Translated from Bangla by Selim Jahan with the poet
Illusion
I feel a clear craving in me
for a little compassion,
it can be as small as a pea,
or a Nokuldana.
The size or the kind does not matter really,
in fact a shadow
of a flying bird or a reflection of a running stream would do.
I would be more than happy
with a small covering,
a fraction of soaring compassion from a bird extremely tired of flying.
Don’t you kindle some
in your heart for me?
Can it not be crafted from
the ashes of
our forgotten flame?
I am on an isolated island.
Years are going past
without kindness and concern.
The wind is scattering
words of my pain-
a growing ache spreading
all over me.
I wonder what it is
that makes a proper shelter,
the hue of it –
is it coloured like the huge Hakaluki?*
I can be sure about mine,
which is like the soothing dawn,
scented like a remedy
lies right next to my waist.
It gets visible on rainy days here or in the hills of Sylhet.
My shades may seem transperant and fluid,
actually they are your memories, your reflections true.
* Hakaluki is an enormous lake in Sylhet,
a north-eastern district of Bangladesh
———————–
Love-bugs
It doesn’t matter really,
whether they are on a train or a toilet, in a bus or at a barbecue, in Swindon or far away in Sylhet; if I see a love-struck couple, believe me, I would go nuts.
If I witness a duo with their faces up coming out of water,
faltering and falling on their arms, I would like to catch that virus.
If I ever meet a couple
drowsy and drowning,
ignoring the happenings around, and their beautiful bodies getting glued by fondness, without even a trace of wine and spirit,
I may turn celestial
Like Klimt’s ‘The Kiss’.
An expression of such affection can turn any poet into a messenger who will run cross-continent from Brick Lane to Barishal,
to spread the news.
The day I meet my love,
I would sit all night
on Embankment Bridge,
dangling my legs. I won’t care or fear cold or a shark, in fact, with my blessed whiff,
I would lead all the nutty lovers on the streets
to the crazy singer, who has been stuck in the same loveless song
for the past twenty-seven years in the Portuguese Café.
Trust me or not,
if I see such feelings floating
near my moving car,
I would never wash my eyes,
rather I would be engrossed
in painting those caring lips on my heart.
The next morning, with that image embedded inside me
I shall rush to the
Bethnal Green Bengali Library,
open the Tagore
and introduce that Koch* and this Debjani* to everyone.
I shall ask then,
‘Lay the kisses beneath the restless Sycamore,
close your eyes, tell me
do you see a different colour,
do they seem old to you’?
Koch and Devjani are two mythical lovers from
the Indian epic of The Mahabharata
——————————
Tying the Time
I would like to tie the time with the wind
The values and rules are changing too fast.
The shadows of famine reflecting in seasons
Rebel Robin’s soft wings are stuck in glue and rust.
The front yard plant grows in self-reproach,
Fresh anger drops are jumping over it every day
The poisonous monsoon brings poverty and flood,
The dream-pitcher again floats away.
The sinking sun can’t trace the time
Trust is lost, confidence not abound,
Tears rushing from sleepless night as deluge
The boisterous boy was nowhere to be seen or found!
Hours gone past, the feathers dropping off
How a bard beyond the borders can fly?
Wow, the tired front yard plant is still alive
A new fresh leaf may appear to see the sky!
—————————–
Joyfol *
Let’s continue the snake dance on the water-stage
With raging desires overflowing every side,
Let the flame keep burning in our heads,
then the fierce situation can’t be hiding.
The wind is not rooted, but rather unbound,
Wings flying freely, the time is for banging,
With wounds floating like balloons in the sky
The hermaphrodites seem to be hanging.
The mirrors reflect nothing but fire
Heads haven’t gotten parted hair
With free markets gulping everything,
perplexed great minds don’t even dare.
The epic stones are raising their heads
The rain pours down in a stream
I, a woman, have come from the valley of death
– a very slim snake, real and not a dream.
I shall bite at the waist –a deadly bite
I shall draw a different game of dice
I shall smash poetry, remove old ornaments
No, I won’t remain proper and nice.
El Dorado is on our palm-lines,
Yes, we also have it – distinct and heft,
You may be back conquering the world
Yet we confront in the little alley left.
0n the water arena, the grand bite
will come from us – day or night.
*the poet imagines Joyfol as a fruit of victory.
—————————
Pure Poetry
Where the tree lines are declining,
the river jaws gobbled its depth,
windows get frosted in winter,
the rain stops at wailings of humans-
I can only write over there.
To manage such a distance
my words oar like rowing boats
become unstable in every way
and can’t even swim suitably.
The verses coming out of my pen
circle aimlessly, I feel sleepy
so I keep burning the midnight oil
with streaks of Caffeine.
But pretty soon, the pen in my head
gets steady, the salad of thoughts
invigorates my brain
and the fingers jump on the computer.
The human wailings become crystal
at the lost river-mouth,
the tree lines start telling stories of their extinction,
those trees that are no more were not really trees,
they were humans of unidentified gender.
Since nobody tried to understand them,
they committed suicide in the river, and
have turned themselves into stones.
Those stones have settled one over the other
at the bottom of the riverbed
and in the end, a pyramid was raised.
There is no depth in there,
except for expert boatmen, nobody goes there anymore
the seasons keep on biting the frozen cold,
The frame of winter seems to be cracking
but the warmth doesn’t come home.
Despite all that I go
and as I finish my poem I realize,
whatever has been accomplished,
It may not look great, but it is pure butter
that can make your skin glow.
—-
Illustration : Rajat
