyed the bright spring day
But he did not realize it exactly, he just enjoyed it.

And walking down the street to the railroad station
Past magnolia trees with dying flowers like old socks
It was a long time since he had breathed so simply.

Tears filled his eyes and it felt good
But he held them back
Because men didn't walk around crying in that town.

Waiting on the platform at the station
The fear came over him of something terrible about to happen:
The train was late and he recited the alphabet to keep hold.

And in its time it came screeching in
And as it went on making its usual stops,
People coming and going, telephone poles passing,

He hid his head behind a newspaper
No longer able to hold back the sobs, and willed his eyes
To follow the rational weavings of the seat fabric.

He didn't do anything violent as he had imagined.
He cried for a long time, but when he finally quieted down
A place in him that had been closed like a fist was open,

And at the end of the ride he stood up and got off that train:
And through the streets and in all the places he lived in later on
He walked, himself at last, a man among men,
With such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered.

This is Anjum reciting 'A Journey' by Edward Field.

selecting a reader

adnan. — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 03:46:21 +0000

'selecting a reader' written by Ted Kooser, recited by adnan.

English

I fell in love with this poem on first read.

sigh, we're back

adnan. — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 21:21:08 +0000

First, I must apologize. When the site first started I sent a long long email to friends asking for their support. In the email I said that if the site didn't get their support, feedback, participation, etc that the site will die. The site got off to an awesome start and it was buzzing along. But it did end up dying, and that's on me.

The way in which the site was built wasn't conducive to the site's growth. Simple tasks were onerous and comment spam was piling up. And we all know how depressing comment spam can be. So instead of having to deal with a poorly built system I took the site down. I know I could have gone with WordPress or somesuch but that too would have been restrictive (and also I am stubborn).

But we're back now! Rebuilt from scratch - again. I'm a believer in second chances, so let's give this a shot again.

So kick the site around and make suggestions for improvement, etc. It's not all done but it's good enough to restart with. I think it could use a redesign as well (and any help in that regard is greatly appreciated).

Okay! Let's do this!
aao, kuch sunao.

From the Divan of Hafez

geetha — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 18:24:46 +0000

'From the Divan of Hafez' written by Hafez, recited by geetha

English

Until your hair falls through the fingers of the breeze
My yearning heart lies torn apart with grief

Black as sorcery, your magic eyes
Render this existence an illusion

The dusky mole encircled by your curls,
Is like the ink-drop falling in the curve of J,

And wafting tresses in the perfect garden of your face,
Drop like a peacock falling into paradise.

My soul searches for the comfort of a glance,
Light as the dust arising from your path.

Unlike the dust, this earthly body stumbles,
Failing at your threshold, falling fast.

Your shadow falls across my frame,
Like the breath of Jesus over withered bones.

And those who turn to Mecca as their only haven,
Now at the knowledge of your lips tumble at the tavern door.

O precious love, the suffering of your absence and lost Hafez
Fell and fused together with the ancient pact.

Source:

From the Divan of Hafez, Translation: Jila Peacock

It's been a while since the last update, I need to do a better job of keeping up. The submissions have been awesome, please keep them coming.
This is Geetha reading one of her favourite poems.

adnan.

Vincent's Heartbreak

nadia — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 20:45:43 +0000

'Vincent's Heartbreak' written by nadia, recited by nadia

English

I watched
Sunset’s transillumination,
Methodically cold fieriness
Burn itself to a temporary grave,
Only bearable to witness
Through distorted angles of sine.

Faith lowered
To a (temporary?) grave
Only just bearable to witness,
Through distanced iris-blue-sky.

Eventually I will stop introducing posts. I promise. But this is the first bit of original poetry on the site. Written and read by nadia.

Awesome.

-- adnan.

September 1, 1939

Syed — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 13:47:11 +0000

'September 1, 1939' written by W.H. Auden, recited by Syed

English

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
'I will be true to the wife, I'll concentrate more on my work,'
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the dead,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenseless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

This is Syed's reading of Auden's September 1, 1939. This was the first submission to kuch sunao, but it needed some technical modifications to amplify Syed's whispers. =), let me know if you have any issues with listening.

-- adnan.

September, like all the months of the year, marks the anniversary of too many tragedies. Of course the WTC attack in NYC immediately come to mind. But there is also the massacre of School Number One in Beslan (Sept. 1) and countless other events. Beslan and the towers, I think, are particularly relevant to Auden's poem.

We already find ourselves in the closing days of this strange/ugly/beautiful decade during this young century and far too much has changed and not enough has changed. Even 5 years after Beslan, there is still violent conflict in Ingushetia (http://bit.ly/2InctL). Even 8 years after men and women leapt from those collapsing towers, civilians and rescue workers (including those from out of the state), who leapt into the pile, with severe resulting health problems remain forgotten (http://bit.ly/2CiInj). Chechen concerns have hardly been addressed, Russia has stepped up its heavy-handed counter-terrorism, Afghanistan and Iraq continue to spiral out of control and the helpful stranger pays for his/her kindness. The lights went out and the music stopped.

I am unsure of why those two events, particularly Beslan, stand out. They have bled into my private life, haunted me, have broken past the internal filter which I think we all carry. I still remember the long bouts of insomnia after Beslan.

(Small note: some of the images below are disturbing, many are iconic and have undoubtedly been seen...just wanted to throw out a heads up)

Perhaps it is the imagery that followed the reports. Pictures, like those taken in Beslan, would have been iconic had they been taken in the 60s (http://bit.ly/xlmJG), 70s (http://bit.ly/JOZ06) or 80s (http://bit.ly/XtVcp). Now, they are commonplace, the accepted horrors that we've become increasingly inoculated against via the 24-hr news cycle. Turn on the BBC and Beslan's horror could just as well be in Israel or Palestine or even in the Ingushetia.

Auden was right. Truly the cultures have been driven mad in the age of Thucydide's 'Right'.

Auden, ever the cynic, hated this poem, particularly the lines: 'We must love one another or die' but there is an-oft-quoted-rarely-practiced truth in that statement.

(Interesting sidenote: a modified version of the line was used in a tactically briliant campaign advertisement for Johnson titled daisy - http://bit.ly/12dEKJ - though I'm not sure Auden would have approved of the increased military response that LBJ deployed in the Eastern theater...but I digress.)

Through the haze of skepticism, Auden's affirmation shines through: All he (and us) has is a voice...

http://bit.ly/AOtLI
('September 12th', Saul Williams, slightly NFSW and because every occasion is perfect by a Saul Williams piece)

Please forgive the ramblings above and the inadequate reading of Auden's beautiful work. May we be amongst the Just and the un-Silent.

Respect,

S/A

serenity again

nadia — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 18:01:18 +0000

'ballad of serenity' written by Joss Whedon, recited by nadia

English

take my love, take my land
take me where I cannot stand
I don't care, I'm still free
you can't take the sky from me

take me out to the black
tell them I ain't comin' back
burn the land and boil the sea
you can't take the sky from me

there's no place I can be
since I found Serenity
but you can't take the sky from me...

Source:

Firefly

In what is seeming to become some sort of an initiation phase, I present, once again, the Ballad of Serenity. This time all the way from England, read by nadia.

-- adnan.

After Baji's interpretation, i thought i should submit an "English" reading of the verses. Although Adnan has categorised his version as English I think it would probably be correctly labelled as "Canadian" :-)