खबर

 अजीब सा है इस खबर का साया,

एक बार हंसी और फिर रोना आया।

Flowers changing to stones

Love leaks out of my body, 

drop by drop,

Her cuts are incurable,--

the non-healing holes,

The ever-existing outlets 

for the mellowness inside 

to seep out and turn stones!

The beam of hope

A ray

and a day

making hay...

The axis

There is no goodness bigger 

than that we spot in others,

There is no bigger evil 

than that we generate 

by our own hands,

There is no bigger holiness

than that we see in someone's heart,

There is no bigger sin

than that we plot in our mind.

The usefulness of thorns

In the mist-veiled silence of a dream, 

I sleep-walked into 

the crazy grasp of a thorny bush,

Nature's way to see us clearer,

We just need a prickly bite 

to see the reality;

to know more 

and be wiser.

Crystal clear vision

 In the naked folds 

of the darkest night, 

I clearly saw 

the fake, shining, artificial clothing 

hiding my real self.

The kingdom maker

 The kingdom maker 

With sand grains grasped in my hands,

 fleeting clouds in my heart 

and enforced, customised philosophies

 in my head, 

I set out to win the kingdom 

that never existed!

इंसानियत

 कीचड़ भी कुछ और बनना चाहता है,

रेंगना चाहता है,

और बन जाता है केंचुआ।

सतत् सत्य है 

बस एक निरंतर प्रवाह,

कुछ और होने और बनने का।

कुछ और होने और बनने का प्रयास 

अच्छे बुरे की व्याख्या से परे है,

बस इंसानियत की एक ही कसौटी है, 

कितने लोगों के हृदय में आपने रंग भरे,

कितनी आंखों के सुनहरे सपनों

को जिंदा रखने में मदद की।

बस इतना ही।

यही अस्तित्व आपसे चाहता है 

एक इंसान के रूप में।

तारे तो ब्रह्मांड में अपने आप टूटते रहते हैं,

उनकी फिक्र छोड़ो।

The walker on the bridge

Walk with awareness

while crossing the torrential stream of life,

Use the bridge of a stable mind

to reach the other shore.

The eternal sleep of a honeybee

As the night shades prevailed 

over the last rays 

of a musty, hot and humid day, 

she lay on the fragrant bed 

of a Champa flower 

and went into eternal sleep. 

Another day rises. 

The once smiling cup of nectar 

now merely a little sombre coffin.

A politician

Very sweet is your tongue 
to sugar-coat your lies,
Very thick is your skin 
to give you an armor 
against the arrows of truth,
Very dark is your heart
to enable the ghosts of envy,
anger, lust and greed
to go fattening themselves in it.

The cosmic searchlight

 

It's a rapidly greying, gloomy world

and the Lord has to hide and peep

through a hole

to spot any trace of truth and honesty

that may be lying around.

My poetry books

 The Oasis Hunter

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In an enthusiastically absurd world, why not be a peace laureate, a poet? Walking on a solitary trail, away from propagandist overtones, luminously imaginative, enjoying the regaling vocal varieties of bird songs, hewing his own convictions, reverentially visionary about the religion of love, flowing with the meticulous splurge of emotions.

A poet is a poorly clad rich man laden with inner wealth. A golden lamp in a thatched hut.

There was a time when even the brightest flicker of optimism inside him ruled out the possibility of redemption. The waves of fate spared no pains to land him at a lonely, wretched shore. It’d take loads of pain to arrive at the littlest gain. It felt like he’d just followed a futile circle—returned to his idiotic basics. A nihilistic romanticism. A shipwrecked piece at the freewill of chance, tossed by salaciously flowing freeways of stormy waves.

The storms churning in his soul make him a poet. Mystically enriched. Richly resonant with the hymns of love and peace. In tune with regaling restfulness. From his basket of agonies now he draws out ecstasies. Crossing the desert he now arrives at his oasis. He has taken long-long routes to sandy failure. Success and failure lose their meaning. The golden sands—that’s his oasis. It’s pure karma. He gets in splendid unison with the constructive spirit.

The Shape of My Love

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The Shape of My Love invites readers on an introspective journey through the myriad emotions that define the human experience. Spanning themes of love, loss, and the eternal rhythms of nature, these verses by Sandeep Dahiya (Sufi) resonate with profound depth and lyrical grace.

From the tender exploration of love's many facets to the poignant reflections on heartache and resilience, each poem in this collection offers a glimpse into the complexities of human relationships. Nature serves as both backdrop and metaphor, from the solitude and pain of ‘Lonely Trees’ to the majestic presence of ‘Mountain Eagle,’ mirroring the joys and sorrows inherent in life's journey.

Through verses that contemplate existence itself—its fleeting moments and enduring truths—the poet captures the essence of being human. Themes such as renewal in ‘Spring’ and the melancholy beauty of ‘Dying Leaf’ evoke universal emotions that resonate deeply with readers.

The book is a testament to the power of poetry to illuminate the soul, offering solace, insight, and a profound connection to the shared experiences that bind us all. With exquisite imagery and emotional resonance, Sandeep Dahiya (Sufi) crafts a collection that speaks directly to the heart, inviting readers to pause, reflect, and find beauty in life's most profound moments.

The Lust of Life

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Plato: “Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.” And as love caresses you, you are supposed to turn a poet. And your life a poem. A life lived poetically nourishes your soul. The prose approach to life is simply to earn the conveniences to support you materially. The brushstrokes of poetry softly touch the soul without disrupting its restful muse and bring out the nuggets of love, compassion, harmony and peace. If you are poetic in nature, you have the potential to be anything because all these elaborate extensions of your life, your dreams, your professional and personal goals, your milestones, the world around you, all these and more are nothing but a reflection of that poetic pure seed.

