Preface to the 70 Odes
Poetry, to me, has always been the art of distilling the soul’s deepest murmurs into words that breathe. It is not merely an ornament of language, but a vessel for truth, memory, and longing — a bridge between the solitary heart of the poet and the shared human condition.
In this collection of 70 Odes, I have sought not only to write, but to converse — with time, with nature, with history, with love, and with the silent immensities that surround and dwell within us.
The ode, as a form, has ancient roots. It has been sung in the marble courts of Greece, whispered in the candlelit chambers of Persian mystics, and written upon the windswept pages of Romantic Europe.
Yet in my hands, the ode is neither bound by tradition nor wholly divorced from it. I have let it carry the rhythms of my own land, the voices of my people, the ache of my era, and the pulse of my personal journey.
For I believe that the highest form of homage to tradition is not imitation, but reinvention — the ability to converse with the past while speaking in the language of the present.
Each ode in these pages is both a mirror and a lamp — a mirror reflecting the world as I have seen it, and a lamp casting light on what I have felt it could be.
They are born from moments of quiet observation, from the tumult of public life, from the scent of an evening breeze, from the breaking of a heart, from the rising of a dawn.
At times, they may be meditations; at others, cries. They may praise or protest, bless or burn. But in all cases, they are honest.
Seventy is not a number chosen for chance alone. It is a fullness — a round horizon of thought and song. In traversing these odes, you will encounter varied landscapes: the tenderness of love, the bitterness of exile, the dignity of labor, the restlessness of the spirit, the beauty of the ephemeral, and the enduring thirst for justice and truth.
You may find, too, the shadow of my own footsteps wandering through them — for the poet cannot wholly erase him from the page.
My hope is that you will not read these odes as one might consume a hurried tale, but as one walks through a garden — pausing to notice the colors, to breathe the air, to listen to the quiet between the lines.
If these Odes offer you solace, stir in you a question, awaken a memory, or even simply remind you of your own capacity to feel deeply, then they have fulfilled their purpose.
I am indebted to all the voices, living and dead, that have shaped my own — to the teachers who taught me not only how to write but how to see; to the poets whose works have been my companions in solitude; to the people whose struggles and joys have woven themselves into my verses; and to the readers who keep alive the fragile art of poetry by their attention and care.
In offering you these *70 Odes*, I offer more than a collection of poems. I offer a map of where I have been, and a compass pointing, however uncertainly, toward where I hope; we — as individuals and as a people — might go. May these words find you in your own season, and may they speak to you in a voice you recognize as somehow your own.
At the end, I am very thankful to God who supported me in enlightening my dull mind, raised my weak soul and illumined my poor mind.
Thanks
JH Sayyar
August 11, 2025
Monday 09:50 pm
Multan: Pakistan\
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