Modern Poetry from Bangladesh in 40 Characters

PADMA MEGHNA JAMUNA
MODERN POETRY FROM BANGLADESH

PADMA MEGHNA JAMUNA
MODERN POETRY FROM BANGLADESH
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PADMA MEGHNA JAMUNA
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6 • PADMA MEGHNA JAMUNA

Shamsur Rahman 47
Freedom, You Are
Crows
This City
Contents So Many Days
Mask
Acknowledgements 13
Alauddin Al Azad 53
Introduction 16 The Monument
Sufia Kamal 25 Jahanara Arzoo 55
That Love of Yours Shabmeher, For You
Love-Timid
Kaisul Huq 57
Ahsan Habib 27 My Business
The Sea Is Very Big The Wonder Bridge of Words
Farrukh Ahmad 29 Hasan Hafizur Rahman 59
Son of Man Like a Denuded Barren Field
From “Naufel and Hatem” Look, in the Desolate Garden
Sikandar Abu Jafar 34 Abu Zafar Obaidullah 61
My Dream Kamol’s Eye
Epilogue
Abul Hossain 35
On the Death of a Poet-Playwright Al Mahmud 63
The Heritage Eloi Eloi Lama Sabachtani
Socrates The Pitcher of Time
Fingers of Truth
Syed Ali Ahsan 39 From The Golden Contract
My East Bengal
Mohammad Moniruzzaman 72
Abdul Ghani Hazari 41 The Annihilation
Wives of a Few Bureaucrats The Love Letter
Zillur Rahman Siddiqui 45 Omar Ali 74
The Progeny Hasina

PADMA MEGHNA JAMUNA • 7 8 • PADMA MEGHNA JAMUNA

Syed Shamsul Huq 75 Asad Choudhury 104
I Shall Have to Go Out I Was Enjoying Dreaming
Three Sonnets from Deep within the Heart A Question
Guessing by What I Glimpsed
Fazal Shahabuddin 79
A Familiar Alley Mohammad Rafiq 106
In the Blinding Light of This Century Ekushey
1390
Zia Hyder 82
Startled
Desires within a Casket
Rabiul Husain 110
Belal Chowdhury 84
Rape and Remembrance
Native Land
On Ekushey Book Fair Rafiq Azad 111
Chunia, My Arcadia
Hayat Mamud 86
Art and Hunger
Portrait of My Native Land
Love
Khaleda Edib Chowdhury 88 Give Me Rice, You Sonofabitch
The Vase Is Empty Now
Mahadev Saha 116
Rice Sheaves This Alluvial Night
I was Looking for a Friend
Shaheed Quaderi 91 Life
Rain, Rain
Nirmalendu Goon 119
At Each Other
This Day I Haven’t Come to Shed Blood
The Eyes of Friends
What Sin Would Redeem Me
One Splendid Night
Firearm
Abdul Mannan Syed 99
Ruby Rahman 122
Moonlight Like a Ghost Stands at the Door Left Behind
Each Other I Didn’t Keep My Word
Strange Serenade
Humayun Azad 125
Hayat Saif 103 The Red Train
Make Me Cry Curfew


Abul Hasan 127 Shihab Sarkar 151
An Uncivil Philosophy Days and Nights of a Botanist
Coal Buddha and Balmiki in Airport Road
The Crippled Patriot Abid Azad 153
Dilara Hashem 130 My Poems Belong to No One Else
Love Fear

Sajjad Quadir 132 Tridib Dastidar 155
Recognised Border Terror
Shamim Azad 156
Kashinath Roy 134
First Love
Noah’s Ark
Tell Me What You’ve Lost
Selim Sarwar 137 Abu Karim 158
Bangladesh: December 1973 Bonsai
Confessional
Hasan Hafiz 159
Mohammad Nurul Huda 140 However Far You Go
A Big Farewell Dilara Hafiz 160
The Cultivation of Love So Many Days on the Road
Zahidul Huq 142 Girls Beside the Road
Wish Shahera Khatun Bela 162
This Blunder Wrapped in Silk
Khondakar Ashraf Hossain 143
You’re in My Core
Tango
The Victor Rudro Mohammad Shahidullah 163
Smell of Corpses in the Breeze
Zarina Akhtar 146
Farida Sarkar 165
Entity
What Love Is This?
No Directives
Nasima Sultana 167
Daud Hyder 148 I Was Asleep, I Was Alone
Sixth January, Mother’s Death Anniversary Promise


Mahmud Kamal 169 Chanchal Ashraf 187
Meter . . . casually India
Abu Hassan Shahriar 170 Tokon Thakur 188
Bird Flood Mother

Masud Khan 171 Shamim Reza 190
Rain A Quickened Night
Carnival Time Simon Zakaria 191
Minar Monsur 174 What Happened to Three Friends Who Had Gone
Return into a Forest

Riffat Chowdhury 175 Obayed Akash 193
Nameless The Earth’s Sympathies
Auditi Phalguni 194
Taslima Nasrin 176
Dream Girl, Come By
Simple Talk
Thereafter Farida Majid 196
Inversion of a Convert
Rezauddin Stalin 178
The Beginning Firoz Ahmed-ud-din 198
Dhobi Poem
Sajjad Sharif 179
Moonstruck Kaiser Haq 199
Published in the Streets of Dhaka
Tarik Sujat 180
Party Games
I Have Seen Time Walking by on Backward-Pointed Feet
Biographical Notes 204
Suhita Sultana 182
Cataleptic Waves Within The Poets
Tushar Gayen 183 The Translators 214
Half a Life The Editor 216
Baitullah Quaderee 185
Stop It

14 • PADMA MEGHNA JAMUNA

Fazal Shahabuddin: “A Familiar Alley”; “In the Blinding Light of
This Century”; Zillur Rahman Siddiqui: “Progeny”; Abdul
Mannan Syed: “Each Other”.
From The Daily Star Book of Bangladeshi Writing in English, ed.
Khademul Islam, Dhaka, 2006:
Belal Chowdhury: “On Ekushey Book Fair”; Masud Khan:
“Carnival Time”; Shaheed Quaderi: “Rain, Rain”.
Acknowledgements
From The Game in Reverse: Poems by Taslima Nasrin. Translated
by Carolyne Wright. New York: George Braziller, 1995:
For permission to use the material in this anthology, grateful “Simple Talk” (Also in Organica, Autumn 1995), “Thereafter”.
acknowledgment is made to the translators, whose names have
been mentioned in parenthesis after the texts of the poems, and From Majestic Nights: Love Poems of Bengali Women. Translated
also to the publishers/editors of the periodicals and anthologies and edited by Carolyne Wright, Buffalo, New York,
in which many of them previously appeared: White Pine Press, 2008.

