Biography: Dr Jawaz Jaffri
Dr Jawaz Jaffri, Country: Pakistan
E-mail: researchfamily.irj@gmail.com
Language: English,Urdu,Punjabi
English books:
1- Wrist In The Clutches of Death
2-Dreamin Of An Alternate World
3-Streets Full Of Lamps’
Urdu books: 22 published
Awards
1-The National Human rights Award
2-Frang Bordhi literary Prise
3-International Ambassador of Peace
4-World Poetic Star
5-Honored Poet Of Pakistan
6-Special Shield For Peace
7-Qaid-e-Azam Gold Meddle
Anti War Literature
He Contributed two Anti war anthologies in Urdu
He raised voice against War, Weapons and war mentality
Translations
English, Chinese, French, Russian, Spanish, Japanese, Vietnamese, Ukrainian, Hungarian, Bangali,Italian, Peruvian, Polish, Serbian,Arabic,Corotian, Malaysian,Turkish, Philipinese, Bosnian,Mexican,Shona, Krio, Punjabi,Sindhi,Hindi,Pashto etc.
(1)
Aleppo Lives in My Song
carrying my little nest-egg on the head
I left the smouldering city
I haven’t bargained life for my conscience
behind my home
where there Euphartes once flowed
is only a handful of sand
my Aleppo
pulsates in my songs
and I love it more than the toppled roof of my house
my children need breaths more than food
but they have seized them
so to keep alive
my children read the verses of Pablo Neruda
because the wholesome air of Chile’s woods
blows through those poems
O you pellucid body of lemon skin
I will write you down
along with Kafka’s fiction
upon leaves of memory
the image of my heaven
which I inscribed on that golden bosom
has vanished last night
they’ve come to steal my dreams
after that woman left
I learnt to stay green from plants
and to love from birds
trance
angst
and Love
gave me birth
my last union
is with this dust
I’m a mere organ
in the cosmological orchestra
(2)
The Mirror Flowed on to the Floor
In the suburbs of Shiraz,
A dusk bestowing beautiful colors,
The skillful hands of the juvenile beautifier
Kneading you in the Uptan;
And my sleep-deprived eyes
Like the first vegetation of the season
Decreed on the first recitations of your limbs;
Only then your dreams were conferred upon me
In the eternal spell of the night,
Under the arch of your celestial boudoir,
I saw you embracing the mirror,
I touched the golden hilt of my Qandhari sword;
The mirror flowed on to the floor
In the bazaar of Isfahan,
Your green hand dismemebered from the yellow bough of my shoulders;
I too rubbed my hands against the moving wall,
And proceeded on to the path of denial
Dark jungle began to surround me all around
The woods,
where gods sitting in the Eastern heavens,
Used to invent stars for decayed skies
My visage was towards Dilmun,
Where death was wont to write
the words of inaccessibility on the invigorating waters
In the undertone,
I recited the names of my lineage,
My ambling horse began to soar;
Your blue eye gazed at me in quandary
(3)
The Poet Who Invents Poem and Destiny
The last depart
Beyond the Koh-e-nida
On the Bhoj-pattar of my heart,
The verse of her golden figure was scribbled
A mysterious land was under my feet
And innumerous questions were in my fist
Pursuing after some voice, I came here
Bereaved trees smiled to see me;
And speechless birds began to speak in a peculiar language
By feeling my footfall;
The river flowing towards the height of an aged mountain,
Came back to downstream
And fishes having hundred colours,
started strolling on the water banks
In the red Pishwaz
She was sitting by disdaining the diamond throne under her foot;
The red color was appointed on her safety,
Began to stir in my blood
In her eyes,
The glee of spending the night in Orna’s was left
In her fragrant side,
Loyal slaves were standing;
Whose love-filled hearts were throbbing on their palms
Her golden navel bowl was full of Musk of khutan;
And on her chest, tulip flowers were blooming;
The light was busy creating her contours
I wrote my latest poem on the bark of the Sandal
And presented it to her;
Her poetic appraising eyes,
Kneading the poem in the sight;
When she came to the last verse,
Her heart flowed from her eyes;
She broke the melodious bird of the tree while dancing
And bestowed it to my palm;
The tempestuous flowing river of jewels in her side Began to flow in my lap
I filled her blue river in my cupped hands
And spit on the floor of Marjan
Birds of unsolvable questions having hundred colours,
Pressed the pearls of answers into the beak,
Began to perch down on my palm;
I renovate my face with a look of a poet
And
Set in inventing poem and destiny
Dr-Jawaz
Dr-Jawaz Jaffri
(4)
English into Serbian
„“““““““
I Am An Epic Writer Of My Tribe
Translated by: Milka Jovancevic-Solaja
Људи мог племена
роде се једном, али морам да прођем
искуство два пута,
по први пут
када ме је мајка родила,
а оно друго
кад сам постао песник
али сваки пут кад сам постао
гориво за ратну пећ,
моје племе је славило
оба догађаја.
Ја сам
једини епски писац
свог племена,
чиним смела дела
мог племена етернај,
и раде као
старатељ од
част,
људи се осећају задовољно
приписујући ми своје ћерке.
