“Give some tree the gift of green again.

Let one bird sing.”

These words from Naomi Lazard’s translation of one of Faiz Ahmed Faiz’s less-known masterpieces, Ek Din Yun Khizan Aa Gai, were among the first I stumbled upon during a simple Google search for “poems about trees.” Seeing Faiz at the top of the Academy of American Poets’ list was a pleasant surprise — though, upon further reflection, it felt only fitting. Long before the modern urgency for shajarkari (afforestation), trees and flora were deeply entrenched in our poetic tradition, not merely as metaphors but often as central themes.

Drawing on the traditions of Arabic and Persian poetry, the classical writers of Urdu ghazal frequently employed interconnected metaphorical systems. For instance, in the maikhana system, metaphors like the saqi (cupbearer), rind (drunkard) and paimana (goblet) weave together an intricate imagery. A more pervasive system in the ghazal tradition is the gulshan (garden). Here, physical elements such as trees, flowers, leaves and roots serve as vibrant metaphors to explore profound interpersonal and metaphysical realities.

While many readers of Urdu poetry are familiar with the archetypal romance between the bulbul (nightingale) and the gul (rose or flower), the image of trees in this metaphorical garden has also inspired poets across centuries. An evocative example is found in the work of the great 18^th Century poet Mir Hasan (d. 1786), renowned for his mathnavis, where he imagines the tree planted within the self:

lag y mohabbat k jab yaañ shajar

shajar lag gay aur samar jal gay

[When the tree of love was planted here:

The tree grew, its fruits burned]

Mir Hasan remains within the broad thematic framework of the gulshan system, where the tree is envisioned as being planted. However, his metaphor of burning fruit is both unique and highly inventive, standing out within this well-trodden tradition.

A similar image of a tree being planted is evoked, albeit in a vastly different context, by Mir Hasan’s predecessor, the revered Sufi poet Sultan Bahu, in his oft-recited Punjabi verses:

Alif Allah chambay di booti,

murshid mann wich laaee

[My master has planted the jasmine plant of Allah’s Alif in my heart.]

Here, the plant symbolises divine knowledge and spiritual awakening, blending the imagery of nature with deeply mystical undertones.

In Sultan Bahu’s imagination, the long stem of a tree transforms into Alif, the first letter of the word Allah. He builds on this conceit by describing the tree as being nourished by “nafi asbaat da paani” (the waters of negation and affirmation), which blooms with the mushk (fragrance) of God. Here, the plant becomes a profound vehicle for expressing intricate Sufi concepts, and the act of plantation itself is elevated to an act of grand spiritual significance.

As we move from the 18th to the 19th Century, the metaphors and symbols of trees retain their remarkable vitality. Ghalib, for instance, uses the fruitless willow tree as a metaphor for the futility of love:

“Ishq tasir say naumed nahiñ
Jañ-sipari shajar-i-beed nahiñ”

[Passion is not without hope

Life-surrender is not a fruitless willow tree.]

Here, the willow tree symbolises despair, yet Ghalib tempers it with a sense of possibility, reflecting his nuanced approach to the interplay of love and loss.

It has been argued that the word sip r in the verse may also be read as supari, meaning betel nut. According to Frances Pritchett, this is a brilliant example of Ghalib’s playful manipulation of language — both wordplay and script play. By exploiting the lack of phonetic markers in traditional Urdu script, Ghalib introduces the multifaceted metaphor of the betel nut alongside that of the sturdy willow tree, further enriching the verse.

As we move into the modern era of Urdu poetry, Iqbal’s expansive literary corpus offers fertile ground for eco-critical analysis. His works feature a wide range of terms for trees, such as nakhl, shajr and darakht. A closer reading reveals a constant shift in context and a dynamic sophistication in his portrayal of the relationship between humanity and nature.

Drawing on the traditions of Arabic and Persian poetry, the classical writers of the Urdu ghazal frequently employed interconnected metaphorical systems.

While a comprehensive examination of Iqbal’s engagement with nature — particularly trees — exceeds the scope of this article, some key examples illustrate the evolution of his perspective. In Bang-i-Dara, his first Urdu collection, the poem Himala reflects a romantic and nationalistic connection with nature. Later, in Parinday Ki Faryad, the baagh (garden) becomes a symbol of freedom from colonial oppression. By the time we reach Baal-i-Jibril, the metaphor of the garden evolves into a recurring representation of man’s relationship with the Bagh-i-Bahisht (Garden of Eden).

Iqbal’s response to this garden often diverges from traditional Sufi longing for a return to paradise. Instead, his feelings occasionally take on a tone of active, even radical rejection, challenging conventional narratives of Edenic desire.

bagh-i-bahisht say mujhaye

hukm-i-safar diya tha kyuuñ

kar-i-jahañ daraz hai ab maira

intizar kar

[Why did you bid me leave Paradise?

Wait now, for this world’s affairs will take some more time.]

A hidden gem in Baal-i-Jibril is Iqbal’s translation of a poem by the Umayyad Emir Abdur Rahman I. Titled The First Date Tree Planted by Abdur Rahman I, the poem unfolds as a tender love lyric addressed, intriguingly, to a date tree. On a deeper level, it encapsulates the warrior-poet’s profound spiritual and emotional experience in exile, with the date tree symbolising not just nature, but also a connection to his homeland and a reflection of his inner turmoil and longing.

Apni Wadi Say Door Hun Main

Meray Liye Nakhl-i-Toor Hai Tu

Maghrib Ki Hawa Nay Tujh Ko Pala

Sehra-i-Arab Ki Hoor Hai Tu

[I am far from my valley

To me you are the tree of Sinai

You were raised in the Western climate; (still)

You are a houri of the Arabian desert to me]

Here, man and nature converge in the date palm, which becomes a symbol of the poet’s internal reality, enabling him to reminisce about his birthplace. As the poem progresses, the emotions evolve from nostalgia and longing to deeper metaphysical reflection, with the tree remaining the central axis around which the poem revolves.

In the context of our current climate crisis, the relationship between poet and nature has undergone a significant shift. Unlike earlier poets, who often viewed nature as an entity separate from humankind, many modern poets explore a shared sense of loss — trees and humans alike suffering under systems that see both as mere commodities to be exploited. This feeling of collective grief is powerfully captured in the verse of contemporary poet Ahmed Irfan (b. 1979):

meray ashjar azadar huay

jaatay haiñ

gaañv ke gaañv jo bazar huay

jaatay haiñ

[My trees turn into mourners as

Village after village is reduced to a bazaar].

To many, trees are merely trees. In the perception of a poet, they gain renewed life as rich metaphors and symbols, embodying the full spectrum of human emotion and intellect. This ability to transform timeless images into ever-evolving meanings is perhaps the true miracle of rebirth — of both seed and verse.

The writer is a freelance journalist