From Abul Hossain: Early Poems: A Selection. Translated by Syed Shamim Azad: “First Love” (Previously published in Boulevard,
Sajjad Husain. Dhaka: writers. ink, 2006: Spring 2006); Shahera Khatun Bela: “This Blunder Wrapped in
Silk” (Also in Boulevard, Spring 2006); “You’re in My Core”
“The Heritage”, “Socrates”.
(Also in Vellum); Khaleda Edib Chowdhury: “Rice Sheaves This
From A Choice of Contemporary Verse from Bangladesh, ed. M. Alluvial Night” (Also in the Mississippi Review, Fall 2006); Dilara
Harunur Rashid. Dhaka: Bangla Academy, 1986: Hashem: “Love”; Sufia Kamal: “That Love of Yours”; “Love-
Timid”; Farida Sarkar: “What Love Is This?” (Also in Vellum).
Belal Chowdhury: “Native Land”; Nirmalendu Goon: “What
Sin Would Redeem Me”, “ Firearm”; Mohammad Nurul Huda: From On Behula’s Raft: Selected Poems by Khondakar Ashraf
“A Big Farewell”; Kaisul Huq: “My Business”, “The Wonder Hossain. Dhaka: writers.ink, 2008:
Bridge of Words”; Zahidul Huq: “Wish”; Rabiul Husain: “Rape “The Victor”
and Remembrance”; Daud Hyder: Sixth January, Mother’s Death
From Selected Poems of Hayat Saif. Dhaka: Pathak Shamabesh,
Anniversary”; Zia Hyder: “Desires within a Casket”; Sikandar
2001:
Abu Jafar: “My Dream”; Al Mahmud: “Eloi Eloi Lama
“Make Me Cry”.
Sabachtani”; Hayat Mamud: “Portrait of My Native Land”; Abu
Zafar Obaidullah: “Kamol’s Eye”; Sazzad Qadir: “Recognized From Selected Poems of Shamsur Rahman. Translated by Kaiser
Border”; Mohammad Rafiq: “Ekushey”; Mahadev Saha: “Life”; Haq. Dhaka: Pathak Shamabesh, 2008:

PADMA MEGHNA JAMUNA • 15

“Crows”, “This City”, “So Many Days”, “Mask”.
From Arts and Letters #3, Spring 2000:
Nasima Sultana: “I Was Asleep’ I Was Alone”; “Promise”.
From Chapman, Autumn 1990:
Rafiq Azad: “Art and Hunger”, “Love”; Shaheed Quaderi: “At
Each Other”, “The Eyes of Friends”.
From Crab Orchard Review, Spring/Summer 1998:
Khaleda Edib Chowdhury: “This Vase Is Empty”; Dilara Hafiz: Introduction
“So Many Days on the Road”, “Girls beside the Road”.
From the Indiana Review, Summer 2005: Studies of Bangladeshi subjects, cultural or otherwise, routinely
Shamim Azad: “Tell Me What You’ve Lost”. begin by stating that though Bangladesh – the People’s Republic
From The Kenyon Review, Vol. XXI, No. 1, 1979: of Bangladesh, to give its full, constitutional nomenclature – is a
Ruby Rahman: “Left Behind”. very young entity on the geopolitical map, it is a millennia-old
civilization. The complete literary history of the country,
From Poetry, April 2006: Ruby Rahman:
consequently, is virtually coterminous with that of greater Bengal.
“I Didn’t Keep My Word”.
In concrete terms this means that Bangladesh and the Bengali-
From Six Seasons Review, Vol. I, No. 1, 2001: speaking parts of India share the entire Bengali literary heritage
Rafiq Azad: “Chunia, My Arcadia”; Shaheed Quaderi: “One that had its inception in the Buddhist Charyapada, and over the
Splendid Night”. centuries grew to encompass a broad range of folk literary forms,
from the devotional Vaishnava lyrics to gripping narratives like
the Manasamangal, before the impact of British rule “globalized”
Bengali literature by infusing varied western influences.
Within this broad framework, the definition of what is specifically
Bangladeshi literature is not as straightforward as it might seem.
There is no problem with recent writings, of course: anything
published by writers who are Bangladeshi citizens is Bangladeshi
literature. The net can be widened a little to include writers of
Bangladeshi origin who have adopted another nationality, e.g.,
Monica Ali. But we cannot stop there, and as we try to extend


