maandag 12 augustus 2013

Before becoming peaceful, generous, home for millions of homeless, rejected, persecuted, cursed but in fact optimistic, liberal, revolutionary, people of Cave Toronto was ransacked in battle of York 1812 once, and burnt twice in fire first in 1849 and then in 1904. People say gold is never proved pure gold until it goes through fire. Fire is the test of gold; adversity, of strong men Seneca thinks. Thus Toronto became a city of Gold for those whom Golden times were snatched.   Whenever I walk In Pythagoras’ favorite wide streets of Toronto I found it a city of dreamers carrying their interpretations in their hands. Toronto is a city of mosques, temples, monasteries, Synagogues and churches from its atmosphere hundreds of supplications ascend and become one in front of their lord. And when it rains it rains over every heart and soul equally. The great love and care for the deserving new comers in Flamingdon Park definitely make you surprised and wet eyed. Although one year and few months are like few days to understand the nature of a city and its communities but the level of harmony and degree of peace that exist in Toronto life tells you the whole story in a very short time.
I would like to share a few observations that drive our attention towards few reforms thorough which we can make this city more peaceful, and the invisible walls of social classes can be removed. In this multi cultural city which is according to Wikipedia Encyclopedia one of the world’s most diverse cities by percentage of non-native-born residents, with about 49% of the population born outside Canada we need a better school curriculum. Before describing detailed arguments it is better to understand the decisive forces that make a nation in its homeland and a community in any other country less or more civilized. Economic prosperity and the ideology of heroism are two major agents behind civilization and mannerism. In economic crisis, most of the nation loses their actual ideology and short term benefits and beneficiaries become their ambitions and heroes.
When a nation suffers economic crisis and is persecuted physically and psychologically naturally it adopts a merciless mindset that make them snatchers, not only of the goods but of those manners and ethics which they think are illusions of modern society. Sometime they laugh on others, throw garbage around the bin but not in the bin. They adopt a slogan “who cares”.
You can never change their concrete habits by representing examples of heroism, mannerism from non native civilization although how better and best proved they are. On school level before telling them the stories of heroes of other nations and teaching them the philosophy of good or bad from non native school of thoughts, it will be useful to tell them the stories of their native heroes and unfold the pages of their own civilization’ authors to facilitate them to correct their sick ideologies and to melt those iron habits which become steel in fire of sufferings and crisis. They will be able to understand that one who adopts wrong way to win during crisis do not become a hero. Heroism has constant values in all societies. Civilized societies and positivity have common grounds though they come out of different sources and forms like every morning Toronto sends multi linguistics, multinational, multi color supplication towards heaven. But when it rains, it rains over every heart and soul equally with same melody and in same color.

Thus, by including brief chapters of heroes and their thoughts, in school curriculum from all nations in one sense and communities in other sense of Toronto will be proved helpful in removing invisible social walls, small social volcanoes and that strong inner advocate whose argumentation irritates human mind and a painter who always draws a picture of inferiorities and a preacher who always convince our mind to create apprehensions and to accept them without having seven proofs at least. 

dinsdag 8 mei 2012

Wasn't I who told you the manner
of sitting up in presence of promise
Weren't you who told me absolute
words of comfort and convenience

We were in a chapter of lust
Where our fingers were reading
And we both were blind must

weren't you standing beside me
asking about the seeds and their sort
Wasn't I who told  you crop of obedience
Grows in natural liberty

No where no one would fancy a year
of seven months and a day
Of uncertainty and fear
And a sun less than a ray

Wasn't I a villager
Of misery and rebellion
Weren't  you my Lord threaded
In darkest night a way

Now all misery adapted
In mother-hood and rebellion is
Sewing garments for orphans 
 

How can I stop you wearing golden weathers
How could I wear mirrored garments
For all hidden doom in weathers you wear can be displayed
Now I find you nowhere
O my! Healer what hide and seek you play
Come for an evening and pull down all branches of my ego
Or turn it in  rivulets to unfathomable sea

I know dark night with all its serenity is disappearing
Darkness is continuously dropping and a channel of light is appearing
I know dreams of youth are continuously absorbing in your silent eyes
And my evening is still sleeping on your eyelashes
How could I touch your eyes
Who can raise a wall in course of dream?


maandag 7 mei 2012

How beautifully melted my passion and your love
In a foggy evening when tear and pain were exposed together
How strange your way of addressing was in a dropping night
When dreams with a thought of descending were perspiring
How dare I to hear your word that drew the picture of insight while it was pronounced
How frightfully I and my soul knelt down in your presence
While your sword was shining in your right hand but how kindly you sat there and how simply asked
me to walk on the sword without having seven cuts in my heart
You have asked me to lay down and put the sword on throat
You had also told me that it is love in beginnings

26 September 2004
Lightening and rain were making a new weather
He whose home was not built before his birth
Was pulled down like a hollow tree in blowing gale
A ray of hope appeared on his face after years
He saw himself was kindling a candle and putting in a globe of glass
On asking he spoke I am the foundation black stone of Adam
How Still my heart is
what a symmetry in this cemetery lies
an embalmed beauty it seems
without an urge of art
like a tamed animal without a cart

I sat under a shadowy tree in front of an orphanage
kids might call me a Buddha
I don't know, was it my face or you my destiny's author
who told them the story of my incomplete education
they called me an illusion
If an illusion I am why an orphan seemed to me a star
bright while has a dark night in his way
bright while his pleasure twinkles
shines more when breaks and disappeared just for a day
since they are in thousands

I might forget an orphan I am too
lived in third world true 

April 12 2006

zaterdag 17 maart 2012

POEM

O children come with me
I will tell you tale of my heart
Listen, One day standing alone near a railway track
I saw little water in an uneven way
Light was making herself up in a rippling mirror
In mean while,  pain threw a stone
T'fell in the pond of my heart
There happend a splash
A qeustion raised in my mind
Why am I a beloved and blessed one
From where this attraction comes
And settels in me
Who has painted my eyes
On a human canvas so beautifully
Who selects most beautiful colors
That a mother's smile  mixed in the tears
stolen from a prayer mat of a father's rooms
Just before dawn
How amazingly He composed
The melodias background of my life
In a childlike music of my daughter's toys
And in the long arrival bells of interpretation
And in the short sad music of the departure of a dream

Pain threw another stone bigger than the former
Water splashed and my eyes could not hold it
I saw, It was light still existing  water was reflecting it
The uneven way was now even

atif waqas
18-03-2012