Iqbal's Poetry Quotes

The new world is as yet behind the veil of destiny In my eyes, however its dawn has been unveiled

From love's plectrum arises the song of the string of life Love is the light of life love is the fire of life

maa tujhe salaam pher lete hai nazar jis waqt bete or bahu.. ajnabi apne hi ghar me hae ban jati hai maaa..

The poet's nature is all searching, creator and nourisher of desire; the poet is like the heart in a people's breast, a people without a poet is a mere heap of clay. If the purpose of poetry is the fashioning of men, poetry is likewise the heir of prophecy.

It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India—a hundred Indias—whispered outside beneath the indifferent moon, but for the time India seemed one and their own, and they regained their departed greatness by hearing its departure lamented, they felt young again because reminded that youth must fly.

What is the character and general structure of the universe in which we live? Is there a permanent element in the constitution of this universe? How are we related to it? What place do we occupy in it, and what is the kind of conduct that befits the place we occupy? These questions are common to religion, philosophy, and higher poetry

When truth has no burning, then it is philosophy, when it gets burning from the heart, it becomes poetry

Jahan mein ehle-e-imaan soorat-e-khursheed jeetay hain, Idhar doobey, udhar nikley; udhar doobey, idhar nikley In this world, men of faith and self-confidence are like the sun, They go down on one side to come up on the other.

Nahin Minnatkash-e-Taab-e-Shaneedan Dastan Meri Khamoshi Guftugu Hai, Be-Zubani Hai Zuban Meri My story is not indebted to the patience of being heard My silence is my talk, my speechlessness is my speech Ye Dastoor-e-Zuban Bandi Hai Kaisa Teri Mehfil Mein Yahan To Baat Karne Ko Tarasti Hai Zuban Meri Why does this custom of silencing exist in your assembly? My tongue is tantalized to talk in this assembly Uthaye Kuch Waraq Lale Ne, Kuch Nargis Ne, Kuch Gul Ne Chaman Mein Har Taraf Bikhri Huwi Hai Dastan Meri Some leaves were picked up by the tulip, some by the narcissus, some by the rose My story is scattered around everywhere in the garden Urha Li Qumriyon Ne, Tootiyon Ne, Andleebon Ne Chaman Walon Ne Mil Kar Loot Li Tarz-e-Faghan Meri The turtle‐doves, parrots, and nightingales pilfered away The garden’s denizens jointly robbed away my plaintive way Tapak Ae Shama Ansu Ban Ke Parwane Ki Ankhon Se Sarapa Darun Hun, Hasrat Bhari Hai Dastan Meri O Candle! Drip like tears from the eye of the moth Head to foot pathos I am, full of longing is my story

Iqbal was the great poet in the world history, who wrote the multiple subjects of morality, humanity, philosophy, love, self, revolution and especially religious values as his spiritual concept of beautiful poetry.

Poetry is a free fall, whereas to write prose, you have to become another person, about whom you are writing.

Life is passing all the ignorant are believing; but it is passing, to again be newly arriving. Time, a chain of days, nights... nothing else: name for breathing in and out, nothing else! And, what is this wave of breath? A sword! What is Self? The sharp edge of the sword! What is the Self? Life’s innermost mystery! It is the whole of creation waking up, to see! Self’s drunk upon others but enjoys solitude, it is the ocean that a drop all it does include.

Irie stepped out into streets she’d known her whole life, along a route she’d walked a million times over. If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memory was, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. She was walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches. She was permeated by familiar smells: wet woodchip and gravel around the base of the tree, newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations. Despite opting for a life of dentistry, she had not yet lost all of the poetry in her soul, that is, she could still have the odd Proustian moment, note layers upon layers, though she often experienced them in periodontal terms. She got a twinge – as happens with a sensitive tooth, or in a ‘phantom tooth’, when the nerve is exposed – she felt a twinge walking past the garage, where she and Millat, aged thirteen, had passed one hundred and fifty pennies over the counter, stolen from an Iqbal jam-jar, in a desperate attempt to buy a packet of fags. She felt an ache (like a severe malocclusion, the pressure of one tooth upon another) when she passed the park where they had cycled as children, where they smoked their first joint, where he had kissed her once in the middle of a storm. Irie wished she could give herself over to these past-present fictions: wallow in them, make them sweeter, longer, particularly the kiss. But she had in her hand a cold key, and surrounding her lives that were stranger than fiction, funnier than fiction, crueller than fiction, and with consequences fiction can never have. She didn’t want to be involved in the long story of those lives, but she was, and she found herself dragged forward by the hair to their denouement, through the high road – Mali’s Kebabs, Mr Cheungs, Raj’s, Malkovich Bakeries – she could reel them off blindfold; and then down under pigeon-shit bridge and that long wide road that drops into Gladstone Park as if it’s falling into a green ocean. You could drown in memories like these, but she tried to swim free of them. She jumped over the small wall that fringed the Iqbal house, as she had a million times over, and rang the doorbell. Past tense, future imperfect.

