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The End Of March - Poem by Elizabeth Bishop

For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury


It was cold and windy, scarcely the day
to take a walk on that long beach
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken,
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind
numbed our faces on one side;
disrupted the formation
of a lone flight of Canada geese;
and blew back the low, inaudible rollers
in upright, steely mist.

The sky was darker than the water
--it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed
a track of big dog-prints (so big
they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on
lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string,
looping up to the tide-line, down to the water,
over and over. Finally, they did end:
a thick white snarl, man-size, awash,
rising on every wave, a sodden ghost,
falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost...
A kite string?--But no kite.

I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house,
my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box
set up on pilings, shingled green,
a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener
(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?),
protected from spring tides by a palisade
of--are they railroad ties?
(Many things about this place are dubious.)
I'd like to retire there and do nothing,
or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms:
look through binoculars, read boring books,
old, long, long books, and write down useless notes,
talk to myself, and, foggy days,
watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l'américaine.
I'd blaze it with a kitchen match
and lovely diaphanous blue flame
would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney,
askew, but braced with wires,
and electricity, possibly
--at least, at the back another wire
limply leashes the whole affair
to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by--perfect! But--impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold
even to get that far,
and of course the house was boarded up.

On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand,
the drab, damp, scattered stones
were multi-colored,
and all those high enough threw out long shadows,
individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun,
except that now he was behind them
--a sun who'd walked the beach the last low tide,
making those big, majestic paw-prints,
who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.
Elizabeth Bishop

Latest Urdu Poetry

Dusra Musheer
SECOND COUNCILOR

Khair Hai Sultani Jumhoor Ka Ghogha Ke Sherr

Tu Ja

Lahu se dil k kaghaz par Koi tehreer hoti hai
To ahl e dil smjhty hain Yahi taqdeer hoti hai

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Bata aye ghar ki veerani kahan tak,
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a jayen ham nazar jo koi dam bahut hai yan
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Meri aankhon main raho meri aankhon main raho,
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T

Mr Ifonly sat down and he sighed,
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If only I had followe

Lamha lamha raat Bhar ankhon mein utri Chandni

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Ya

Mohhabat dukh to deti hay
Magar eik baat kehni hay
Jisko chaha jata hay
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Mohabbat K Safar Mein Jab Wafa Ka Silsla Likha,
To Tujh Ko Apni Hasti Ka Akela Aashna Likha,

Z

Aisi hi intezaar main lazzat agar na ho,
To do gharri firaaq main apni bassar na ho..

Wo muhabbat bhi teri thi, wo
shararaat bhi teri thi
Agar kuch bewafai thi to wo
bewafai bhi teri

Diyaar-e-dil ki raat mein charagh sa jala gaya,
Mila nahi to kiya huwa wo shakal to dikha gaya,

Ab is se badh kar bhalaa kya ho viraasat faqeer ki?
Bachchon ko apni bheekh ke pyaale toh de gaya

Mujhe dard-e-dil ki intehaa maloom hai,
Mujhe dard-e-ishq ki saza maloom hai,

Mujhe muskurane ki

Umar Ghhatti Rahi Khabar Na Huwi,
Waqat Ki Baat Waqat Par Na Huwi.

Hijar Ki Shab Bhi Katt Hi J

Ab Ke Bichre To Shayad Kabhi Khwabon Mein Milein
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Dh

Kon kehta hai mohabbat ki zubaan hoti hai,
Yeh haqeeqat to nigaahon se beyaan hoti hai,
Woh naa ay

Nahin khail ae daag yaaron se keh do,
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Urdu Poetry

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