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The Rebel's Silhouette: Selected Poems
Born in India and considered the leading poet on the South Asian subcontinent, Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1911-1984) was a two-time Nobel nominee and winner of the 1962 Lenin Peace Prize. His evening readings in Hindi/Urdu-speaking regions drew thousands of listeners. Associated with the Communist party in his youth, Faiz became an outspoken poet in opposition to the Pakistani government. This volume offers a selection of Faiz's poetry in a bilingual Urdu/English edition with a new introduction by poet and translator Agha Shahid Ali.
128 pages, Paperback
First published May 1, 1991
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907 people want to read
About the author
Faiz Ahmad Faiz
59 books284 followersFaiz Ahmad Faiz [فيض ١حمد فيض] was born on February 13, 1911, in Sialkot, British India, which is now part of Pakistan. He had a privileged childhood as the son of wealthy landowners Sultan Fatima and Sultan Muhammad Khan, who passed away in 1913, shortly after his birth. His father was a prominent lawyer and a member of an elite literary circle which included Allama Iqbal, the national poet of Pakistan.
In 1916, Faiz entered Moulvi Ibrahim Sialkoti, a famous regional school, and was later admitted to the Skotch Mission High School where he studied Urdu, Persian, and Arabic. He received a Bachelor's degree in Arabic, followed by a master's degree in English, from the Government College in Lahore in 1932, and later received a second master's degree in Arabic from the Oriental College in Lahore.After graduating in 1935, Faiz began a teaching career at M.A.O. College in Amritsar and then at Hailey College of Commerce in Lahore.
Faiz's early poems had been conventional, light-hearted treatises on love and beauty, but while in Lahore he began to expand into politics, community, and the thematic interconnectedness he felt was fundamental in both life and poetry. It was also during this period that he married Alys George, a British expatriate, with whom he had two daughters. In 1942, he left teaching to join the British Indian Army, for which he received a British Empire Medal for his service during World War II. After the partition of India in 1947, Faiz resigned from the army and became the editor of The Pakistan Times, a socialist English-language newspaper.
On March 9, 1951, Faiz was arrested with a group of army officers under the Safety Act, and charged with the failed coup attempt that became known as the Rawalpindi Conspiracy Case. He was sentenced to death and spent four years in prison before being released. Two of his poetry collections, Dast-e Saba and Zindan Namah, focus on life in prison, which he considered an opportunity to see the world in a new way. While living in Pakistan after his release, Faiz was appointed to the National Council of the Arts by Zulfikar Ali Bhutto's government, and his poems, which had previously been translated into Russian, earned him the Lenin Peace Prize in 1963.
In 1964, Faiz settled in Karachi and was appointed principal of Abdullah Haroon College, while also working as an editor and writer for several distinguished magazines and newspapers. He worked in an honorary capacity for the Department of Information during the 1965 war between India and Pakistan, and wrote stark poems of outrage over the bloodshed between Pakistan, India, and what later became Bangladesh. However, when Bhutto was overthrown by Zia Ul-Haq, Faiz was forced into exile in Beirut, Lebanon. There he edited the magazine Lotus, and continued to write poems in Urdu. He remained in exile until 1982. He died in Lahore in 1984, shortly after receiving a nomination for the Nobel Prize.
Throughout his tumultuous life, Faiz continually wrote and published, becoming the best-selling modern Urdu poet in both India and Pakistan. While his work is written in fairly strict diction, his poems maintain a casual, conversational tone, creating tension between the elite and the common, somewhat in the tradition of Ghalib, the reknowned 19th century Urdu poet. Faiz is especially celebrated for his poems in traditional Urdu forms, such as the ghazal, and his remarkable ability to expand the conventional thematic expectations to include political and social issues.
In 1916, Faiz entered Moulvi Ibrahim Sialkoti, a famous regional school, and was later admitted to the Skotch Mission High School where he studied Urdu, Persian, and Arabic. He received a Bachelor's degree in Arabic, followed by a master's degree in English, from the Government College in Lahore in 1932, and later received a second master's degree in Arabic from the Oriental College in Lahore.After graduating in 1935, Faiz began a teaching career at M.A.O. College in Amritsar and then at Hailey College of Commerce in Lahore.
Faiz's early poems had been conventional, light-hearted treatises on love and beauty, but while in Lahore he began to expand into politics, community, and the thematic interconnectedness he felt was fundamental in both life and poetry. It was also during this period that he married Alys George, a British expatriate, with whom he had two daughters. In 1942, he left teaching to join the British Indian Army, for which he received a British Empire Medal for his service during World War II. After the partition of India in 1947, Faiz resigned from the army and became the editor of The Pakistan Times, a socialist English-language newspaper.