the net back in time our retroactive appropriation can safely post-Nazrul era, which may be said to have begun when the poet
categorize as Bangladeshis those writers who belonged to the went out of his mind – in 1942. We have therefore left out
present geographical area of Bangladesh – e.g., Mir Mosharraf Jasimuddin, a rare example of a poet with a modern education
Hossain (1847-1917). But then in the twentieth century it gets who wrote entirely in a manner organically related to the region’s
caught up in the politics and ideology of Partition. Bengali writers folk tradition, since he began writing in the 1920s. An exception
who opted for Pakistan, even if they died before the birth of has been made in the case of Sufia Kamal (1911-1999), whose
Bangladesh, like the poet Kaikobad, are now regarded as first collection of poems came out in 1938, because it was from
Bangladeshi writers. But someone whose family hails from what the 1950s onwards that she really began to make her presence
is now Bangladesh but who opted for India, like Buddhadev felt as a poet and, more importantly perhaps, a cultural activist.
Bose, Jibanananda Das or Humayun Kabir, is not counted as a
It is fitting that Sufia Kamal should be the earliest of the poets in
Bangladeshi writer.
this anthology, for she is something of a transitional figure. Her
This may seem straightforward enough, but taking such principles poetic mode is late-Romantic, pre-modern, even though in her
of definition seriously can lead to bizarre “manipulation.” After long and fruitful career she was ever alive to the significance of
the birth of Bangladesh it was decided that the new-born republic the historical forces impacting on our society. All the other poets
needed a national poet as an aid to self-definition, and the choice have, in varying degrees, been shaped by modernist and
fell on Kazi Nazrul Islam, even though his ancestral home was in contemporary movements, which have been global in their
West Bengal and he and his family lived there as Indian citizens. impact.
The Indian government was requested to allow the poet to move
to Bangladesh so that he could become a Bangladeshi citizen and The earliest of these emerged in the 1940s, in the wake of the
the country’s national poet. The request was generously granted, modernist movement in Bengali poetry, spearheaded by the five
the poet and his family moved to Dhaka and until his death in great figures in the post-Tagore era – Jibanananda Das,
1976 it was an occasional media event to see him amidst admirers Sudhindranath Datta, Amiya Chakravarty, Bishnu De and
– garlanded but silent, staring blankly, for he had long since lost Buddhadev Bose. These poets, and a few of their younger
his mental faculties, since 1942 in fact. contemporaries, like Premendra Mitra and Samar Sen, were
regarded as exemplars by the first generation of modern
Be that as it may, the adoption of Kazi Nazrul Islam as the national Bangladeshi poets, notable among whom were Ahsan Habib,
poet of Bangladesh gives us a useful historical marker for defining Farrukh Ahmed, Abul Hossain and Syed Ali Ahsan.
Bangladeshi poetry. For all practical purposes we may regard what
is specifically Bangladeshi poetry within the broad tradition of Among them Farrukh Ahmed can be distinguished by the
Bengali poetry to begin with him. As a landmark he also serves definitive impact of Partition politics on his sensibility.
to define the scope of the present anthology, for modern Interestingly, this came after a phase of youthful socialism in the
Bangladeshi poetry can also be loosely described as that of the 1930s. As the independence movement split along communal


lines, he came to identify himself more and more with Islamic their contemporaries assiduously cultivated literary modernism.
and especially Perso-Arabic culture. His interest in Arab culture In this they differed somewhat from their contemporaries in
extended into pre-Islamic times, as is witnessed in his use of the Kolkata, who had swerved away from modernism to look for
legends of Hatem Tai. Farrukh Ahmed, however, stands apart more accessible poetic modes. Shaheed Quaderi, who was born
from a number of other poets inspired by Islam and the ideology in Kolkata and emigrated to Dhaka with his family as a small
of Pakistan, like Talim Husain, Mufakkharul Islam, Abdur Rashid boy, is perhaps the most conspicuously modern voice among the
Wasekpuri or Raushan Yazdani, who, as Professor Zillur Rahman Bangladeshi poets.
Siddiqui has pointed out, “lack the first requisite of a modern
Shamsur Rahman is so far the only Bangladeshi poet who has
poet, the ability to write a kind of verse which has profited from
been acclaimed as the leading Bengali poet of a generation:
the technical developments already achieved.”
William Radice in an obituary in The Guardian (London)
Of the other modern poets mentioned above, Abul Hossain is unequivocally described him as “the greatest Bengali poet of his
generally regarded as the most accomplished and urbane. Ahsan generation.” Spread over more than seventy volumes, his poetic
Habib has been influential both as a poet and a literary editor, œuvre is remarkable for its versatility. He began as a “private”
and Syed Ali Ahsan, probably, more as a critic than a poet. A poet addressing a coterie, but even this had a political significance
growing number of younger poets emerged in the wake of the because, as opposed to the poetry of those imbued with the
Partition of 1947, within three years of which an anthology titled ideology of Pakistan, the self-conscious modernism of Shamsur
Natun Kavita (“New Poetry”), edited by Ashraf Siddiqui and Rahman and his contemporaries was accompanied by a liberal,
Abdur Rashid Khan appeared to present them to a somewhat secular outlook. Eventually, the voice of these poets blended with
uncomprehending public – for in East Pakistan modern poetry the chorus of popular protest against the Pakistan government.
was still something novel, and to some, an outrageous violation Not surprisingly, their poetry became more “public,” more direct
of literary decorum. Professor Harunur Rashid rightly comments in technique.
on this anthology, that “It failed to initiate a movement but it
A number of interesting poets emerged in the sixties and became
was the first puff of fresh wind and had projected a poet, Shamsur
an integral part of the tradition founded by Shamsur Rahman
Rahman, who was to become a major figure within the next two
and others mentioned above. By then the cultural climate had
decades.”
begun to register new influences, coming from the West as well
It has now become customary – and with good reason too – to as Kolkata. The Beat Generation had appeared and its leading
regard Shamsur Rahman as the leading light of a group of poets poet, Allen Ginsberg, had a long sojourn in Kolkata, where some
who emerged in the 1950s; among them were Hasan Hafizur young Bengali poets announced their kinship with him by forming
Rahman, Syed Shamsul Huq, Al Mahmud, Fazal Shahabuddin the so-called “Hungry Generation,” a group more conspicuous
and Shaheed Quaderi. In the steadily expanding provincial for the deployment of obscenities than for poetic depth. A number
metropolis of Dhaka these poets and a number of others among of young Bangladeshi writers, most of them poets, among whom