Када је рат у пуном јеку
Стојим у првом плану,
ноге моје телесне постају
ноге олова кад помислим на лет,
и кад видим испред
ратници којима се одрубљују главе,
ствари за нову песму
почиње да се слаже у мом уму.
ни епски који су подједнако
популаран међу мојим пријатељима и непријатељима,
распламсати још ватру рата,
моји храбри не одвраћају
њихова лица од смрти
мада виде испред
крвљу премазано бојно поље.
имају веру да они после
њихова смрт ће остати жива
заувек у мојим стиховима,
поскакујући ратни пламен
такође почните да ми печете кожу,
Браним част
и моје племе ће умрети,
да вечно живи иза
Urdu to Serbian
„““““““
Могу да волим свог непријатеља
Боље од оружја за производњу
Треба створити срце
Срце
Који негује љубав
И љубав
Упућује да се мрзи оружје
Рат се дешава
У градским тракама
Топови се утишавају како пада ноћ
Али немам кући у који бих се могао вратити
Стварам текстове песама мира
Целе ноћи
Ја са тим немам никакве везе
Ко је пролио крв
Верујем у светост птица
Не сањам
О уништењу града
Иако свет
се ставља на длан моје руке
На зеленом изданку лимуновог дрвета
Птица која пева је мој сан
Између бујног дрвећа дуда
Тамо се креће поток
То је моја фантазија
Волим горљиво
Деца и осветљени прилози
Желим жене упоређене са кором цимета
Ја сам тај
Ко може да воли и свог непријатеља
The Birds Began to soar in My Blood
The third time,
Before rising in the east of my eye,
Standing at the corner,
She was spreading gaiety in the deserted lane of Harappa(1) with her presence;
My gloomy eyes fell upon her crimson Pashwaz(2),
Kneaded in the fragrance of her verdurous figure;
Encaged in my blood,
The ambitious birds fluttered
And my palms,
Began to smolder like damp wood
In my heart,
The tempestuous river of love,
Began to overflow the banks;
The dim light of her boudoir
Dispersed all over in my eyes;
In the light and colors,
The Inaccessibility,
Began to knead her contours in hundred ways
In the dusk,
I saw her at the temple of „Mother Earth“,
Situated on the bank of the Ganges in Banaras(3);
The god Brahma(4),
Holding the Lotus flowers in his hands,
Was waiting for her;
She stepped into the sacred cortile of the temple,
Silence began to sing in the notes of Dhaak(5) and Murly(5)
The beige-toned shapes of devdasis were making circles in the air
The golden brows of the holy gods bowed
The epistle of the god of Earth, Ba’al
Scribbled in the Cuneiform(6),
When I proffered to the immortal hands of Brahma,
A drizzle of Shehnai(7) notes began in the temple courtyard;
She was sitting beside Naheed(😎, who came from the Faris(9)
And the god Suriya(10) sitting at her feet,
Begging for light.
I, on behalf of Sumers(11), brought the message of love and peace for the virgins and artisans of the Indus Valley
From the veil of love, She peeked at me
I lost myself while keeping my eyes on the divine book of her visage.
The visage whose contours,
I recited in the dark of my mother’s womb
That face was more appealing than my dreams
In her arms,
She had the curves of Dancing Girl’s waist
And the thirteenth note was appearing in between her breasts
The white ivory kangans looked at her wrists,
Made of the finest gold,
With yearning;
Her magical hands had the slabs(12) of the Harappa’s golden clay,
The language written on them,
Was excited for divulging her mysterious eyes
Through the arch of her blue eyes, I desired to see the Indus Valley
Which was ruled by vegetation and freshwater instead of gods,
In its aurous fields, gold grew in place of crops
At the bank of the Indus River,
I saw the three-faced god(13) in the shadow of the Bargad tree(14)
He was the Lord of hermits and beasts,
The trident was in his tawny hands,
And the floral bangles in his arms
The animals,
Standing around him spoke in a quaint dialect
When the land of Hindustan was seeing us off, People were going to banish an old man
From the city,
Who refused to accept the Surya as god
The women,
Sitting on the right side of the old man,
Were worshipping a pregnant tree(15)
And on his left side,
The sorcerer, concealed in tree’s offshoots,
Was planning to pour down the rain;
The exiled old man had a smile on his face
And eyes,
Looking for a new hideout
Passing through the Himalayas,
We saw an afflicted prince,
He swapped royal apparel with a mendicant
The world looked at him in bewilderment
Headed towards the Lagash(16),
We had infinite love in our hearts
And thousands years old Indian rare artifacts were in our Zanbeel(17)
South Indian hot spices,
Antique alghozas of Indus,
Ivory ornaments,
Pure bronze unblemished mirrors of Mahanjudru(18)
Chromatic figulines of Harappa
Gold effigies of the comely “ Dancing Girl“ of Indus
And on the lips,
Were the melodies of the valley’s folk songs
In these souvenirs,
There was not a single weapon
Dr-Jawaz
Dr-Jawaz Jaffri
These three poems from the new book’ Streets Full Of Lamps’
1- The Birds Began to Soar in my Blood
2-The Poet who invents Poem and Destiny
3-The Mirror Flowed on to the Floor