On March 9, 1951, Faiz was arrested with a group of army officers under the Safety Act, and charged with the failed coup attempt that became known as the Rawalpindi Conspiracy Case. He was sentenced to death and spent four years in prison before being released. Two of his poetry collections, Dast-e Saba and Zindan Namah, focus on life in prison, which he considered an opportunity to see the world in a new way. While living in Pakistan after his release, Faiz was appointed to the National Council of the Arts by Zulfikar Ali Bhutto's government, and his poems, which had previously been translated into Russian, earned him the Lenin Peace Prize in 1963.
In 1964, Faiz settled in Karachi and was appointed principal of Abdullah Haroon College, while also working as an editor and writer for several distinguished magazines and newspapers. He worked in an honorary capacity for the Department of Information during the 1965 war between India and Pakistan, and wrote stark poems of outrage over the bloodshed between Pakistan, India, and what later became Bangladesh. However, when Bhutto was overthrown by Zia Ul-Haq, Faiz was forced into exile in Beirut, Lebanon. There he edited the magazine Lotus, and continued to write poems in Urdu. He remained in exile until 1982. He died in Lahore in 1984, shortly after receiving a nomination for the Nobel Prize.
Throughout his tumultuous life, Faiz continually wrote and published, becoming the best-selling modern Urdu poet in both India and Pakistan. While his work is written in fairly strict diction, his poems maintain a casual, conversational tone, creating tension between the elite and the common, somewhat in the tradition of Ghalib, the reknowned 19th century Urdu poet. Faiz is especially celebrated for his poems in traditional Urdu forms, such as the ghazal, and his remarkable ability to expand the conventional thematic expectations to include political and social issues.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 38 reviews
January 31, 2011
The Rebel's Silhouette is a collection of poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, one of the most famous Urdu poets, translated by Agha Shahid Ali, many of them written while Mr. Faiz was in prison.
The word "Beloved" is often used in poetry and ghazals to refer to either a lover or to God. What the brilliant Mr. Faiz does (ably translated by Mr. Ali, fabulous poet himself) is weave in the idea of revolution - the Rebel becomes another incarnation of the Beloved.
What comes of it is a series of beautiful lamentations about the treacheries of love and war, and the desolations ensuing.
"Each road,
each street seems viciously trapped, a prisoner
with no milestone, no destination,
and no occasion for fidelity."
- The City from Here
Mr. Ali writes a fascinating introduction about translation, first languages versus mother tongues (he distinguishes these), and what poetry and song mean to each other, and to art and civilisation.
For his translations, he chooses a free form structure in English (the Urdu is present on the facing page), but there is yet rhythm and rhyme in every stanza, and so much beauty.
"And be careful, they said, take care of the heart.
It still has to break
open into a thousand different wounds.
It still has to know knife after knife after knife."
- Wash the Blood Off Your Feet
And this is my favourite poem from the volume:
Before You Came
Before you came,
things were as they should be:
the sky was the dead-end of sight,
the road was merely a road, wine merely wine.
Now everything is like my heart,
a colour at the edge of blood:
the grey of your absence, the colour of poison, of thorns,
the gold when we meet, the season ablaze,
the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames,
and the black when you cover the earth
with the coal of dead fires.
And the sky, the road, the glass of wine?
The sky is a shirt wet with tears,
the road a vein about to break,
and the glass of wine a mirror in which
the sky, the road, the world keep changing.
Don't leave now that you're here-
Stay. So the world may become like itself again:
so the sky may be the sky,
the road a road,
and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.
The word "Beloved" is often used in poetry and ghazals to refer to either a lover or to God. What the brilliant Mr. Faiz does (ably translated by Mr. Ali, fabulous poet himself) is weave in the idea of revolution - the Rebel becomes another incarnation of the Beloved.
What comes of it is a series of beautiful lamentations about the treacheries of love and war, and the desolations ensuing.
"Each road,
each street seems viciously trapped, a prisoner
with no milestone, no destination,
and no occasion for fidelity."
- The City from Here
Mr. Ali writes a fascinating introduction about translation, first languages versus mother tongues (he distinguishes these), and what poetry and song mean to each other, and to art and civilisation.
For his translations, he chooses a free form structure in English (the Urdu is present on the facing page), but there is yet rhythm and rhyme in every stanza, and so much beauty.
"And be careful, they said, take care of the heart.
It still has to break
open into a thousand different wounds.
It still has to know knife after knife after knife."
- Wash the Blood Off Your Feet
And this is my favourite poem from the volume:
Before You Came
Before you came,
things were as they should be:
the sky was the dead-end of sight,
the road was merely a road, wine merely wine.
Now everything is like my heart,
a colour at the edge of blood:
the grey of your absence, the colour of poison, of thorns,
the gold when we meet, the season ablaze,
the yellow of autumn, the red of flowers, of flames,
and the black when you cover the earth
with the coal of dead fires.
And the sky, the road, the glass of wine?
The sky is a shirt wet with tears,
the road a vein about to break,
and the glass of wine a mirror in which
the sky, the road, the world keep changing.
