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This selection of poetry and prose by Ghalib provides an accessible and wide-ranging introduction to the preeminent Urdu poet of the nineteenth century. Ghalib's poems, especially his ghazals, remain beloved throughout South Asia for their arresting intelligence and lively wit. His letters—informal, humorous, and deeply personal—reveal the vigor of his prose style and the warmth of his friendships. These careful translations allow readers with little or no knowledge of Urdu to appreciate the wide range of Ghalib's poetry, from his gift for extreme simplicity to his taste for unresolvable complexities of structure.
Beginning with a critical introduction for nonspecialists and specialists alike, Frances Pritchett and Owen Cornwall present a selection of Ghalib's works, carefully annotating details of poetic form. Their translation maintains line-for-line accuracy and thereby preserves complex poetic devices that play upon the tension between the two lines of each verse. The book includes whole ghazals, selected individual verses from other ghazals, poems in other genres, and letters. The book also includes a glossary, the Urdu text of the original poetry, and an appendix containing Ghalib's comments on his own verses.
273 pages, Kindle Edition
Published March 28, 2017
2
Except for Qais, no one entered the field of action—
Perhaps the desert had narrowed like a jealous eye.
Distractedness fixed a black spot in the heart.
Clearly, the burnt-out scar was mostly smoke.
In a dream, my mind did business with you—
When my eyes opened, there was neither profit nor loss.
I still take lessons in the school of grief of the heart.
But only that “went” went, and “was” was.
The shroud covered the shame of my nakedness.
Otherwise, in every attire I was a disgrace to life.
Without an axe Kohkan couldn’t die, Asad—
He was dizzy from a hangover of customs and rules.
Either the world is a spellbound city of the silent,
Or I’m a stranger in the land of speech and hearing.
...
5
Although it’s hard enough for every task to be easy,
Not even humans can manage to be humane.
24
...
Shouldn’t I wait for death—since it can’t stand not to come?
Should I desire you—when if you don’t come, you can’t be called?
A burden has fallen from my head that even if lifted, wouldn’t be lifted.
A task has confronted me that even if done, wouldn’t be done.
There’s no power over passion—it’s that fire, Ghalib,
That if lit, wouldn’t burn; and if extinguished, wouldn’t go out.