Rafiq Azad and Mohammed Rafiq stood out, named themselves Pakistani protest that began with the movement for the
the “Sad Generation.” The members of this group were inspired recognition of Bengali as a state language, which is now
by the various anti-Establishment movements then in the commemorated as “Ekushey,” in remembrance of the five martyrs
ascendant – the Beats, the Angry Young Men, the Hungry who fell to Police bullets on 21 February 1952.
Generation. These new influences were blended with those of
After the liberation of Bangladesh, with the victory of the allied
the great modernists of the West as well as Bengal.
Indo-Bangladesh forces over the Pakistan Army, a new phase began
A rather piquant touch to the avant-garde tendencies in the in the country’s history. Sadly, if inevitably, the romantic dreams
country was added by a little magazine titled Na (“No”). Inspired inspired by the independence struggle were rudely shattered. As
by Dadaism and avowedly nihilistic in its ethos, four issues of usual in such cases, the naïve had been led to expect utopia to
the magazine appeared, each in a unique and curious format: one emerge. The dire economic problems that independent
was bound in jute sacking and printed on brown wrapping paper, Bangladesh inherited defied whatever measures could be adopted
another was circular in shape. Drawings and graphics played as by the government. Left-wing militancy increased, and generally
important role as texts. Rabiul Husain, who was prominent a mood of frustration and despair gripped the nation and found
among Na poets, continues to publish, but in a more traditional its way into poetry. With the series of coups that have occurred
idiom. in the country and the precarious fortunes of democracy, this
mood has indeed become a lasting feature of Bangladeshi
Later in the sixties, more young poets emerged, eager to epater le literature. Lately the threat of militant Islamic fundamentalism
bourgeois, to the dismay of their parents and the delight of youths. has become a source of grave anxiety.
Nirmalendu Goon can be regarded as the most conspicuous figure
in this group, and alongside him the relatively sober Abul Hasan We are perhaps too close to the literature produced in independent
and Mahadev Saha. Bangladesh since the 1970s to be able to speak about the younger
poets with objectivity, but a few broad trends may be pointed
By now the democratic movement in the country had begun to out. There are certainly more women writing now than before –
morph into a nationalist movement, and poetry reflected this in both prose and verse – and this phenomenon is obviously
dramatic development with great flair. The Bangladesh war of related to the rise of Feminism. Literature as a whole perhaps
independence in 1971 too elicited an eloquent poetic response. evinces a greater interest in folk culture than before. At the same
Shamsur Rahman published a collection significantly titled, Bondi time recent international trends like Postmodernism have also
Shibir Thekey (“From the Prison Camp”), and other poets too made a noticeable impact. A recent issue of the little magazine
registered their shock, outrage and militancy of spirit with great Ekobingsho (“Twenty-First”), edited by the poet-academic
rhetorical energy. A popular anthology of the poetry of the Khondakar Ashraf Hossain is devoted to Postmodernism. Those
independence war runs to 300 plus pages. The poetry of the who write poetry in a Postmodernist vein seem to derive their
independence war was a fitting culmination of a tradition of anti- intellectual orientation from Post-Structuralist Literary Theory


and post-Althusserian Marxism. How the young talents develop Bangladesh Period. Dhaka: University Press Limited, 1996
will be interesting to watch.
— Contemporary Bengali Writing: Bangladesh Period. Dhaka:
Although nearly all the poetry published in Bangladesh is in University Press Limited, 1996
Bengali, we should not forget that there are other languages in
Rashid, M. Harunur, ed. A Choice of Contemporary Verse from
which some literature is produced by Bangladeshis. Besides Englih,
Bangladesh. Dhaka: Bangla Academy, 1986
there are more than a dozen languages spoken by ethnic
minorities. This anthology includes a few poets in English, though Siddiqui, Zillur Rahman. Literature of Bangladesh and Other
unfortunately the other languages had to be left out because Essays. Dhaka: Bangladesh Books International, 1982
contemporary writings in them make only a fugitive appearance.
It is hoped that in time the significant writers in those languages
will be identified and their works translated, both into Bengali
and English.
An anthology of this sort is always difficult to put together because
of the tricky question of who to include and who to leave out.
There are many more poets who could be in it, or even should
have been in it. But is not always easy to find translations or
translators. That is why nearly all the post-independence poets
have been represented by a single poem each. I have tried to make
as comprehensive and diverse a selection as possible without far
exceeding the limit of 200 pages that was mentioned by the
publisher. In selecting the poets, especially the younger ones, I
have relied on the judgment of Mr. Belal Choudhury, who has a
more thorough knowledge of the area than anyone else I know.
The ultimate responsibility for the selection, however, naturally
rests on me. I have tried to make a selection from the best of the
already published translations, and have also included a fair
amount of new, freshly commissioned ones. The names of the
translators have been placed in parenthesis after each poem.
For Further Reading:
Murshid, Khan Sarwar, ed. Contemporary Bengali Writing: Pre-


Sufia Kamal Love-Timid
That Love of Yours Even now the night’s intoxication has not passed,
eyes filled with passion;
I’ve taken possession of that love of yours the string of ?iuli-flowers in the parting of my hair
that fills the earth’s vessel till it overflows, has wilted, the world is overwhelmed with scent.
filling my eyes, filling my heart, I have kept the window-shutters open,
and filling my two hands. extinguishing my lamp –
How unbearable is this joy, that this love is so intense. so the dew may enter and cool
With the touch like arrows of its golden rays the fearful outcry of my heart!
the inner bud blooms, as quickly as grass. Dream’s intoxication in my eyes, in my breast
Illumined in my heart, it brings jewel-inlaid riches; a message of hope –
that’s why I’m wealthy, my joy will not perish. the distant woodland song, birds’ twittering
With images ever new, this world has gratified me, will enter here I know.
given as it is to praise, to perfumed blossoms dripping honey. Rising with a sudden start I see: my heart’s monarch,
The diurnal light of sun, at every watch of the night, leaning in silence against my thigh – bedecked with flowers.
merging hour by hour with your love’s every letter, will set. He has bestowed heaven on my heated thirst;
Ever-new messages I hear; my weak and timid heart has trembled,
my heart is overcome – so in love I compose my answering letter. pounding full of love.
Warmed from the Sindhu’s expanse of river,
– Carolyne Wright with Ayesha Kabir
these clouds upon clouds of gentle moist air
ever bring these love letters, then carry them afar.
The eager heart grows devoted as an unmarried girl,
so it longs to compose scores upon scores
of ever-new messages of love and amours.
The heart fills with joy, grows voluble,
so I’ve gathered hence,
from the mortal earth, from the horizon’s expanse:
impassioned, illumined, that love of yours.
– Carolyne Wright with Ayesha Kabir


Ahsan Habib There is a stain in the water of the sea,
And only pearl in the dew.
The Sea Is Very Big That I will take.
My river, too, can one day be in the ocean
Do not ask me to be the wave of some vast sea. Rich with the weight of pearls, and
I can agree though if you promise that the wave of the sea Then merging with this vast human sea
Will but lose itself in the depths of the ocean and I, too, can, without fear, be one more unique wave
Return again to the refuge of the childhood river. In the company of many waves,
I do not want to merge with the sea, for And then I, too, can fearlessly sing,
It is vast, it has too great a pride, Joining my voice
And I am afraid of it. In the universal symphony.