Art is a sacred lie.

hayaa nahii.n hai zamaane kii aa.nkh me.n baaqii KHudaa kare ki javaanii tirii rahe be-daaG

The sword is meant for the vigour of the religion. Whenever it comes out of the sheath, it is for the defence of the religion

pyaaso raho na dasht me.n baarish ke muntazir maaro zamii.n pe paa.nv ki paanii nikal pa.De In this couplet, the poet has a piece of advise for all those who wait for a miracle in a hopeless situation. He urges such people to believe in themselves and create a miracle themselves.

Irie stepped out into streets she’d known her whole life, along a route she’d walked a million times over. If someone asked her just then what memory was, what the purest definition of memory was, she would say this: the street you were on when you first jumped in a pile of dead leaves. She was walking it right now. With every fresh crunch came the memory of previous crunches. She was permeated by familiar smells: wet woodchip and gravel around the base of the tree, newly laid turd underneath the cover of soggy leaves. She was moved by these sensations. Despite opting for a life of dentistry, she had not yet lost all of the poetry in her soul, that is, she could still have the odd Proustian moment, note layers upon layers, though she often experienced them in periodontal terms. She got a twinge – as happens with a sensitive tooth, or in a ‘phantom tooth’, when the nerve is exposed – she felt a twinge walking past the garage, where she and Millat, aged thirteen, had passed one hundred and fifty pennies over the counter, stolen from an Iqbal jam-jar, in a desperate attempt to buy a packet of fags. She felt an ache (like a severe malocclusion, the pressure of one tooth upon another) when she passed the park where they had cycled as children, where they smoked their first joint, where he had kissed her once in the middle of a storm. Irie wished she could give herself over to these past-present fictions: wallow in them, make them sweeter, longer, particularly the kiss. But she had in her hand a cold key, and surrounding her lives that were stranger than fiction, funnier than fiction, crueller than fiction, and with consequences fiction can never have. She didn’t want to be involved in the long story of those lives, but she was, and she found herself dragged forward by the hair to their denouement, through the high road – Mali’s Kebabs, Mr Cheungs, Raj’s, Malkovich Bakeries – she could reel them off blindfold; and then down under pigeon-shit bridge and that long wide road that drops into Gladstone Park as if it’s falling into a green ocean. You could drown in memories like these, but she tried to swim free of them. She jumped over the small wall that fringed the Iqbal house, as she had a million times over, and rang the doorbell. Past tense, future imperfect.

Our soul is given the innate and strong ability to differentiate right from wrong actions. We have likeness for and the wish to see fairness, justice, honesty, truthfulness and cooperation in the universe where species survive on survival instincts. These values reflect in our art, prose and poetry. If the feelings, emotions, aesthetics, values and morality are merely a chemical mixture, then our labs shall be producing Shakespeare, Rumi, Iqbal and Picasso just through chemistry experiments without any human intervention, instruction and programming.

An idol-house of six dimensions is this world; for this Somnath, has all by it, been created.* It is not in its way, for it to go on repeating… I’m not you, you are not I; this, I’m repeating!

....نا رہی انسان میں قربت کہی ....نا رہی محبت میں شدت کہی ....پہچانا جاتا تھا انسان خدا سے اپنے ....نا رہا دل میں خدا کہی ....نا رہیگا انسان کا نام و نشان کہی

Iqbal was the great poet in the world history, who wrote the multiple subjects of morality, humanity, philosophy, love, self, revolution, and especially religious values as his spiritual concept of beautiful poetry.

Philosophy of Bread To Lenin and Iqbal: The East treats me as a second class citizen, the West as a third class citizen still, life is mired in fees, rents and unending bills. New century’s children keep on breeding, farms get smaller and farmers poorer, it’s the bankruptcy mills, bread lines get longer, the pestilence kills whilst the few eat money and honey, And God laughs at the future.

I have had an affinity for books throughout my life. Ever since I was little, I used to read children’s books and I loved going to book shops and buying books. My father would give me ten rupees to go to the Raina Book Depot in Srinagar, which was a great delight. When I went to Doon [a boarding school in Dehradun] I started reading more extensively. I remember reading many of the P.G. Wodehouse novels, the Sherlock Holmes and Scarlet Pimpernel series, and I loved the classics: War and Peace, A Tale of Two Cities, The Three Musketeers. I subsequently moved to more serious reading: books on philosophy and politics by Plato, Bertrand Russell, Aldous Huxley, Vivekananda, the Arthurian novels by Mary Stewart and the Cretan novels of Mary Renault are some of my favourites. In poetry, I love Yeats, Wordsworth, Sri Aurobindo, Gurudev Tagore, Robert Frost in English; Ghalib, Faiz and Iqbal in Urdu, Dinkar and Tulsidas in Hindi.