Don't leave now that you're here-
Stay. So the world may become like itself again:
so the sky may be the sky,
the road a road,
and the glass of wine not a mirror, just a glass of wine.
April 15, 2008
Sometimes it's hard to say when I've read a book of poems. When will I be done reading this one? Probably never.
November 27, 2020
“The true subject of poetry is the loss of the beloved.”
These poems are about longing for the the beloved, the rapture of possessing the beloved, and the pain of losing the beloved. The beloved itself is layered: God, lover, friend, family, the ideal society, the Revolution, etc. Also explored is the cost and pain of pursuing a desire that is possessed only fleetingly, whose pursuit leaves pain in its wake. By layering meanings onto what is desired within the traditional structures of Urdu poetry, and juxtaposing this with imagery of modern society, these texts interrogate the nation state and its failings while also speaking to more universal longings.
The poems themselves are beautiful with indelible imagery. The translators essay is also really excellent. A text worth revisiting.
These poems are about longing for the the beloved, the rapture of possessing the beloved, and the pain of losing the beloved. The beloved itself is layered: God, lover, friend, family, the ideal society, the Revolution, etc. Also explored is the cost and pain of pursuing a desire that is possessed only fleetingly, whose pursuit leaves pain in its wake. By layering meanings onto what is desired within the traditional structures of Urdu poetry, and juxtaposing this with imagery of modern society, these texts interrogate the nation state and its failings while also speaking to more universal longings.
The poems themselves are beautiful with indelible imagery. The translators essay is also really excellent. A text worth revisiting.
October 28, 2023
Faiz Ahmad Faiz - the poet of love, the poet of revolution, the voice of oppressed
In whose search is the swordsman now?
His blade red, he's just come from the City of Silence,
its people exiled or finished to the last.
The suspense that lasts between killers and weapons
as they gamble: who will die and whose turn is next?
That bet has now been placed on me.
So bring the order for my execution.
I must see with whose seals the margins are stamped,
recognize the signatures on the scroll.
[Oct 28, 2023 - these words resonate while seeing the UN voting for ceasefire in Gaza amidst the most horrendous ongoing genocide. Never forget those who voted against it, or abstained from voting . Never forget those committing genocide and those who endorse and kiss the feet of criminals. Never forget baby butchers]
****
The rich had cast their spell on history:
dark centuries had been embroidered on brocades and silks.
Bitter threads began to unravel before me
as I went into alleys and in open markets
saw bodies plastered with ash, bathed in blood.
I saw them sold and bought, again and again.
This too deserves attention. I can't help but look back
when I return from those alleys-what should one do?
And you still are so ravishing-what should I do?
There are other sorrows in this world,
comforts other than love.
Don't ask me, my love, for that love again.
*****
How can I embellish this carnival of slaughter,
how decorate the massacre?
Whose attention could my lamenting blood attract?
There's almost no blood in my rawboned body
and what's left
isn't enough to burn as oil in the lamp,
not enough to fill a wineglass.
It can feed no fire,
extinguish no thirst.
There's a poverty of blood in my ravaged body-
terrible poison now runs in it.
Stay away from me. My body is a parched log in the desert.
If you burn it, you won't see the cypress or the jasmine,
but my bones blossoming like thorns on the cactus.
If you throw it in the forests,
instead of morning perfumes, you'II scatter
the dust of my scared soul.
So stay away from me. Because I'm thirsting for blood .
*******
There's no dew anywhere,
so strange that there's no dew anywhere,
not on the forehead of the cold sun,
not on anyone's cheek, not on any sleeve.
Nowhere is there even a trace of dew.
The desert has bared its human heart
which now caressed
by a dim white light
is longing for a drop of dew
to rail anywhere.
This burning moon is bound
to turn cold: it will turn cold
when on the horizon
the edge of morning
will suddenly catch fire,
ignited by some random ray,
and on the forehead
of some helpless, weary traveler
the dew will place
its shining hand.
*****
When we saw the wounds of our country
appear on our skins,
we believed each word of the healers.
Besides, we remembered so many cures,
it seemed at any moment
all troubles would end, each wound heal completely.
That didn't happen: our ailments
were so many, so deep within us
that all diagnoses proved false, each remedy useless.
Now do whatever, follow each clue,
accuse whomever, as much as you will,
our bodies are still the same,
our wounds still open.
Now tell us what we should do,
you tell us how to heal these wounds.
******
There's no sign of blood, not anywhere.
I've searched everywhere.
The executioner's hands arc clean, his nails transparent.
The sleeves of each assassin are spotless.
No sign of blood: no trace of red,
not on the edge of the knife, none on the point of the sword.
The ground is without stains, the ceiling white.
But, unheard, it still kept crying out to be heard.
No one had the time to listen, no one the desire.
It kept crying out, this orphan blood,
but there was no witness. No case was filed.