It is bent on devouring the river – Kabir Chowdhury
in intoxicated ravenousness, but
I refuse to be its victim: only
I can be its occasional companion
some morning, or,
May even go with it to the far distance
some lazy noon.
Provided it gives me the pledge
That each evening it will restore me to the quiet
River of my childhood, which I have seen
Flowing in my body and soul from birth,
That when I shall watch my river some winter night,
Sitting on its bank, it will fill this river of mine
With a new flood tide.
No oceanic cyclone
Only the soft drip-drop of dew, like a musical tune,
Making the two bakul branches on the bank
Mildly quiver.


Farrukh Ahmad Move the hungry lean backed children
And numberless files move
Son of Man Leaving behind deserts, fields and woods.
In the court of man
The sailor is back after weathering many tumultuous storms. A farce in frozen stone.
Many hungry nights and many sicknesses of the sea Banding together the children move on
Made him giddy and restless. Many a time Lifting to their lips the bitter cup of life,
Did he lose his way in the darkness. And the messengers of death Hungry, dying son of man!
Called him again and again from the dark waters all around. Materialism’s
The twisted hold of his storm battered ship was filled Frozen stony path,
With sweat stained hopelessness of bitter failure. The path of this horrible civilization
The dark fierce blue deep urged him on; Full of deep ravines,
Yet the sailor sought and has now found his home Cover up the sky in darkness and invite them.
In the strange unknown land. What battlement is this?
Though his two eyes are full of black nightmarish fears Here only the hungry day’s flame bums,
Though the taste of death still lingers on his pale lips The dark fog of poisonous smoke
Yet the twisted hold of his broken ship is today vibrant with And the gruesome terror of death.
victory The heavy oppressed heart, the deep weary pain,
And all the cruel tortured memories languish behind. And in their midst, kicked, afraid of Satan,
Son of man, the victorious Sindabad has come back, Stumbles forward today the dead son of Adam
Overcoming many storms, with his rich merchandise. Into the hideous grave,
By the fierce sea in another strange land he has seen the home of Into the complex abysmal depth.
man, a living tomb, The children proceed in a band to mass extermination.
Where the dead desert mind of the proud reside, a farce In the ugly false black dark road they go astray
in frozen stone. Where at every point Satan has his snare laid.
Row after row Drawn inexorably
Line by line, The weak lean son of man moves towards that today.
Move the band of load bearers On either side of the road I see hungry dead bodies of children
Move the flock of beasts And side by side I find the proud wealth of millionaires
With shovel and hammers overflowing.
With pen and ploughs


I see terrible famine at the peasants’ door, their flag
I see burning on the forehead of the oppressed the flaming mark They bring with them the tireless typhoon of life.
of insult. Today I hear their music
Man, at the joking hands of the arrogant, Their victorious flag flutters today in the air
Has become a slave and woman a whore. I only hear their voice
The voice of the mild soft hearts
Man’s fortress lies far ahead in the distance,
Coming from deep vigorous chests.
Here is only the devil’s outer courtyard;
Those who walk here Let him not be tired any more
Wander aimlessly in a whirlpool of confusion. Let him not be frightened again at the sight of traps of
Lured by the vile serpent of materialism oppression on the way,
Let him not stray again,
They are today but blind betrayed wayfarers,
Son of man of the future.
Sad victims of this century’s civilization.
– Kabir Chowdhury
Multiplying the number of the frightened
Raising the number of the fallen
They have joined hands with the killer of men and women From “Naufel and Hatem”
They have become cruel hunters
The inhuman dead sons of man. I have seen many sprawling meadows,
The bond of chain protests at every step Many deserts, fields, forests and crowded cities.
The breath of life stops. Many strange lands have I seen. Sometimes
In the court of man I have seen savage darkness swallowing up this world of ours
A farce in frozen stone. Like that huge sea fish devouring the tired prophet Jonah.
Now Sometimes again I have seen the moving sun,
No more in this court of man, the symbol of sexlessness, Bright and glorious, emerging from the prison of night
No more on Satan’s black mudbespattered path Like the freed prophet Joseph coming out of the dark well of
Now our appeal is in the court of God alone death.
The appeal of the robbed hungry tortured man. I have seen the sea bubbling with life, stretching from horizon
to horizon,
I know many civilizations have perished under dust And mountains, standing erect, like the rocky spine of the true
I know many Pharaohs, many tyrannical Nimrods believer.
Lie buried under it I have known all and witnessed the rise and fall
And now a band of new travellers appear on the hill fluttering Of nations or crowds of men. I have seen


God’s vast creation. Many hours have I spent Sikandar Abu Jafar
In the company of the wise in many lands,
And in the association of meditating saints. My Dream
But still I find my thirst unquenched.
Incomplete, unfulfilled, my heart seeks the fullness of life Earth, O earth,
In the midst of the wide wide world among countless men. Would you remember me
– Kabir Chowdhury When many many years had rolled by?
When your dilapidated cottages
Would be freshly thatched
And no rains would stream down
Their gaping holes any more,
And the inmates of your home would sleep in peace
On cool mats spread on the dry floor- –
Would you, in the quiet hour of such a happy night
Remember me?
Would you remember that as I lay in my crumbling room
And wasted away in consumptive fever
I used to dream all the time of such an hour as this?
– Kabir Chowdhury


Abul Hussain The warm honeyed glow has gone out.
Now the rule of drab colourless days is on.
On the Death of a Poet-Playwright – Kabir Chowdhury

