Poems on the Liberation War
[Translated from Bangla by the poet himself]Defense: 1971
My sky is torn out with the yapping of vultures,
My moon’s occupied by soldiers with ugly boots;
Fallen on the ground are bayonetted lifeless stars
My sun is clouded, planets derailed from routes.
The nebula is eclipsed by a dragon’s head,
I can’t stop battling until I’m dead.
Face of my darling dangles from the milky-way
Her dresses fly and paint the horizon in the dusk,
The brassieres are toys of the demon’s play;
I won’t let the enemies flee, even if they ask.
The country-storks do sharpen their knife-like beaks;
Behold the creepers, the shoots are hissing like a snake,
We’re ready and diehard to defeat their guns with sticks—
Because we’ve learned and known: together we can make.
——————-
Incantation
What an incantation you’ve taught:
Nor’wester clouds that are deeply black
Turns bright red while hissing against drought.
The disabled raise slogans as if a rebel.
Withered leaves shout against the giant trees
“Give us our greenness right back!”
What an incantation you’ve taught:
While deliberately freedom is sought
A slave may often snatch the whip
And use on his master’s hip.
A squirrel which, afraid of the gecko’s bite,
hid inside a cave comes out to claim his right.
By now, a courageous mongoose he is,
Maybe through a process called metamorphosis!
What an incantation you’ve taught:
While deliberately freedom is sought
An insect shows anger at the hit of fruits,
Even the tree, for this, may be jerked with roots.
What an incantation you’ve taught:
While deliberately freedom is sought
Your encouraging slogans still mesmerize
The artists-on-road to paint a new sunrise,
With brushes soaked in their own blood.
———————
Cultivating Dust with Particles of Skulls
Surprise! Like others I’m still living,
Yet in my subconscious state, I hear
An invincible, penetrating song of the hell
Sung by departed soul of Rimbaud to say
I must stand up from my death-bed to run
As a normal man – to me, it sounds like fun.
Heartbeats are there, my veins have blood,
With a strong love for women and flower bud,
Respect for neighbours, I’ve angers and shame,
Work in my garden, and train the pets to tame.
I cultivate a land with skulls crushed to dust,
With a plough of humanity, hope, and trust;
Amidst festivals of hoisting flags that are black;
The crops I pack smell vultures’ poop.
I look for soil in sand and pebbles of my lands,
Hope for life, burying the martyrs with my hands.
———————–
On a Time-stricken Map
My time, like a kite,
Pecks my brain with ugly beaks,
But with an inherent motion to live,
I overcome pain, as Prometheus Unbound did –
Trees repair cracks with remedial growth.
Women who lost men in battles
Resume life with new spouses.
No hurdle can stop life’s speed,
Gardens have concurrent fall and leaf shoot,
Flowers can bloom on skulls of a carcass.
Licking wounds in a safer space,
Deer return to their grazing field;
Flocks of ducks fly to pools of choice
Amidst powder’s smell from hunters’ guns.
I’m myself in prison, free dress,
Keeping hope alive like full moon’s beam
Beside clutches of time that grasp my dream.
———————–
Felu Mia in His Subconscious
Felu, the ill-fated, a soul rootless since birth,
Doesn’t recall his childhood’s joy or mirth.
No trace of where he came from, moving like a cloud,
A wave adrift in a turbulent sea of the floating crowd.
He’s in his forties, last fifteen with a lecherous head
Yet no home with the warmth of woman’s bed;
While others got love more than much
Felu is still alone, couldn’t have a homely touch.
Felu was humble, spoke with no complaint,
For men in power, wealth knows no constraint—
From brokers sly to ministers of relief,
Exploit the oppressed, cause their bitter grief.
At times, deep outrage in his subconscious state
Makes him aware and conscious to change his fate;
He feels he’s nothing but a thunderous roar,
With bulging muscles, as if he can soar.
Sultan, the painter, cannot portray him right,
He feels inside an enormous might;
With surreal strength in his powerful arms,
He grips his play-stick tightly in his palms.
And hurls a chip towards the blazing Sun,
The goal is clear—it’s not for fun!
————-
Illustration : Najib Tareque
