Bride's robes, would suit thee well, Ye, my beloved of short years Thy braids of hair, thy ear rings peep from beneath the gossamer cover
Rasool Mir (Kashmiri: रसूल मिर, رسول مِر) was one of the leading Kashmiri poets of the 19th century. Was born at Dooru Shahabad, a historic town in Anantnag district of Jammu and Kashmir. He has been titled as keats of kashmir for his powerful romantic poetry but at times he mingles with mysticism. He decended from a family of zamindars who used to be village heads at Doru. Now government has laid a beautiful lawn and tomb at mir's graveyard. Rasul Mir, that skilled decanter of love, has a raging controversy shrouding his age. The local traditions recorded in 1940’s of by Ab Ahad Azad, spoke of a death in his prime. Folk history has it that, Mahmood Gani predicted his youthful death (Amis Chhi jan-h-margi handi koder). His poetry, its fervent youthfulness, its vibrant tenor, its tone of hearty yearning, its pristine emotions, all point to a poet, untouched by the cares of decaying age. Rasul Mir was said to have been alive in 1855 AD when Mahmood Gani passed away and died a few years before-Maqbool Shah Kralawari (d.1874). Accordingly his demise was reckoned between 1867-1870). Rasul Mir was thus said to have lived between 1820s and 1870s. Mr. Teng in his Kuliyati Rasul Mir, refers to a document, in revenue records at Anantnag, which bears the signature of Rasul Mir, as Nambardar and is dated 5th of April 1889. On this basis, Rasool may have lived into the last decade of 19th century.That is as close to factual certainity as researches have gotten to. For the rest, there is his poetic legacy, and, ah again oral traditions. Oral traditions say, Rasul Mir was tall, handsome fair complexioned person, and sported moustaches that tapered far into the face. He was graceful, fashionable fellow, with a youthful heart that throbbed with love, love, and lots of love. Yi chho Rasul Mir Shahabad Doo-rey Tami chho trov-mut lo-la du-kaan Yi-vu aash-qow che-vu tor-re tor-rey Mai chho moor-rey la-la-vun naar. This is Rasul Mir, at Shahabad, Doru. He has opened a love-kiosk. Come ye lovers, drink free cup. Love’s fire burns me deep Love, is the waft and whoop, the craft and creed of Rasul Mir(He lived love, sang love, and lives for his love-ful passion). Love, the first strings of human heart that present the whole universe as an undulating poem. Love is the creed, beloved is the god and lyrics rush forth in bubbling streams to worship the deity. Singing, sighing and singing again they cascade over the expanses of life, in undating it in its fervor. Ze-h posha tu-l-i maeni aashq-a mas-jid husn imam ta-th Tsa-ae bae-ng-i shu-baan mokh-ta-e da-ae Ch-e-i yous-faen-i chae-lee My Loves’ mosque, is an edifice of just two petals, Love is the preist there, Ye pearly one art the caller there, Ye, who hath the Yousef’s grace. Mir’s beloved is grace personi fied Zeh posha tu-l (two petals, mere) the being of his, object of love, is characteristic of Rasul Mir’s’ dainty love. Love, flowers, passion and fragrance, the eternal inciters of life and beauty, are a recurring motiff in his poetry.)
Rasul Mir şiirleri
Come let us be friends, ye lovely beauty, listen to my laments, oh Henzi, come to see the mela and, we shall roam through Telbal.
Don't unveil the face, Don't glitter the scene. Don't try to test my race, The race not in reign.
For her hennaed naib I'll give, pot-fuls of blood from under my throat, that tall beloved of mine, is attired in robes of scent Rasul.…
He is angry, him I'll chase, by collor I'll catch hold of him on dooms day, I'll hold thee by thy robe; without thee, here I die
How graceful the swans neck of henziyani looks, spare her from evil eyes, my Lord, Thy bounty, that won't lessen, O God, Lo, the love goes on a frolic outing.
I am all ashake, I may die my heart's wish has seen no fulfillment that lovely, pleasing, my heart throb he hasn't come, ah Dear!
I'll look for you at Veernag, in the garb of an unknown mendicent, at Pooli, cheeni-gund, Drengi. Give me a glimpse, Kongi
Jasmine, Iris narcissus too, looking at thee have withered away Thine eyes are black, face is red and robes are of the whitest hue
Like an Ivy caught in violets, a full moon trapped by pythons two; or a beauty of China wearing the sacred thread
Like a tulip, my robe I'll rent, and come forth; O Padmani, I'm thy loved, infamed by my love
Loves fire bored into the poppy, the moment they he-nnaed hands it saw. The wild rose is nursing its boils from burning, dear
My beloved (Posh-a-mal) is but two and a half petals; lo, the gay love goes out to frolic. Go ye my friend, fetch my lover here, A Jasmine, I have woven garlands for him
My heart is not the love one, caged in that love This is way, the path through which, not one but two worlds've gone
My heart you stole, and left me a maiden. With a blot in Ashes I'll smear myself…
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