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,
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