where it all began

Hearth, in its earlier days, came out in form of a newsletter. while the magazine was a tedious, more strenuous affair and was periodical, Hearth never depended itself on time and was published whenever an incessant need to do so was felt- be it some political or literary incident or the opening of a new joint in the city -
as a famous philosopher once said, we are not prisoned by time but by clocks, we must accept our ruins and our downfalls. true poetry and literature will come out of those.
The cover of the blog is called "LOVERS" and has been clicked by eminent poet and photographer Anurag Vats


फैज़ की दो रचनाएँ

फैज़ किसी परिचय के मोहताज़ नहीं। फैज़ को पढ़ना हर उस आदमी की रूह को पढ़ना है जो किसी भीड़ में खोया हुआ संघर्षरत साधारण आदमी है। चाहे रोमानी तेवर की बात हो या नज़्मों की कारीगरी में सिमटे दर्द की, फैज़ अपने चाहनेवालों को अपनी दुनियाँ में बरबस ही खींच ले जाते हैं।
जब तेरी समन्दर आँखों में
ये धूप किनारा, शाम ढले
मिलते हैं दोंनो वक़्त जहाँ
जो रात न दिन, जो आज न कल
पल भर में अमर, पल भर में धुआँ
इस धूप किनारे, पल दो पल
होठों की लपक, बाँहों की खनक
ये मेल हमारा झूठ न सच
क्यों रार करो, क्यों दोष धरो
किस कारन झूठी बात करो
जब तेरी समंदर आँखों में
इस शाम का सूरज डूबेगा
सुख सोएँगे घर-दर वाले
और राही अपनी रह लेगा
मुझ से पहली सी मोहब्बत मेरे महबूब न माँग
मुझसे पहली सी मुहब्बत मेरी महबूब न माँग
मैंने समझा था कि तू है तो दरख़्शाँ है हयात
तेरा ग़म है तो ग़मे-दहर का झगड़ा क्या है
तेरी सूरत से है आलम में बहारों को सबात
तेरी आँखों के सिवा दुनिया में रक्खा क्या है?
तू जो मिल जाए तो तक़दीर निगूँ हो जाए
यूँ न था, मैंने फ़क़त चाहा था यूँ हो जाए
और भी दुख हैं ज़माने में मुहब्बत के सिवा
राहतें और भी हैं, वस्ल की राहत के सिवा
अनगिनत सदियों के तारीक बहीमाना तिलिस्म
रेशम-ओ-अतलस-ओ-कमख़्वाब में बुनवाए हुए
जा-ब-जा बिकते हुए कूचा-ओ-बाज़ार में जिस्म
ख़ाक में लिथड़े हुए, ख़ून में नहलाए हुए
जिस्म निकले हुए अमराज़ के तन्नूरों से
पीप बहती हुई गलते हुए नासूरों से
लौट जाती है उधर को भी नज़र क्या कीजे
अब भी दिलकश है तेरा हुस्न मगर क्या कीजे!
और भी दुख हैं ज़माने में मुहब्बत के सिवा
राहतें और भी हैं वस्ल की राहत के सिवा
मुझसे पहली सी मुहब्बत मेरी महबूब न माँग


Arthur Rimbaud: Poems

Jean Nicolas Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891) was a French poet. He was born in Charleville, Ardennes. He produced his best works while still in his late teens—Victor Hugo described him at the time as "an infant Shakespeare"—and interestingly he gave up creative writing altogether before the age of 20.His poetry was subconsciously inspired and highly suggestive. Both Rimbaud’s life and poetry has inspired many poets and artists, including the French symbolists, Surrealism, the Beat Movement, and the musicians like Jim Morrison, Bob Dylan and others.



Clear water; [stinging] like the salt of a child's tears,
the whiteness of women's bodies attacking the sun;
silken, in masses and pure lily, banners under the walls a maiden defended;
The frolic of angels - No… the current of gold in motion moves its arms,
dark and above all cool, of green. She [the weed] sinks,
and having the blue Heaven for a canopy,
takes for curtains the shade of the hill and of the arch.

Oh! The wet surface stretches out its clear bubbles!
The water covers the made beds with pale and bottomless gold;
[it is as if] the faded green dresses of little girls
[were] playing at willows, out of which leap the unbridled birds.
Purer than a gold louis, yellow warm eyelid, the marsh marigold -
thy conjugal faith O Spouse! - at noon sharp,
from its dull mirror, envies the rosy beloved
Sphere in the sky wan with heat.

Madame holds herself too erect in the neighbouring meadow
where the threads of [the spider's] toil are snowing down'
parasol in her fingers; crushing the cow-parsley;
too proud for her; children reading
in the flowery greenness; their red morocco book! Alas,
He, like a thousand white angels parting on the roadway,
makes off beyond the mountain!
She, quite cold, and dark, runs!
After the flight of the man!