From the beginning this blood was nourished only by dust.
Then it turned to ashes, left no trace, became food for dust.
*****
In whose search is the swordsman now?
His blade red, he's just come from the City of Silence,
its people exiled or finished to the last.
The suspense that lasts between killers and weapons
as they gamble: who will die and whose turn is next?
That bet has now been placed on me.
So bring the order for my execution.
I must see with whose seals the margins are stamped,
recognize the signatures on the scroll.
[Oct 28, 2023 - these words resonate while seeing the UN voting for ceasefire in Gaza amidst the most horrendous ongoing genocide. Never forget those who voted against it, or abstained from voting . Never forget those committing genocide and those who endorse and kiss the feet of criminals. Never forget baby butchers]
****
The rich had cast their spell on history:
dark centuries had been embroidered on brocades and silks.
Bitter threads began to unravel before me
as I went into alleys and in open markets
saw bodies plastered with ash, bathed in blood.
I saw them sold and bought, again and again.
This too deserves attention. I can't help but look back
when I return from those alleys-what should one do?
And you still are so ravishing-what should I do?
There are other sorrows in this world,
comforts other than love.
Don't ask me, my love, for that love again.
*****
How can I embellish this carnival of slaughter,
how decorate the massacre?
Whose attention could my lamenting blood attract?
There's almost no blood in my rawboned body
and what's left
isn't enough to burn as oil in the lamp,
not enough to fill a wineglass.
It can feed no fire,
extinguish no thirst.
There's a poverty of blood in my ravaged body-
terrible poison now runs in it.
Stay away from me. My body is a parched log in the desert.
If you burn it, you won't see the cypress or the jasmine,
but my bones blossoming like thorns on the cactus.
If you throw it in the forests,
instead of morning perfumes, you'II scatter
the dust of my scared soul.
So stay away from me. Because I'm thirsting for blood .
*******
There's no dew anywhere,
so strange that there's no dew anywhere,
not on the forehead of the cold sun,
not on anyone's cheek, not on any sleeve.
Nowhere is there even a trace of dew.
The desert has bared its human heart
which now caressed
by a dim white light
is longing for a drop of dew
to rail anywhere.
This burning moon is bound
to turn cold: it will turn cold
when on the horizon
the edge of morning
will suddenly catch fire,
ignited by some random ray,
and on the forehead
of some helpless, weary traveler
the dew will place
its shining hand.
*****
When we saw the wounds of our country
appear on our skins,
we believed each word of the healers.
Besides, we remembered so many cures,
it seemed at any moment
all troubles would end, each wound heal completely.
That didn't happen: our ailments
were so many, so deep within us
that all diagnoses proved false, each remedy useless.
Now do whatever, follow each clue,
accuse whomever, as much as you will,
our bodies are still the same,
our wounds still open.
Now tell us what we should do,
you tell us how to heal these wounds.
******
There's no sign of blood, not anywhere.
I've searched everywhere.
The executioner's hands arc clean, his nails transparent.
The sleeves of each assassin are spotless.
No sign of blood: no trace of red,
not on the edge of the knife, none on the point of the sword.
The ground is without stains, the ceiling white.
But, unheard, it still kept crying out to be heard.
No one had the time to listen, no one the desire.
It kept crying out, this orphan blood,
but there was no witness. No case was filed.
From the beginning this blood was nourished only by dust.
Then it turned to ashes, left no trace, became food for dust.
*****
January 28, 2022
August 1952
It's still distant, but there are hints of springtime:
some flowers, aching to bloom, have torn open their collars.
In this era of autumn, almost winter, leaves can still be heard:
their dry orchestras play, hidden in corners of the garden.
Night is still where it was, but colors at times take flight,
leaving red feathers of dawn on the sky.
Don't regret our breath's use as air, our blood's as oil-
some lamps at last are burning in the night.
Tilt your cup, don't hesitate! Having given up all,
we don't need wine. We've freed ourselves, made Time irrelevant.
When imprisoned man opens his eyes, cages will dissolve: air, fire,
water, earth- all have pledged such dawns, such gardens to him.
Your feet bleed, Faiz, something surely will bloom
as you water the desert simply by walking through it.
It's still distant, but there are hints of springtime:
some flowers, aching to bloom, have torn open their collars.
In this era of autumn, almost winter, leaves can still be heard:
their dry orchestras play, hidden in corners of the garden.
Night is still where it was, but colors at times take flight,
leaving red feathers of dawn on the sky.
Don't regret our breath's use as air, our blood's as oil-
some lamps at last are burning in the night.
Tilt your cup, don't hesitate! Having given up all,
we don't need wine. We've freed ourselves, made Time irrelevant.
When imprisoned man opens his eyes, cages will dissolve: air, fire,
water, earth- all have pledged such dawns, such gardens to him.
Your feet bleed, Faiz, something surely will bloom
as you water the desert simply by walking through it.