Suddenly the lights went out on the stage. Row after row
Of men look all around. Strange, the hero himself The Heritage
Is not on the stage. The play has ended
And the crowd look about with tearful eyes.
This heritage of bright blue skies, of light
It is not yet time to go but still one has to leave.
The colour of rice sheaves, of rain which flows
Whichever way I look, front or behind, this way or that, Like tears, of moonlight spreading like a spray
There is no laughter or song anywhere. The life Of blood, of pitch black darkness, and the air
That once flooded the city and the countryside As light and soft as cotton wool, and days
With the torrent of plays is no more. As calm as tranquil streams, and flowers and birds
Its current has stopped. And if a thousand barbarians Many hued, and the waning moon and clouds
Rule today, in the name of real work, swinging their canes, Which tower like endless forests: do we know
It all enough to love and cherish it?
I shan’t be surprised any more. I know
At the glances of whose red eyes our time moves. Shall we not cherish too, this soil, this earth,
I have seen his body like a charred piece of wood, Source of abundant gifts, where we have walked
Burning behind the screen of moth-eaten scriptures, In freedom, whose air, light and water are
Or, smiling in hypocritical modesty baring all his teeth, Part of our being, and whose sodden clay
Or spluttering big words, clad in his We savoured in the rainy months? Shall we
Brilliant red tunic and savage boots. Forget the greenish sparkle of rice shoots,
The smell of flowers and golden harvests, and
What will he do with the handsome hero? The carefree laughter or the ringing tones
The bridegroom in dainty silken attire Of children, wild like running brooks, the smiles
Has no charm for him, Of girls possessed of flame like grace?
His voice doesn’t sound like honey to his ears. Can we
The easy smooth royal discourse Ever forget the sight of ploughmen on
Is but a waste of time in his eyes. Fields, weavers at their looms, blacksmiths at work
The age of poetry, of drama, is at an end. On axes, potters labouring at wheels


Or woodmen sawing logs, carpenters with Reminding us how you elected then
Their tools or fishermen with nets and seines, To turn your back upon the beaten track
And crowds of other craftsmen in workshops, And tread a lonesome path in disregard
On farms, in factories, who toil and die Of certain risk.
Unknown, the sweat of their brows pouring down
You chose to prove that death
Their faces, forming pools where they work? Can
Outshines life, that indeed at times it can
We who have seen this spectacle forget?
Itself be life, endowed with matchless grace.
– Syed Sajjad Husain
– Syed Sajjad Husain

Socrates
Strolling in ancient Athens as I moved
Among those passing cars and shady trees,
I thought of you, bald pated Socrates,
Your ugly snub nosed looks and sunken eyes,
And wondered why those crowds of Attic youth,
From far and near, would flock and gather round
You who had little wealth and less pretence
Of wisdom and no claim to knowledge which
Unlocks love’s secrets. Yes, you only knew
How to pose riddles and seek answers or,
Diver like, fish for truths amid the turns
And eddies of unceasing talk. Sometimes
You launched a soaring kite of teasers which
Set them long puzzling. All the while you kept
Strongly insisting that you hardly had
An inkling of what real truth was. But
Your modest words, flung like a pebble or
Stone into a dark stagnant pool, have not
Stopped echoing since down the ages, and
Your voice comes ringing still across the years


Syed Ali Ahsan Dark thick blue, gray like the fog, or black,
Seen the sun in the sky of many countries
My East Bengal Right and left, touching the horizon
Or glittering on the ice
What an amazingly cool river is my East Bengal Red, blue, or crystal white
How quiet and again how gay in sudden overflowing abandon And in the generous width of the woodlands of Western
Once loud and noisy, many a time sleepy and lethargic Bavaria.
At other times a continuous flood of subdued voices. The air, light of the sun
How often cranes and river snipes And every moment then had seemed
A kingfisher or two To envelop me in some soft green languor.
Some chattering crows But the generous profusion of green ıIn all
Cluster of Kash thickets singing in the wind ts wild splendour ıNow suddenly come
A river of words rich with waves back to me new and fresh ıH
A tiny island of earth e my world is much more glamorous
With a few trees and some cottages ere is a land like a river ıQuiet, overflowi
Thatched with sun dried coconut leaves. , full of music, ıMyri
faced, a line sketch of many colours
You are bottomless ıThis is my East
In the overflowing waters of the monsoon Bengal
A heaven of generous heart Whose likeness is a cool quiet river.
A wide expanse of life
Stretching beyond the horizon – Kabir Chowdhury
A greeting like the boat
Swimming onward with the sweeping current
Like the full-throated song of the boatman
Singing with abandon
From his seat perched way up at the projecting front.
What astonishing wealth of life
How many times in how many strange lands have I seen
Numberless trees, hills and smoke
The richness of many seas


Abdul Ghani Hazari Annie French Astringent milk.
Deodorant
Wives of a Few Bureaucrats Hand Lotion
Revlon
We the wives of a few bureaucrats Christian Dior
Turn our face to you. And Rubenstein
O Lord, save us, Obviously middle aged compensation
Devastated in relaxation are we, From our husbands
Wives of a few bureaucrats. For the shortage of warm love.
O Lord, husbands are
Proud of the salute of orderlies
Divers in the bottomless sea of files
Our husbands are always in the office
(They alone know what they gather),
Obstructions to others’ promotion
We are destitutes through family planning
Rejection of applications
Time rolls by crushing us.
And a few dignified signatures
We the wives of a few bureaucrats Even on getting back home.
From dawn to dusk
Jealous at the friend’s lift
On the verge of some noble thought
Profit and loss of business run under another’s name
And the faded pages of fashion journals,
And telephone
Movie advertisements in dailies,
And telephone
And nude pictures of health and beauty,
And telephone.
And the sensation of a nearly achieved greatness.
Encroachment of fat in the valley of the waist, The Revlon on our lips
The foundation cream on our face
The swelling of the belly, the double chin
Panicky at breasts’ decline The careful beauty spot on our forehead
Grow dusty
O Lord, we gasp in the mausoleum of fat, The evening invitation gets old and stale.
We the wives of a few bureaucrats.
And then O Lord
Our store is full of provisions. Thoughts of the second man
Surplus pocket money in the folds of our pillow, Make us restless for a moment
Helen Curtis in glass drawers, The old lover is married


Young adolescents’ aunt O Lord
The subordinates’ mother Giveussomewo
Granny in the sister’s home nything at all ıT
And the evening invitation old and stale. at we may throw ourselves
Into its abyss.
On the pages of the British magazine
Maggie’s amour – Kabir Chowdhury
Jaqueline’s hymn
Flirtations of Liz Taylor
BB’s lust
And Marylin’s suicide
And suicide
And suicide
And the evening invitation.
And then O Lord
Our body insipid at night
The bloodless moon it the window
The used body
Snoring husband
Sleepless night
And tranquillizer.
O Lord with no other means left
We turn our face to you
GiveussomeworkıM
rror in vanity bagsıFoundation an
lipstickıAnd social service.ıSavage c
ticism of KindergartensıOr the front row
eat in ladies’ clubs ıOr inaugur
tion of the children’s clinic
By virtue of our husbands’ rank.
We the wives of a few bureaucrats