The Kashmiri Girl 

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Most of these poems were written during the turbulent twenties of my life. In the early twenties, one is pursued by the glorious uncertainties of life. It’s a slippery, exciting and critically opinionated path. Don’t worry, it’s just a surge of extra energy, nothing else. The stage is shaky and realities are yet to get a foothold. You trample a lot of turf like a young colt spraying legs in all directions and galloping just for the sheer causeless fun of it. Of course, there are consequences but they hold their miserable importance in the eyes of the elders only. To the youngsters they are just irritable speed-breakers on the thrilling path. One’s hormonally buzzing self floats in a hazy mist of unripe, raw, juicy, sweet-sour tart of dreams and imaginations striking the moron mass of established norms. The hormonal-storms-fuelled beliefs, views, opinions and dreams create sparks and sometimes thunderstorms. Nothing wrong with that! That’s all part of our making. It’s a pretty noisy and shaky groundwork born of your ‘making’ that provides a bit of stability later in life. Ask anyone, most of us are very lenient and forgiving towards our youthful gallops even if these have given us many bruises after the hard falls. We wear them with pride like the symbols of our reaching the peak of the mountain.

Chimp, Champ and Chops

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Holy Harlots

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Holy Harlots is a rippling bouquet of emotions and heart-felt songs which have been the poet's companions during the toughest phase in his life. Most of these have been written in the charming countryside of the poet's native place at a small village in northern India. The poems try to capture the softest nuances of perceptible and imperceptible naturalities against the background of human trials and tribulations. The verses chime with an enamouring softness of the heart which sound Godsent against the present times viciously self-obsessed noise. The poems are exceptionally laced with silent spiritual reflections over the comforting quietude and teasing tranquility of the countryside. These simple swathes of aesthetics take the reader to a slow-paced world...far, far away from the 'maddening crowd'!

Lovebites

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Without the seed of poetry there won't be any prose. Just like without the tiny seed there won’t be a tree. The canopy, the full foliage of the tree, is just an extension of the dream lying with its realistic potential inside the small seed. The elaborate network of trunks, branches, twigs, flowers, fruits and leaves is nothing but a commentary on the small poetic seed. So all ye wannabe writers of a good life story, nurture the poet in you, who understands the value of pause in life, who moves slowly to watch everything, sight and smell everything. Whose senses are open to the inclusive interplay of wonderful harmonies of the supreme song, the universe, the one song.

Twilight

 Twilight

When there is just enough dark

to hide the light;

and just enough light

to hide the dark,

Stand there, dear,

in the twilight

to feel the fragments

swimming in a grand totality;

to peek into the endless existence

from the little window of your being;

to feel the grandeur of cosmic freedom

from the toe-hold of your organized slavery.

The silver lining

Never lose your trust

in light,

It might be

temporarily out of sight,

While you are

caught in a situation tight,

But it's always seeking you

to giver your heart full delight;

to help you fight

when even the stars

went out of sight;

when in the dark

the fears came with demonic hark,

Never lose hope 

in the shining lark.

मैं क्या हूं?

 मैं क्या हूं?

ना मैं साधु, ना संसारी।

बस खड़ा हूं एक नन्हे से बिंदु पर

जहां से चीज़े दिखती

कभी ठीक, कभी गलत

कभी न्यारी, कभी प्यारी।

ना मैं त्यागी, ना मैं भोगी।

बस हूं मध्यबिंदु पर टिकने

का प्रयास करता

अपने किसम का एक जोगी,

एक दृष्टा, एक मनमौजी।

The rainbow in a stormed sky

 Brave and foolish youth,

The sun-baked verdance of curiosity,

The moth, the flame, the burning,

The rain of passion,

A riotous blizzard of emotions,

But the storms die,

The clouds get empty,

The skies clear,

Leaving a brief rainbow behind.

 

Love is a little arc,

a tiny rainbow,

It’s drawn between two points:

joy and ecstasy at one;

pain and tragedy at the other.

The book of silence

 

A little sad smile

that briefly dispelled the dark

like a lamp does with enlightening hark,

Then it vanished,

But in that brief light,

I read the book of pain in her eyes

written in a strange language.

 

It was just that little smile

that connected him with the stranger,

There wasn’t anything to say,

It wasn’t required in fact.

A suitable time

 

It was the time to

unlock the fears lodged in my guts,

and get in step with the chaos of life;

to take slander, gossip and mockery

as relevant and lofty as the scriptures.

 

It was the time to

take it as success to be heaved

and propelled by the current of pain.

 

It was the time to

take chipped, chaffed, moth-eaten humanity

as the post-modern goddess,

and worship her

while wearing clean clothes outside

and a filthy mind and heart inside.

 

It was the time to

be like everyone around,

And be a hunting hound

devouring the rabbits soft

and stay in the highest loft.

 

It was the time to

keep cupping the ears

to avoid any chance pick-up of

the upbeat melody of life,

And get used to the strife.  

Miserable by default

 

Very rarely and very few

get finally really settled,

We are forever migrating,

We are a jumpy species,

Never on solid earth,

It seems the only inheritable things are

pain, sorrow and suffering,

But joy and happiness

we have to create in this very life,

Nurture as a dream, a destination

as we move on the

default mode of misery.