Munir Momin’s poetry: Communion with Deeper Levels of Life 

by Nighat Na-koja

                                                        Munir Momen
 

 

Evelyn Underhill’s Practical Mysticism[1], was published in 1914, just before the First World War began, when the “sorry universe of common sense” and “the hideous universe of greed” came together to unleash unprecedented death, destruction and displacement upon millions.

In her book, Evelyn clarifies what a mystic is. A mystic, she writes, is one who is able to “achieve a passionate communion with deeper levels of life than those with which we usually deal.” Artists and poets can, she says, “correspond with a larger, deeper, broader world. They become fully human, capable of living the real life of Eternity in the midst of the world of (linear) time.” Evelyn cites examples of poets, like Walt Whitman, who are mystical because they are “aware of a more beautiful world….are always driven by their love and enthusiasm to try and express, bring into direct manifestation those deeper significances of form, sound, rhythm, which they have been able to apprehend: and in doing this, they taste deeper and deeper truths." Munir's love for communing with Nature, is profound. Sample a few lines from this poem: 

I am in love with clouds

I set fire to the shade.

Soft, cottony time set itself on fire.

I search for a cup of water,

my soul overflowing.

I sow a moment of sky. 

Birdsong banishes peaceful sleep.

An expanse of meadow sits beside me,

And rumours start building

a prison around me.

 

Can someone bring me

a droplet of fire?

A handful of water?

I can use them to create clouds

for I am in love with clouds.

 

Evelyn Underhill’s description of poet-mystics is relevant to understanding of Munir’s verse, woven from delicate threads of form, imagery, senses, and rhythm in an other-worldly trance. 

In the stanzas above, there is an honest yearning for communing with deeper and deeper levels of Life. As for the results of communing with the transcendent love and beauty which the poet witnesses, he tries his best to communicate it to us through the only medium available to him—language. Notice the seemingly paradoxical and contradicting imagery in the chaotification and juxtaposition of disparate elements—thirst and overflowing soul, fire and shade, sweet birdsong and banished sleep, the  self-immolation of eternal Time, the creative powers of water and fire—the basic building and destructive elements in Nature. “In this intimate communion, this simple seeing, this total surrender,” to use Evelyn’s words, Munir  seems to be “using to the full the sacred powers of sense: with the result that the sense world has become for (him), a theophany, or the appearance of God, and therefore (he) begins to perceive in the Many the clear and actual presence of the One.” Indeed, the ability to see all of Nature as One using the “sacred powers of sense” is a constant reminder in Munir’s poetry that there is only one Reality and he is in love with the myriad forms in which this Reality appears.

And why not just keep these ineffable realities to himself rather than turn them into poems? “Each one,” writes Evelyn, as if trying to answer the question about the mysterious, creative urge “does something to amend the sorry universe of common sense, the more hideous universe of greed, and redeem his fellows from their servitude to a lower range of significances.” So is it the poet’s responsibility to steer us away from the sorry world of common sense and hideous greed, and servitude to lower ranges of significance? Does the poet consciously choose to lead us to the mouth of pits where the horror of our everyday existence is exposed, and give us a glimpse of the transcendent beauty of ever-changing, changeless Eternity? My guess is that the poet doesn’t choose poetry. It’s the other way round. Poetry chooses the poet. It descends upon the poet as a gift of grace. Unlike prose, which has to be earned with conscious effort, poetry is a gift (or curse, depending on your viewpoint) of the unconscious. Whether or not poetry serves a utilitarian purpose for mending humanity’s wounds, is not the poet’s primary inspiration, concern or chosen purpose.  