August 16, 2022
The trees are dark ruins of temples,
seeking excuses to crumble
since who knows when-
their roofs are cracked,
their doors lost to ancient winds.
And the sky is a priest,
saffron marks on his forehead,
ashes smeared on his body.
He sits by the temples, worn to a shadow, not looking up.
Some terrible magician, hidden behind curtains,
has hypnotized Time
so this evening is a net
in which the twilight is caught.
Now darkness will never come-
and there will never be morning.
The sky waits for this spell to be broken,
for History to tear itself from this net,
for Silence to break its chains
so that a symphony of conch shells
may wake up the statues
and a beautiful, dark goddess,
her anklets echoing, may unveil herself.
seeking excuses to crumble
since who knows when-
their roofs are cracked,
their doors lost to ancient winds.
And the sky is a priest,
saffron marks on his forehead,
ashes smeared on his body.
He sits by the temples, worn to a shadow, not looking up.
Some terrible magician, hidden behind curtains,
has hypnotized Time
so this evening is a net
in which the twilight is caught.
Now darkness will never come-
and there will never be morning.
The sky waits for this spell to be broken,
for History to tear itself from this net,
for Silence to break its chains
so that a symphony of conch shells
may wake up the statues
and a beautiful, dark goddess,
her anklets echoing, may unveil herself.
September 24, 2012
Night wasn't over / when the moon stood beside my bed / and said, "You've drunk your sleep to the dregs, / your share of that wine is finished for this night."
This is a great book to read when you wake up at night.
Faiz is brilliant--for a few of his poems, I've liked other translations better, but for many Agha Shahid Ali's translations are my favorite.
This is a great book to read when you wake up at night.
Faiz is brilliant--for a few of his poems, I've liked other translations better, but for many Agha Shahid Ali's translations are my favorite.
January 1, 2022
If you're of South Asian descent, then you've probably heard of Faiz. I've grown up surrounded by his words in the form of poems in urdu textbooks and ghazals sung by famous musicians etc. Faiz plays a relatively influential part in Pakistan/Diaspora.
Anyway, I knew I wanted to read more of his poetry in greater detail than just a few couplets you'd come across on social media. So imagine my shock when I found this book which not only contained some of his best work, with an English translation by a poet who I respect so much. This book was just what I was looking for!
My urdu reading skills need a bit of work, so the English translation really added to this experience. In the Introduction, Ali quotes Salman Rushdie "It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling, obstinately, to the notion that something can also be gained." This has never been truer! The contrast in Urdu/English gave me a completely different perspective and I was able to identify the instances where Faiz would offer his subtle social critiques, which would have otherwise been overlooked by the more beautiful and lyrical verses.
Ali also chose to include Faiz's political poems as well, which to be honest, don't get as much recognition as his other famous ghazals on love and loss. This book reminded me that Faiz is more than just a poet known for his romantic and tragic poetry. He was also a Communist and "progressive urdu writer" criticizing the the brutality of the partition, the brutality of the Pakistani military and more.
My only gripe is that I wish Ali translated one of my all time favourite work of Faiz - Hum Dekhenge/ہم دیکھیں گے.
Anyway, I knew I wanted to read more of his poetry in greater detail than just a few couplets you'd come across on social media. So imagine my shock when I found this book which not only contained some of his best work, with an English translation by a poet who I respect so much. This book was just what I was looking for!
My urdu reading skills need a bit of work, so the English translation really added to this experience. In the Introduction, Ali quotes Salman Rushdie "It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling, obstinately, to the notion that something can also be gained." This has never been truer! The contrast in Urdu/English gave me a completely different perspective and I was able to identify the instances where Faiz would offer his subtle social critiques, which would have otherwise been overlooked by the more beautiful and lyrical verses.
Ali also chose to include Faiz's political poems as well, which to be honest, don't get as much recognition as his other famous ghazals on love and loss. This book reminded me that Faiz is more than just a poet known for his romantic and tragic poetry. He was also a Communist and "progressive urdu writer" criticizing the the brutality of the partition, the brutality of the Pakistani military and more.
My only gripe is that I wish Ali translated one of my all time favourite work of Faiz - Hum Dekhenge/ہم دیکھیں گے.
February 12, 2008
This is the most amazing book of poetry I have ever read. The urdu is on one side, and Agha Shahid Ali's (very) loose translations are on the other-- just spectacular.
Agha renders the poems with simultaneous creativity and commitment to Faiz's versions... what results is a romantic work that longs for love and freedom at the same time.
My favorite? Faiz's "A Prison Evening", written during a period of his incarceration. I can't do it justice even writing about it.
The revolutionary poet that he was, Faiz might just be my favorite writer...
Agha renders the poems with simultaneous creativity and commitment to Faiz's versions... what results is a romantic work that longs for love and freedom at the same time.