Nostalgia for the thick young arms of pure green!
Gold of the April moons in the heart of the hallowed bed!
Joy of the abandoned boat-yards, the prey to the August evenings
which quickened these corruptions!
How she weeps, now, under he ramparts!
The breath of the poplars above is all there is for a breeze.
Then it is the sheet of water without reflections
and without a spring, grey: an old man, a dredger,
in his motionless boat, labours.

Plaything of this eye of mournful water, I cannot reach -
O boat without motion! O too short arms! -
either this flower or that one: neither the yellow one
which importunes me here; nor the blue one,
the beloved in the ashes water.
Ah! The pollen of willows which a wing shakes!
The roses of the reeds, long since eaten away!
My boat still fast; and its anchor chain taut to the bottom
of this limitless eye of water, - in what slime? ---------------
What does it matter to us, my heart,
the sheets of blood And of red-hot coals,
and a thousand murders, and long howls Of rage ;
sobbings from every inferno destroying Every (kind of) order ;
and still the North wind across the wreckage ;
And all the vengeance ? Nothing !... -
But still, yes We desire it ! Industrialists, princes,
senates, Perish ! Power, justice, history : down !
It is our due. Blood ! blood ! the golden flame !
All to war, to vengeance, to terror, My soul !
Let us turn in the wound : Ah !
away with you, Republics of this world !
Of Emperors, Regiments, colonists, peoples, enough !
Who should stir the vortices of furious flames
But we and those whom we imagine brothers ?
It's our turn, romantic friends : we are Going to enjoy it.
Never shall we labour, O fiery waves !
Europe, Asia, America - vanish !
Our march of vengeance has occupied every place,
Cities and countrysides ! - We shall be smashed !
The volcanoes will explode ! And the Ocean, smitten...
Oh ! my friends ! - My heart, it is certain ; they are brothers ;
Dark strangers, if we began ! Come on ! Come on ! -
O evil fortune ! I feel myself tremble, the old earth,
On me who am more and more yours ! the earth melts.
It is nothing : I am here ; I am still here.

- Arthur Rimbaud

(Tr. Oliver Bernard)

The Drunken Boat

I followed deadpan Rivers down and down,
And knew my haulers had let go the ropes.
Whooping redskins took my men as targets
And nailed them nude to technicolour posts.
I didn’t give a damn about the crews,
Or the Flemish wheat and English corn.
Once the shindig with my haulers finished
I had the current take me where I wished.
In the furious riptides last winter,
With ears as tightly shut as any child’s,
I ran, and unanchored Peninsulas
Have never known such carnivals of triumph.
The storm blessed my maritime wakefulness.
Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves
Which some call eternal victim-breakers-
Ten blind nights free of idiot guiding flares.
Sweeter than sour apple-flesh to children
Green water slid inside my pine-clad hull
And washed me clean of vomit and cheap wine,
Sweeping away rudder-post and grapnel.
From that time on, I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, lactescent and steeped in stars,
Devouring green azures; where a drowned man
Like bleached flotsam sometimes sinks in a trance;
When suddenly tinting the bluities,
Slow deliriums in shimmering light,
Fiercer than alcohol, vaster than lyres,
The bitter rednesses of love ferment.
I know skies splintered by lightening, breakers,
Waterspouts, undertows; I know the dusk,
And dawn, exalted like a host of doves –
And then I’ve seen what men believe they’ve seen.
I’ve seen low suns smeared with mystic horrors
Set fire to monster fires of violet;
Like actors in the very oldest plays
Slatted light shimmered, away on the waves.
Green nights I dreamed bedazzlements of snow,
A kiss rising to sea’s eyes slowly,
Circulation of undiscovered saps,
Blue-yellow wakefulness of phosphorsongs.
For whole months on end I followed the swell
Charging the reefs like hysterical beasts,
Not thinking that luminous Maryfeet
Could force a muzzle onto breathy seas.
I struck, you know, amazing Floridas
Where flowers twine with panther eyes inside
Men’s skins! Rainbows flung like bridles under
Sea horizons harnessed the glaucous herds.
I saw great swamps seethe like nets laid in reeds
Where a whole Leviathan lay rotting,
Collapse of water in the midst of calm
And distances tumbling into nothing.
Glaciers, silver suns, pearl seas, firecoal skies!
Hideous wreckages down in brown depths
Where enormous insect-tormented snakes
Crash from twisted trees, reeking with blackness.
I’d have liked to show children blue-water
Dorados, golden fish and fish that sing.
Foam-sprays of flowers cradled my drifting;
At times I flew on ineffable winds.
Sometimes, martyr tired of poles and wastelands,
My pitching was stilled by the sobbing sea
Which raised to me its yellow-sucker
Shadow-flowers – and I, like a woman, knelt.
Floating islands where the brawls and the guano
Of fierce albino birds bounced off my sides,
I sailed, while down among my fraying ropes
Drowned men descended backwards into sleep.
Now, I, boat tangled in the hair of bights,
Hurled high by hurricanes through birdless space,
Whom no protection-vessel in the world
Would fish up from the drink, half-drowned, half-crazed;
Free, smoking, got up in violet spume,
I, who holed the sky like a wall in flames
Which bears, good poet’s exquisite preserve,
Lichen of sun and cerulean snot;
Mad plank streaked with electric crescents, flanked
By dark formations of speeding sea-horse,
When Julys bludgeoned ultramarine skies
And pulverized them into scorching winds;
Trembling as I heard the faraway groans
Of rutting Behemoths and swirling storms;
Eternal spinner of blue stillnesses,
I long for Europe’s ancient parapets.
I’ve seen star-sown islands cluster; others
Whose delirious skies summon sailors.
Do you sleep banished in the pit of night,
You myriad golden birds, the Strength to come?
I’ve wept too much, it’s true. Dawn breaks my heart.
All moons are atrocious, all suns bitter.
Acrid love has pumped me with drugged torpor.
Let my keel burst, let me go to sea!
If I want Europe, it’s a dark cold pond
Where a small child plunged in sadness crouches
One fragrant evening at dusk, and launches
A boat, frail as a butterfly in May.
Steeped in your slow wine, waves, no more can I
Cadge rides in the cotton-freighters’ slipstream,
Nor brave proud lines of ensigns and streamers,
Nor face the prison-ship’s terrible eyes.

