Those Who Never Read Poetry
We write poems
We write history of our time over the white pages
Rims after rims of paper!
Some people have inquired- does poetry helped us anyway for anything;
Some has equivocally remarked- isn’t writing poems are wasting of time!
Did these poems happen to do any good to anyone?
Rabindranath Nazrul, or Jibanananda Shamsur
Had written outstanding stanzas
How many people did read those poems?
My answer is-
The poetry is for them who believes life is the source of all beauties
And for them who believes life is the source of all colours!
We write poems, we write from the core of our heart
We search for the philosophical metaphors, the methodical evolution of thoughts
The sanctums of poetic words are the memory-entity-future insights
The illuminated streams of changing timeline.
All the nations today has numerous troubles, differences in thought, inequalities, impurities
– Poetry shows then the light for redemption.
Those who never read poetry-
They never get the beauties, nectars and soothing odour;
They sees gross matters, they could never see the inner flows of life;
Those who never read poetry-
They could never realize the magnificence of sunrise and sunset
And their heart could never feel with charms of germination;
We write poems- we write our life every day;
The poetry is people’s self-proclaimed truth, the conscience, the insights
The eternal beauty and the vigour.
Translated by Ashoke Kar
(poet)
———————————————
Poetry of 1971
Today, with magic prayers, I place poetry on the grassy carpet,
Today they have the charmed strength to stand up
To look back
Poems have become the marksmen to go to war
At one breadth, to cross mountains and gorges and track
Enemies who will be pierced in their eyes and breast
And vanquished with death bullets.
Today, with magic prayers, I place poetry on the grassy carpet
Poems have learnt to be the ‘mine’ hidden in the grass
To suddenly erupt
Behead the Al Badr Pak soldiers who looted women.
Poetry has taken root on 7th March in Mujib’s thunder voice,
To a chant of liberty.
Today, poetry is the handgun of the freedom fighters
With one stroke on the trigger bloom bullets,
To smear the enemy’s breast bloody.
Today, with magic prayers, I place poetry on the grassy carpet
Poems are now lively, self-determined word bullets
Travel all directions through ether,
In the secret radio Joi Bangla
In homes of Bangalees, in the war camps,
Through thunderous voices
Poetry has today waged a war of freedom.
Translated by Debjani Sengupta
——————————–
My 21st February
Human processions started with the beginning of time,
When the rays of the sun first fell on earth.
Raising their clenched fists, human beings
Strode forth on the long road ahead.
When we learned to make fire rubbing stones,
Civilization began.
We learned how to think,
We learned how to call our mothers intimately.
Suddenly one day, heart-rending sighs
Arose from within and blended into space.
My alphabets fell, face down on the ground;
The earth trembled with our fiery respiration.
Everyone gazed keenly up at the sky,
In the far distance they saw the flash of light,
Saw the soaring bird flap its wings –
Our hearts throbbed with fear.
Human beings understood they were different.
They had ideals,
They had memories,
They had the courage to call their mothers “Ma.”
My 21st February gave us that strength
To stand tall on firm feet.
Translated by Niaz Zaman
——————–
Against War
War is a sky shattering fierce roar
of clouds, quick footsteps full of tearful wails,
a terrible thing!
We have taken our stand
against all wars.
War is clever ruse of antagonistic states,
fiery words full of fierce anger,
a follow-up of revenge, loud cries.
War is a terrible thing!
We have taken our stand
against all wars.
War is arrogant display of muscle with no principle.
It often begins with a false show of friendship.
It is full of bombs, cocktails, atomic explosions,
smoke bullets from machineguns,
destruction of all human values,
burning down the home of one’s neighbour.
War is a terrible thing!
We have taken our stand
against all wars.
Translated by Kabir Chowdhury
—————————
Those Who Never Read Poetry
We write poems
We write history of our time over the white pages
Rim after rim of paper!
Some people have inquired: does poetry help us anyway for anything?
Some have equivocally remarked: isn’t writing poems wasting time?
Did these poems happen to do any good to anyone?
Rabindranath Nazrul or Jibanananda Shamsur
Had written outstanding stanzas
How many people did read those poems?
My answer is:
The poetry is for them who believe life is the source of all beauties
And for them who believe life is the source of all colours!
We write poems, we write from the core of our heart
We search philosophical metaphors, the methodical evolution of thoughts
The sanctums of poetic words are the memory-entity-future insights
The illuminated streams of changing timeline.
All the nations today have numerous troubles, differences in thought, inequalities, impurities
– Poetry shows then the light for redemption.
Those who never read poetry
Never get the beauties, nectars and soothing odour;
They see gross matters, they could never see the inner flows of life;
Those who never read poetry
Could never realize the magnificence of sunrise and sunset
And their heart could never feel the charms of germination;
We write poems, we write our life every day;
Poetry is people’s self-proclaimed truth, the conscience, the insights,
The eternal beauty and the vigour.
Translated by Ashoke Kar