Zillur Rahman Siddiqui Of people in frail palmyra rafts,
These barely kept afloat, under
The Progeny The weight of just one of these old men.
If nowadays I chance to visit
Some old men of this, my village My native village, I look around,
I knew in childhood, they belonged I do not see them, the dinosaur clan,
To the clan of dinosaurs, hugely built Rather their progeny, poor petty souls
Moving like demons of fairy tales, All cased in little shrivelled bodies,
Breathing hard, and sinking down Bent backs, walking fieldward
On the low verandah of the outer hall In small steps, eating cold rice
Or squatting on the grassy plot in front, Of yesternight. And on market days
Particularly in summer, I remember, Crossing the shaky bamboo bridge
After a day’s labour in the fields In steps light as a hopping bird’s
And before returning to their crowded And on Eid and Bakareed days,ıAs hu
Quarters, westward in the village ings and embracings start ıThese
The solemn hall, lofty, overlooking men, their brittle frames ıKept hid
Open fields, its deep hempen roof, n under gowny shirts, – ıYield fearf
The lawn green grassed, from where lly to the friendly hug,
If you looked, your vision touched These men, the progeny of our elders.
The distant village nestling close
To horizon; on summer eves, these men
Rested their tired limbs on the soothing grass.
Their bared skin thick and wrinkled
Like buffalo’s, bare, broad feet
That seldom knew the shelter of shoes
And only rarely on festive days,
On weddings, sabbaths or in prayer groups
The wooden sandals knew the weight
On their hefty trunks; and later when
In monsoon the Nabaganga swelled,
Signalling the start of busy ferrying


Shamsur Rahman You are the dazzling, sharply worded speech
of a bright young student
Freedom, You Are in the shade of a banyan tree
Freedom, you are
Freedom, you are the stormy debates
Rabindranath’s evergreen verses in tea-stalls and on maidans
and timeless lyrics
You are the drunken lashes
You are Kazi Nazrul shaking his shaggy mane, of summer thunderstorms
a great-souled man in the grip across the horizon
of creative exaltation
Freedom, you are
You are the bright-eyed crowd the broad chest of the shoreless Meghna
at the Shaheed Minar at the monsoon’s height
on International Mother Language Day
Freedom, you are
You are the militant the inviting velvet texture
flag-waving demonstration of father’s prayer mat
resounding with slogans
Freedom, you are
Freedom, you are the undulations on mother’s spotless sari
the peasant’s smile drying in the courtyard
in a field of lush crops
Freedom, you are
You are the village girl’s the colour of henna
carefree swim across a pond on my sister’s soft palms
under the midday sun
Freedom, you are
Freedom, you are the colourful star-bright poster
the sunburnt biceps in my friend’s hand
of a young worker Freedom, you are
You are the freedom fighter’s eyes the housewife’s glossy black hair
glinting in the dark hanging free
at the desolate frontier You are the wind’s wild energy,


the little boy’s colourful kurta, dreams at times of cradles,
sunlight on the little girl’s soft cheek ogles the pretty girl standing quietly on the verandah.
Freedom, you are In scorching April or monsoon drenched June
the arbour in the garden, the koel’s song, This city puts its mad shoulder to the wheels
glistening leaves on ancient banyan trees, Of pushcarts, makes for the brothel at nightfall,
the poetry notebook, to scribble as I please Burning with desire to celebrate the flesh,
This city is syphilitic, it tosses and turns
– Kaiser Haq
between the white walls of a hospital ward,
This city is a suppliant at the pir’s doorstep,
Crows wears charms and talismans
on its arms, round its neck,
No footprints on the dirt track Day and night this city vomits blood,
No cow or cowherd in the pastures never tires of funeral processions,
The ragged dykes desolate This city tears its hair in a frenzy, dashes its head
Roadside trees hushed and all on the walls of dark prison cells,
Around in naked sunlight This city rolls in the dust, knowing hunger
Crows flapping wings, crows, only crows. as life’s solitary truth,
– Kaiser Haq This city crowds into political rallies,
its heart tattooed with posters
This City becomes an El Greco reaching for lofty azure,
This city daily wrestles with the wolf with many faces.
This city holds out a wizened hand to the tourist, – Kaiser Haq
wears a patched kurta, limps barefoot,
gambles on horses, quaffs palm beer by the pitcher, So Many Days
squats with splayed legs, jokes, picks lice
from its soul, shakes off bed bugs, One, two, three, the days go by,
This city is a cut purse, scoots at the sight I am gashed by their cold razor edge.
of a policeman, looks about with eyes like the flaming moon One, two, three, the days go by,
This city raves deliriously, teases with riddles, Yet there’s no sign of you,
bursts into lusty song, sheds the sweat You don’t come and stand leaning against the door frame
of its brow on its feet in tireless factories, Or brushing back a wanton lock from the forehead


Ask, ‘And how are you? Won’t you ever To rose water and loud lament,
Come again?’ See, loneliness sportively proffers her beaker I lie supine with sightless eyes
And I drain it to the lees. My warm hands While the man who will wash me
Touch the bed, chair, wall, the sapling Scratches his ample behind.
In the courtyard, and everywhere meet The youthfulness of the lissome maiden,
The absence of your dazzling body. her firm breasts untouched by grief,
No longer inspires me to chant
I stand facing the scimitar of despair, Nonsense rhymes in praise of life.
Like a youth offering his breast to the oppressor’s bayonet.
Without your visits this room is a tomb You can cover me head to foot with flowers,
Overgrown with wild grass My finger won’t rise in admonishment.
I’ll shortly board a truck
Where a desolate wind sings a ceaseless lament;
For a visit to Banani.*
An ancient skeleton shouts bizarre slogans,
A light breeze will touch my lifeless bones.
Busy termites swarm among its ribs.
I am the broken nest of a weaver bird,
Whenever you step into this room, the old door frame
Dreamless and terribly lonely on the long verandah.
Laughs merrily, on the instant the window curtain If you wish to deck me up like a bridegroom
Turns into a nautch girl; I grow happy as a birthday – Go ahead, I won’t say no
Flickering candle light and the Moonlight Sonata Do as you please, only don’t
Unobtrusively transform all into a garden. Alter my face too much with collyrium
And when you leave, my heart is like
A crematorium on a wintry evening. Or any embalming cosmetic. Just see that I am
Just as I am; don’t let another face
– Kaiser Haq Emerge through the lineaments of mine.
Look! The old mask
Mask Under whose pressure
Shower me with petals, I passed my whole life,
Heap bouquets around me, a wearisome handmaiden of anxiety,
I won’t complain. Unable to move, Has peeled off at last.
I won’t ask you to stop For God’s sake don’t
Nor, if butterflies or swarms of flies Fix on me another oppressive mask.
Settle on my nose, can I brush them away. – Kaiser Haq

Indifferent to scent of jasmine and benjarnin, * An affluent locality of Dhaka.