My favorite? Faiz's "A Prison Evening", written during a period of his incarceration. I can't do it justice even writing about it.
The revolutionary poet that he was, Faiz might just be my favorite writer...
May 30, 2016
There aren't really words to describe the beauty of Faiz's poetry, or the delicacy of Ali's translations. Written in the Urdu language, this collection of poetry is a reflection of contemporary India. Imbued with all the grace and passion of the greatest of India's poets, and yet all the pain of modern India's war and suffering, this collection is breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once.
August 16, 2017
I practically sold a kidney to buy this book and then waited two months for it to arrive home. I knew it would be more than worth it.
Read
July 12, 2013I can read these poems again and again and each time they rejuvenate me even more.
May 1, 2014
Wonderful sample of poems from Faiz Ahmed Faiz's work. Excellent prelude and translation by Agha Shahid Ali.
December 30, 2024
The Rebel's Silhouette is a beautiful collection of poems written by Faiz Ahmad Faiz and translated by Agha Shahid Ali. Faiz writes about love , freedom , and exile like no one and this collection is a beautiful example.
Poetry like any other art I believe is untranslatable and the original Urdu versions are far superior but still Agha did a beautiful job and most of them live up to the mark and few of them he didn't do justice, it could not (like" Mujh Sy Pehly Si Mohabat Mery Mehbob na mang" it's the greatest poem ever written,CAN NOT BE TRANSLATED, ). I've always been lured by words and their rhythms, and poetry of them and the way Faiz weaves them is out of this world, they are like songs with sweet agonies of lost beloved , confronting rivals and tales of rebellion.
A lot of Faiz's poems explore the theme loneliness and memory of the beloved that soothes and aches all the same , all the time , the way nights get longer and twilights sadder , here is one of my favorite poems from this book.
Be Near Me
You who demolish me, you whom I love,
be near me. Remain near me when evening,
drunk on the blood of the skies,
becomes night, in its one hand
a perfumed balm, in the other
a sword sheathed in the diamond of stars.
Be near me when night laments or sings,
or when it begins to dance,
its steel· blue anklets ringing with grief.
Be here when longings, long submerged
in the heart's waters, resurface
and everyone begins to look:
Where is the assassin? In whose sleeve
is hidden the redeeming knife?
And when wine, as it is poured, is the sobbing
of children whom nothing will console
when nothing holds,
when nothing is:
at that dark hour when night mourns,
be near me, my destroyer, my lover,
be near me.
Beautiful , isn't it ?
Poetry like any other art I believe is untranslatable and the original Urdu versions are far superior but still Agha did a beautiful job and most of them live up to the mark and few of them he didn't do justice, it could not (like" Mujh Sy Pehly Si Mohabat Mery Mehbob na mang" it's the greatest poem ever written,CAN NOT BE TRANSLATED, ). I've always been lured by words and their rhythms, and poetry of them and the way Faiz weaves them is out of this world, they are like songs with sweet agonies of lost beloved , confronting rivals and tales of rebellion.
A lot of Faiz's poems explore the theme loneliness and memory of the beloved that soothes and aches all the same , all the time , the way nights get longer and twilights sadder , here is one of my favorite poems from this book.
Be Near Me
You who demolish me, you whom I love,
be near me. Remain near me when evening,
drunk on the blood of the skies,
becomes night, in its one hand
a perfumed balm, in the other
a sword sheathed in the diamond of stars.
Be near me when night laments or sings,
or when it begins to dance,
its steel· blue anklets ringing with grief.
Be here when longings, long submerged
in the heart's waters, resurface
and everyone begins to look:
Where is the assassin? In whose sleeve
is hidden the redeeming knife?
And when wine, as it is poured, is the sobbing
of children whom nothing will console
when nothing holds,
when nothing is:
at that dark hour when night mourns,
be near me, my destroyer, my lover,
be near me.
Beautiful , isn't it ?