According to Evelyn’s definition, Munir sahib is a mystic-poet. He communes effortlessly with the mysterious, the ineffable, the subtleties that underlie the coarse, surface consciousness of our everyday, ordinary lives. His meditative eye imparts to ordinary objects like trees and clouds and night and lamps and tears, metaphorical and majestic meanings. Munir’s beloved is all of Nature. There is a chaotification of the inanimate and animate in his writing. The forest comes alive as a green-eyed living being. Stars are lamp-carrying fairies. As I tour Munir’s dreamlike, metaphorical landscape, in my mind’s eye I see him sitting entranced and enchanted on some rocky outcrop on the shores of the Makran coast, his gaze carrying a sad, soft fascination for some distant horizon beyond the visible horizon of the aquamarine ocean:

My forest, my brokenness,

coiled around the ropes of a lightless tent,

weaves feathers

for wounded hopes and fading dreams.

My forest, my creed,

keeps me from wandering into doubt,

from dying to myself.

It reveals Beauty,

glowing with insight,

ungoverned by rules.

My forest impels me to wander far,

Far away from blind prostrations

And confused thoughts.

Today, I floated my forest

in the beak of a hungry konj[2].

I stood beneath, while it conversed

with soft, silky clouds,

saddened somewhat by rocks

strewn on the path, by

combs and mirrors held in houses.

When I met Munir sahib in 2023, he confessed that he spends many hours sitting in silence. I understood why he loves to sit in silence after I spent a few hours sitting by Pasni’s seashore. The breeze, the migratory birds that flock to these shores during winter, the brooding hills in the backdrop, the glittering sand, each sand grain a unique entity, the glow of the late afternoon sun—all seemed to grant a living, throbbing quality to the silence. As dusk approaches, the sky to the west blushes, and veils of red and orange clouds float across the sky. The hills turn a deep, translucent purple, scarlet and lilac before darkness finally descends, simultaneously unveiling billions of stars in the sky. The horizon hangs low, the stars loom large and close, so close you could stretch out a hand and pluck a few. Except for the night breeze and the restlessly crashing waves, silence reigns supreme. 

No wonder Munir sahib sits by the sea and lives in this neglected town, far from the hustle and bustle of polluted, overpopulated cities. It’s an intentional choice, he tells me. He fears noise and pollution and he chooses to live where skies and sands and sea and silence are his constant companions.  

‘Creativity is a journey into deeper and deeper solitude,’ Munir says, as we sip tea in his friend’s baithak on the morning of our departure from Pasni. 

‘Creativity asks for devotion and worship. It can’t thrive in noise-filled surroundings. I am very careful not to do anything that disturbs the silence inside me. If anybody or anything disturbs it, I move away from that thing or person,” he says with the slightest hint of his enigmatic smile. There is something shy and unexpressed in his gaze, his pauses, his measured speech, and occasionally his deep laughter. I get a sense of how precious that inner solitude is. Even the beloved must not stand in the way of the poet’s solitude. The conflict between the desire for solitude and the desire for companionship is explored in the poem, Solitude. :

A soft breeze, descended from the heavens,

wrapped in a silky, translucent mystery,

held in its arms the stars' secrets,

and love-filled, honey-sweet whispers.

She departed, scattering the scent

of restless kisses upon my tresses.

I begged her:

"Lay aside your artful charms,

Leave my solitude untouched,

lest it be stained."

 

Munir Momen is a well-known contemporary poet from Balochistan, Pakistan. He has published several collections of poetry in Balochi, a short story collection and many essays. His ghazals in Balochi continue to be sung by singers throughout Balochistan. 

 

Translator's Note: The excerpts from Munir Momen's poems quoted above have been translated by  Nighat Na-koja, using as a reference the Urdu translation by Ehsan Asghar from the collection Gumshuda samandar ki Awaz (Aks Publications, Lahore, Pakistan, 2020). The English translation was revised when needed based on discussions with Munir sahib.

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[2] Konj- (kunja, koonj) a large, long-necked migratory bird, a native of Siberia, a winter visitor to the coastal marshes of Balochistan.

 

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[1] Evelyn Underhill: (1914) Practical Mysticism: A Little Book for Normal People. E.P. Dutton & Company. USA. https://www.google.com.pk/books/edition/Practical_Mysticism/hz1MAAAAMAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&pg=PA2&printsec=frontcover