Emulating Poet Mirza Ghalib? (updated)

Who doesn’t know Ghalib?
He’s a good poet with a terrible reputation.

Although there are other excellent poets,
they say Ghalib excels them.

All your life, O Ghalib, you repeated the same mistake:
Your face was dirty, but you kept cleaning the mirror!

Three different verses by Mirza Ghalib (1797-1869), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mirza Ghalib

Yes, I was named for this legendary south asian poet who wrote in both urdu and farsi. I have his name, his books, and have visited the Ghalib Academy and adjacent Ghalib's mausoleum in New Delhi. I would often get asked to deliver my poetry, after my namesake. My retorts have always been that I don't write poetry out of respect for his greatness and I did not want him turning in his grave.

Mirza Ghalib's portrait [Wikimedia Commons]

But now, half a century later, I decided to give it a shot. Here is my very first poem (updated):

The wheel. Yes, it is round,

But still, it’s much more as I’ve found.

Tending my garden, spring flowers bloom,

Using a wheelbarrow to move dirt and loom.

The unicycle, motorbike, scooter, or bike,

Simple and convenient, yet balance they like.

My car has five, not just four on the ground,

For I use one to steer: point and turn around.

The spare comes with a jack, that too has a wheel,

A screw to change a flat, a convenient steal.

I tack and gybe, my hand at the helm,

A wheel controls the rudder that guides the realm.

Sails held aloft held by pulleys and lines,

Pulleys and cleats too rely on small wheels and spines.

The propeller, helicopter rotor, and jet engine fly,

These birds don’t lift without wheels to rely.

Tires for landing, dials for control,

All wheels let me soar from Mumbai to the pole.

Without a wheel, no dynamos can hum,

Coal, oil and gas cannot make currents come.

Even clean power needs wheels through the night,

For wind, nuclear, or water to power our light.

Wheels give me tools I use each day,

The compass points and guides my way.

A mouse, joystick, and earbud are round

Even bulbs that street signs that keep us safe and sound.

Wheels I can find all over my kitchen too,

Pie dishes, stools, stove burners, and coffee filters in view.

Pizzas and chapatis are all circumference,

Cans, jars, apples, cookies: circular in essence.

Time for a bath, the shower head is round,

Pipes, drains, manholes, and sewers are found.

My clothes spin round when washing is done,

Even the plunger, flapper, and flange all join in round fun.

The most ubiquitous invention is the wheel,

Without it, nothing moves, nothing turns, nothing feels real. 

 

But is it real?

My life at times feels like a wheel,

Turning constantly through months and years,

As Earth itself turns round the sun.

 

But is it real?

My family, community, and work propel me on,

Like car wheels rolling true, a compass face aligned,

The wheel of my soul still searching for God.

Lessons learned are carried forward still; I push, I pause, I start anew,

Momentum born from motion past.

Not only an invention but a concept

Without it, I cannot move, love, or dream.

 I hope you enjoy it.