- Arthur Rimbaud

(trans. Martin Sorrell)


Poems by Kaushik Sanyal

Kaushik scribbles emotions, swims deeper in his memories yearning for a revisit.In his own words...

" In a quest to explore the depths of emotions when I started to write it became the perfect meditation of my life. Though it has been a busy life but I never miss a chance to write. I soon realized that words can offer so much more in this world."


"Still Untitled"

Looking at your picture,
One must’ve said,
I am looking at someone,
I can never forget .
The Deeper I see you,
The Deeper I sink.
The Eyes of Yours,
Can be described as Ocean.
Like Air and Water,
I need Everyday.
Your Smile Is a Gift,
That Keeps The Tears Away,
If the beautiful Orchids,
Are the Greatest creations of gods.
Then you are my dear,
The queen amongst all.
With strokes of my pen,
I am describing that Angel.
Whom I’ve seen in my dreams,
Since my Childhood days.
I wish her be happy,
forever and ever.
and I dedicate my every Emotion,
Only towards her.

A Confession

I don’t know from where to start,
I don’t have words to express,
Because whenever I’ve seen it,
I had been a perfect looser
The Time is not with me
The dark clouds are also moving with me
In these circumstances
When I see those eyes
That facial expression
Which had changed because of me
That soft emotion
Which is hurt by me
After realizing what I’ve done
Even I can’t dare to die.
I don’t know what , actually what happened to me
Maybe the dark side is possessing me.
For first time I feel that am no good
Maybe ive only tried to be one.
This is all because of few drops,
That is so pure,
& it makes me feel more impure.
Those drops are really have power
A power that can change the course;
The course of a relationship.
A power that can break anything;
It can break hearts.
Though I feel sorry now
But now it makes no sense.
Oh! God, I am sorry
It was just this once
I can’t take this anymore
because what I've done is now past.
But it will have an impact;
An Impact that’ll affect the future
The future which I’ve not seen
And that’s why it makes me more afraid
Because the effect would surely be bad,
Or it may be worse.
But now I will make a confession
A confession that will prove, I am weak.
Because In this world,
There is only one think I fear,
That is only few drops of TEAR...!!!

The Aftermath
( A Sequel to "A Confession")

There is no way, from where I am standing,
Is it a dead end, or is it just my illusion?
Is this the end,or a new beginning ?
Is this true,or am I just dreaming?
I was searching reasons for living.
But I found several ways of death.
I was seeking reasons for happiness,
Instead many pains went through me.
I tried everything to get my smile back,
But my every effort had a lack.
Now Iam just left with beautiful memories,
Memories that remain in my soul.
And also I’ve those painful thoughts,
Thoughts that tears my soul apart.
Though my eyes have hidden these pain,
But my heart cannot stop crying.
As life is just a game,
And iam just another sportsman.
I’ll continue playing.
I know these are just dark times,
And happiness will again chime.
But this time I’ll make it different.
My smile may come with a fear,
My fear may come with a Pain,
But this time even pain will come with a Hope.
I promise myself that,
No doubt, there’ll be everything,
But except that five letter word,
The word I fear the most.
Those who know me better,
They know that it is “TEARS”.