July 14, 2022
ফয়েজ আহমেদ ফয়েজের বইটার বিষয়ে আগ্রহ বেশি ছিল আগা শহীদ আলীর অনুবাদ এবং তার লেখা ইন্ট্রো’র কারণে। কিন্তু যতটা আগ্রহ নিয়ে শুরু করেছিলাম, সমানুপাতিক হারে ততোটাই আশাহত হয়েছি। অনুবাদে শব্দের ভাষান্তর হয়েছে ভালোই, কিন্তু কবিতার প্রাণ হারিয়ে গেছে কোথায় যেন। শব্দগুলো গায়ে গা লাগিয়ে দাঁড়িয়ে আছে নিরেট দেয়ালের মতো, ভিতরে ঢুকার উপায় নেই। অবশ্য আগা শহীদ তার ইন্ট্রোতেই বলেছেন কবিতাগুলো তার মতো করে অনুবাদ করার জন্য অনুমতি চেয়ে ফয়েজ আহমেদ ফয়েজকে লিখেছিলেন। কবি তখন বৈরুতে নির্বাসনে আছেন। আগা শহীদ তাকে লিখেলেন তার কবিতাগুলো তিনি তার মতো করে অনুবাদ করার অনুমতি চান। সেই অনুমতিকে সহজ করার জন্য নির্বাসিত কবি’র মনে উসকে দিলেন কাশ্মীরে তাদের বাসায় থাকাকালীন কবির কিছু স্মৃতি, যে স্মৃতি ঘরছাড়া কবিকে ঘরের কথা মনে করিয়ে দিল, আরও লিখলেন বেগম আখতারের তাদের বাসায় থাকার কথা এবং বেগম আখতারের কিছু দুর্লভ গজলের রেকর্ডের কথা, যা তিনি কবিকে পাঠাতে চান। আগা শহীদ নিজেই লিখেছেন – এইসব ঘুষ, নির্বাসিত কবিকে নস্টালজিক করে তোলা এবং এক মাসের মধ্যেই তিনি তার অনুমতি পেয়েছিলেন।
আগা শহীদ তার নিজের মতো করে অনুবাদ করেছে বলেই হয়তো কবিতাগুলো ফয়েজ আহমেদের থেকেও আগা শহীদের কবিতার মতো লাগে। বিশেষ করে “মুঝসে পেহেলি সে মোহাব্বত মেরি মেহবুব না মাঙ্গ” এই কবিতায় এসে মনটাই খারাপ হয়ে যায় অনুবাদ পড়ে। এই কবিতার ভাব, আবেগ, দ্বন্দ্ব কিছুই অনুভব করা যায় না। বরং কোক স্টুডিও পাকিস্তান এই গজলের যে সাবটাইটেল করেছিল-সেটাও এর থেকে বেশি আবেদনময়।
আগা শহীদ তার নিজের মতো করে অনুবাদ করেছে বলেই হয়তো কবিতাগুলো ফয়েজ আহমেদের থেকেও আগা শহীদের কবিতার মতো লাগে। বিশেষ করে “মুঝসে পেহেলি সে মোহাব্বত মেরি মেহবুব না মাঙ্গ” এই কবিতায় এসে মনটাই খারাপ হয়ে যায় অনুবাদ পড়ে। এই কবিতার ভাব, আবেগ, দ্বন্দ্ব কিছুই অনুভব করা যায় না। বরং কোক স্টুডিও পাকিস্তান এই গজলের যে সাবটাইটেল করেছিল-সেটাও এর থেকে বেশি আবেদনময়।
June 23, 2025
I call Faiz "the poet of second chances." So much of his work is forged in the bricks of possibility, reconciliation, reunion. A prominent Leftist poet of undivided Punjab and eventually Pakistan, Faiz focussed on social issues, patriotism and principles in his poetry. There are poignant works here pertaining to the Bangladesh conflict in the 70s, the executions of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg and his own estrangement from his homeland due to imprisonment and exile.
Agha Shahid Ali's introduction is wonderful. Parts of it read like he's making your acquaintance with the poet at a gathering. I was also glad that he mentions Begum Akhtar, a doyenne of Hindustani classical music who, in my opinion, is a master interpreter of the angst and passion of Faiz's work. His words bloom upon her lips.
Contrastingly, Agha Shahid Ali's translations feel rather sterile in comparison. I'm not going to hold him too much in contempt: Faiz is not an easy poet to translate and anyone who can grapple with works like Mujhse Pehli Si Muhabbat, Tumhi Kaho Kya Karna Hai, Ae Habib-e-ambar-dast in the original Urdu, the translation is bound to taste like, well, oatmeal.
I'm glad I could chill with my man Faiz. I wish the volume contained more of his romantic poetry. Admittedly, an argument can be made that, for Faiz, his hope for his fellow man and his country was the lover he wrote for.
Agha Shahid Ali's introduction is wonderful. Parts of it read like he's making your acquaintance with the poet at a gathering. I was also glad that he mentions Begum Akhtar, a doyenne of Hindustani classical music who, in my opinion, is a master interpreter of the angst and passion of Faiz's work. His words bloom upon her lips.
Contrastingly, Agha Shahid Ali's translations feel rather sterile in comparison. I'm not going to hold him too much in contempt: Faiz is not an easy poet to translate and anyone who can grapple with works like Mujhse Pehli Si Muhabbat, Tumhi Kaho Kya Karna Hai, Ae Habib-e-ambar-dast in the original Urdu, the translation is bound to taste like, well, oatmeal.
I'm glad I could chill with my man Faiz. I wish the volume contained more of his romantic poetry. Admittedly, an argument can be made that, for Faiz, his hope for his fellow man and his country was the lover he wrote for.
November 16, 2025
This thought keeps consoling me:
through tyrants may command that lamps be smashed
in rooms where lovers are destined to meet,
they cannot snuff out the moon
- A Prison Evening
There's no sign of blood, not anywhere.
