Five poems of Rabiul Husain


An Ice-Bird of Camphor Wings

Some housemaids look for some proofs of

Some scary existence

There in the deep far off aquatic womb of a river

Were born some substitutes of ambrosia, proofs of soil,

Roots, fruits, grass-covered land,

The way at which the only bamboo lay down criss-cross,

The war between the sea and rain on the unruly raft,

Submerged invincible canal underneath, the luscious play

Of flowers and butterflies, the oblique glance of musical pond

Towards agitated stairs of ghat, the agonizing delight of getting

Leg’s nail overturned on the metalled street

Washed out, the hazy scenery of far off and close by,

The flying birds’ graves in the different regions,

Colourless dust, the stain of the dried up water on the stony bowl,

The bell-metal fair-faced platemarked with name,

The watch with fuel-less lantern

Have flown away, is flying incessantly

The ice-birds of camphor wings fly away,

Preserve the enchanting smell in the air,

The burning furnace of reality on the sea of dream, burning,

Burning the houses one by one, well-framed picture,

The worm-eaten books well taken care off, the catchy formula of looking-glass,

The pages of the forgotten diary, letters, many more names

Of girls and boys, the first united copulation, easy sex,

Love-delight, passion-likings,

The strange geography of youth.



Men are Really Very Destitute

To be destitute we must have

At least something of our own

Whatever it is, too little or much

When these would reach one by one

To the depth of naught

Only then can we be destitute.


And so if one doesn’t have anything

How will he be indigent?

What is his wealth that would end up

And be nothing all at once?

How will one be destitute

If he does have nothing?


And so I couldn’t be destitute

As I have nothing of my own


Nothing with me is my own

Everything is fallen under the circle

Of that invisible prowess,

Whirling regular at the circle of time

Beyond explanation, mysterious.

Life is too little, too short

This trifling addiction is useless.


Men’s nothing is their own

Men are really very destitute.




No Depth of these Vacuums

Poetry is born from hard days

Poetry is born from hostility

Poetry is born from adversity

Why is poetry born?


Poetry is born

When people’s minds are out of sorts

Why are the minds out of sorts?



Everything becomes regular naturally

Rain pours without reasons

Coming slowly love takes aside directly

Why does it withdraw? Why does it pour?


People are the sources of weal and woe

People are the sourcesof distress and unhappiness

People are the sources of pleasure and happiness

What are that sources?


Happiness is the enemy of happiness

Unhappiness is the enemy of unhappiness

None but people are enemy of everything

Who is enemy against whom?


Again unhappiness is happiness’ mate, no man

Happiness is unhappiness’ mate, no man

Nature is its only friend, no man

Why no man?


Birth is the reason of pain and death

Death is the reason of bliss and life

And man is the reason of life pain death and bliss

What is that reason? Why?


So, what is this life and pain? Why?

What is death and happiness? Why?

What is man, either?  And why?

Why is this what? And why?


No answers of these questions

No questions of these answers

No magnitude of these causes

No depth of these vacuums





Many events take place every moment in this universe

Visible-invisible, perceptible- imperceptible are going the accumulation of events

Somehow all these things happen in this way

I don’t know whether there was any pre-plan or rehearsal

But it seems to be, or

How does it occur?  There is a cause

For everything, without it, there is nothing

We know all are spiritual

Terrestrial and extra-terrestrial are exposed in manifestation

If so, what are those reasons? Why does it happen?

How does it happen? By whom?  Nothing is known

But it happens everyday

Everything occurs such, happens in silence and with sounds

And we just know see and listen

But realize by no means. Why does it happen? Who?

Never would we get the reasons, everything would be and be…….




Ten Poems on Liberation War


In this green Bengal

With blood-soaked land

Wherever I go

I see the death afflicted land



If we add days two hundred and sixty seven

And minus the martyrs of liberation

Almost in a day twelve thousands

Thirty lacs would count the same



In the diaries of Razakar and Al- Badr

We can locate who is where

In this land of timeunjust

Trial will take place at last



What a cruel scene, monstrous ferocity?

Trunk in one hole, head in another

They live in other’s breathe

How do we forget all these so easily?



Rightly has the Liberation war ended

But still goes on incessantly

The war of truth would go on like this till

There is injustice, illiteracy and poverty



The real freedom fighter

Reminds it perpetually

The friends of Razakars

Would have no place in this green Bengal






Even though a freedom fighter

If one forgives the war criminals indiscriminately

Only for greed and interest

He is never a freedom fighter



When people get involved in liberation war

Only then do they become stronger to purify their lives

Whatever we call- liberation war or mass movement

Green flag is in the heart, a red lip parakeet



In the dense darkness, severe cold, and rain in torrents

Who is marching in the night with rifle to kill the enemy?

Rare they are, empty are their hands

Sacrificing everything liberally for mother and land



I know danger would never come to the land

Where there were countless fighters

If ever he confronts danger

He would move unhindered raising the mass






1)            Razakar : Razakar was a paramilitary force organized by the Pakistan Army in East Pakistan during the Liberation War in 1971. Since the 1971 war, it has become a pejorative term in Bangladesh due to the many suspected atrocities which the Razakars committed and/or facilitated during the war.


2)            Al-Badr: The Al-Badr  was also a paramilitary force which operated in Bangladesh (then East Pakistan) against the Bengali nationalist movement during the Bangladesh Liberation War, under the patronage of the Pakistani government.



Translated by Jahidul Alam, Assistant Professor

Dept. of English, Comilla University

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