Boris Pasternak (1890-1960)
You can read about how MI6 and CIA smuggled this novel, banned to readers in Soviet Union, after a British spy managed to photograph Pasternak's original text:
W.H. Auden (1907 – 1973)
रोज़-ए हिसाब जब मिरा पेश हो दफ़तर-ए `अमल
आप भी शरमसार हो , मुझ को भी शरमसार कर !
whose translation was given as:
On the day of accounts, when my ledger of deeds would be presented
You yourself too must be ashamed — as much as I would be ashamed.
Here are the responses of four readers to the challenge:
Ledger of daily deeds, when presented, in court of accountability
You must feel the shame, and insult me for the very same too!
When my account of deeds will be exposed
‘twill be the day for mine, no less than your remorse
The day your court shall judge my life's record,
Will you then blush for my shame, holy lord?
On the day of reckoning
When my accounting's done,
Will shame to Iqbal cling
And to you stick none?
Speech is born out of longing,
True description from the real taste.
The one who tastes, knows;
the one who explains, lies.
How can you describe the true form of Something
In whose presence you are blotted out?
And in whose being you still exist?And who lives as a sign for your journey?http://emilyspoetryblog.com/2013/04/06/reality-by-rabia-al-basri/
Andrew Motion (1952 – )
John Brehm (1955 – )
Boris Pasternak (1890 – 1960)
W.H. Auden (1907 – 1973)
Gulzar (1936 – )
his gaze fixed on his son, in silence. Andromache,
pressing close beside him and weeping freely now,
clung to his hand, urged him, called him: "Reckless one,
my Hector-your own fiery courage will destroy you!
Have you no pity for him, our helpless son? Or me,
and the destiny that weighs me down, your widow,
now so soon? Yes, soon they will kill you off,
all the Achaean forces massed for assault, and then,
bereft of you, better for me to sink beneath the earth.
What other warmth, what comfort's left for me,
once you have met your doom? Nothing but torment!
"All this weighs on my mind too, dear woman.
But I would die of shame to face the men of Troy
and the Trojan women trailing their long robes
if I would shrink from battle now, a coward.
Nor does the spirit urge me on that way.
I've learned it all too well. To stand up bravely,
always to fight in the front ranks of Trojan soldiers,
winning my father great glory, glory for myself.
For in my heart and soul I also know this well:
the day will come when sacred Troy must die,
Priam must die and all his people with him,
Priam who hurls the strong ash spear . . .
for his son—but the boy recoiled,
cringing against his nurse's full breast,
screaming out at the sight of his own father,
terrified by the flashing bronze, the horsehair crest,
the great ridge of the helmet nodding, bristling terror-
so it struck his eyes. And his loving father laughed,
his mother laughed as well, and glorious Hector,
quickly lifting the helmet from his head,
set it down on the ground, fiery in the sunlight,
and raising his son he kissed him, tossed him in his arms,
lifting a prayer to Zeus and the other deathless gods:
"Zeus, all you immortals! Grant this boy, my son,
may be like me, first in glory among the Trojans,
strong and brave like me, and rule all Troy in power
and one day let them say, 'He is a better man than his father!'—
when he comes home from battle bearing the bloody gear
of the mortal enemy he has killed in war—
a joy to his mother's heart."
So Hector prayed
and placed his son in the arms of his loving wife.
Andromache pressed the child to her scented breast,
smiling through her tears. Her husband noticed,
and filled with pity now, Hector stroked her gently,
trying to reassure her, repeating her name: "Andromache,
dear one, why so desperate? Why so much grief for me?
No man will hurl me down to Death, against my fate.
And fate? No one alive has ever escaped it,
neither brave man nor coward, I tell you—
it's born with us the day that we are born.