I've searched everywhere.
The executioner's hands are clean, his nails transparent.
The sleeves of each assassin are spotless
No sign of blood: no trace of red,
not on the edge of the knife, none on the point of the sword.
The ground is without stains, the ceiling white.
This blood which has disappeared without leaving a trace
isn't part of written history: who will guide me to it?
- In Search of Vanished Blood
through tyrants may command that lamps be smashed
in rooms where lovers are destined to meet,
they cannot snuff out the moon
- A Prison Evening
There's no sign of blood, not anywhere.
I've searched everywhere.
The executioner's hands are clean, his nails transparent.
The sleeves of each assassin are spotless
No sign of blood: no trace of red,
not on the edge of the knife, none on the point of the sword.
The ground is without stains, the ceiling white.
This blood which has disappeared without leaving a trace
isn't part of written history: who will guide me to it?
- In Search of Vanished Blood
September 15, 2021
I haven't read poetry in many years and this was my first exposure to Arabic poetry thanks to "We Are Lady Parts" (great show!) The foreword helped to explain the choices for the translation and selections. I wish I understood Arabic as I'm sure there are missing or different meanings between the translations, but it was still great to try to understand Faiz and his many emotions.
February 21, 2023
i don't read poetry books that often but this one was so beautiful and touching. the comparisons between deep love and political turmoil are surprising but make so much sense once reading them. beautiful translations.
May 26, 2025
love what the translator says in the intro about the beloved also being about social revolution—can see the way state violence overlaps with romantic grief in the devastating, pure sense of melancholy here
January 1, 2018
a different sort of beauty
May 13, 2018
Enjoyed many of these, though I believe the translations are quiiiiite different than the original Urdu (per Madyha).
July 14, 2021
The translations were a letdown for a few poems.
June 1, 2022
"Yes, I know, I too fear for my life
But what can one do?
Every road that leads to where I want to go
passes through the execution ground"
But what can one do?
Every road that leads to where I want to go
passes through the execution ground"
January 20, 2024
I really enjoyed these !
September 20, 2024
"Hangman
what will you do with that rope?
who's asked you to build the scaffold?
those once proud to be accused of love
they all have vanished"
what will you do with that rope?
who's asked you to build the scaffold?
those once proud to be accused of love
they all have vanished"
June 16, 2025
Have always loved Faiz. Ali's translations are beautiful. He has done justice to Fai'z beautiful words. My favourite (which I had not seen or read before) was "For Vera."
January 6, 2025
Last Night
At night my lost memory of you returned
and I was like the empty field where springtime,
without being noticed is bringing flowers;
I was like the desert over which
the breeze moves gently, with great care;
I was like the dying patient
who, for no reason, smiles.
"Faiz Ahmad Faiz ... is a very popular poet in the Indian subcontinent ... a non subcontinental audience, however, may begin to understand his stature as a poet and public figure by imagining a combination of Pablo Neruda, Nazim Hikmet, Octavio Paz, and ... Mahmoud Darwish"
from the translator's preface
August 1952
...
Your feet bleed, Faiz, something surely will bloom
as you water the desert simply by walking through it.
Master of the ghazal, Faiz blends the spiritual, romantic, and poltical.
These 42 poems from various phases of his career, are translated from the Urdu in a very
approachable style.
Recommended.
At night my lost memory of you returned
and I was like the empty field where springtime,
without being noticed is bringing flowers;
I was like the desert over which
the breeze moves gently, with great care;
I was like the dying patient
who, for no reason, smiles.
"Faiz Ahmad Faiz ... is a very popular poet in the Indian subcontinent ... a non subcontinental audience, however, may begin to understand his stature as a poet and public figure by imagining a combination of Pablo Neruda, Nazim Hikmet, Octavio Paz, and ... Mahmoud Darwish"
from the translator's preface
August 1952
...
Your feet bleed, Faiz, something surely will bloom
as you water the desert simply by walking through it.
Master of the ghazal, Faiz blends the spiritual, romantic, and poltical.
These 42 poems from various phases of his career, are translated from the Urdu in a very
approachable style.
Recommended.
July 25, 2018
This was wonderful - my first foray into South Asian poetry, and definitely not my last. The introduction to the work was equally as lovely; it felt like reading a conversation between friends. Agha Shahid Ali clearly displayed a determination to preserve the taste of Faiz's work. I only wish I could read Urdu so I could compare the two pieces. I highlighted quite a few poems from this collection: Don't Ask Me for That Love Again, Solitude, A Prison Daybreak, Fragrant Hands, A Night in the Desert, and Bangladesh I, II, and III were some of my very favourites. A running theme that I observed throughout this collection was the parallels of the personal and political - Faiz's acknowledgement and understanding, painful as they were, that the two would always remain linked.
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