Alauddin Al Azad Has anyone seen such a death
Where no one laments aloud
The Monument Where only the sitar turns into the
Gorgeous stream of a mighty waterfall,
Have they destroyed your memorial minaret? Where the season of many words
Don’t you fear, comrade, Leads the pen on to an era of Poetry?
We are still here Have they destroyed your brick minaret?
A family of ten million, alert and wide awake. Well, let them. We forty million masons
The base that no emperor Have built a minaret with a violin’s tune
Could ever crush And the bright colours of our purple heart.
At whose feet
The diamond crown, the blue proclamation, The lives of the martyrs float like islands
The naked sabre and the tempestuous cavalry In the dark deep eyes of
Have crumbled into dust. Rainbows and palash flowers
We have etched for you their names
We are that simple hero, that unique crowd, Through the ages
We who work in fields, In the foamy stones of love.
Row on rivers,
Labour in factories! That is why, comrad

Have they destroyed your brick minaret? , ıOn the granite peak of ou
Well, let them. Don’t you fear, comrade, thousand fistsıShines lik
We a family of ten million the sun
Are alert and wide awake. The sun of a mighty pledge.
– Kabir Chowdhury
What kind of a death is this?
Has anyone seen such a death
Where no one weeps at the head
Of the departed?
Where all sorrow and pain from the Himalayas to the sea
Only come together and blossom
Into the colour of a single flag?
What kind of a death is this?


Jahanara Arzoo to give your sad mother, brothers and sisters some little comfort
in return –
Shabmeher,* For You And perhaps a few days later
(On the tragic death of Shabmeher, a young girl raped.) those same hands would be adorned with henna patterns – you’d
wear
If from this pen of mine, though only for a moment,
a new red saree, ornaments at ankles and ears,
bullets and grenades instead of ink poured out –
youth’s first monsoon freshet rising in those eyes of yours;
then I could wreak vengeance on those beasts
holding your husband’s hand and crossing the tiny yard
in human visage.
under the burning lamp of the moon, you too would ascend
If instead of ink, my pen blazed with tremendous fire –
to the bridal room; with pure offspring as fruit,
then I would burn to ash that mountain of sin
you too would be in days to come a happy lover, wife and mother.
piling up for ages.
But what cruel fate’s beastly paw
Shabmeher, do you know how many nights I have not slept
has snatched you away in a moment
remembering that innocent
from your long-desired self, to that morgue
forever-sleeping face of yours –
where, swathed in a white shroud,
as if I saw your blossoming soft face in the faces
in a moment you’ve vanished from our sight;
of daughters and young girls in all our homes
and spreading your wings in the distance you’ve flown away,
– how unparalleled, how pure –
a pure white swan.
Exactly like reflections of your face
are those faces radiant with celestial beauty, Shabmeher, how I wish that from these powerless words
innocent and lovely as green new leaves. bullets would pour forth instead of ink –
if only for a while,
Shabmeher, do you know how the striped sari
yes, if only for a while.
draped around your blooming young body
was hanging in wait like a noose – – Carolyne Wright with Farida Sarkar and Ayesha Kabir
if only all those beasts could be strung up there.
But the ink of this powerless pen of mine * Shabmeher was a Bangladeshi girl, about thirteen or fourteen years old, from
is capable of nothing, Shabmeher! a poor village family. She was lured into prostitution when a family
Shabmeher, the blue pea-blossoms twined lovingly acquaintance promised her mother that he would arrange a good job for the
daughter. The man took Shabmeher to Tanbazar, a town in the Narayanganj
around your feet, the juicy kul-fruits district near Dhaka, notorious for its brothels and other criminal activities.
gathered in the folds at your waist, When the horrified girl realized what her “job” was to be, she protested and
the guava half-eaten by bats refused to cooperate. The procurer and his henchmen gang-raped her and
was still clutched in your hand. beat her to death. Her story was dramatized in a short film produced by
The two young hands that wanted to labor all day long Dhaka University in 1989, based on this poem by Jahanara Arzoo.


Kaisul Huq His tumultuous emotions.
His firm feelings of solidarity,
My Business All man’s thoughts and ideas –
-All, all
To make words meaningful is my business. Are built of the strange
By adding words to words I build sentences, Bottomless empire of dreamladen words.
A strange and mysterious garden of sentences. This garden of words, and the words within words
Sometimes the ordered words of the sentences That are going on working ceaselessly
turn out to be soldiers, In the deep recesses of the human heart;
Sometimes they become forlorn wandering lovers. Into that garden of words
At other times they grow into I demand my right of admittance,
shining faces in a procession; For to make words meaningful
They sparkle in slogans and posters: is my only business.
it is a wonderful art gallery – Kabir Chowdhury
Born of the artist’s deepest devotion.
The Wonder Bridge of Words
This garden of sentences is all my asset.
I lay it out, dress it up, None of us could tell
design and decorate it just as I please. When you and I came up the wonderful bridge of words
Some pictures are after my heart, And stood close to each other.
some are not.
There lie about many many incomplete ones. In the secret depth of our hearts
A light shone – the light of an intimate embrace.
Joy and sadness lie cheek by jowl
Wiping out all the lines that kept us apart.
Close to each other in the depth of sound.
Words brought us together on a smooth level plain.
Words inside sentences – We grew intimate
Words, words, like the waves on the bosom of a river,
Till the end only words remain, like the silvery light on the back of a fish,
At the beginning of everything like the blue deep silence of the sky.
and at the very end. Climbing the wonder bridge of words
we came thus close to each other.
The rise and fall of man,
– Kabir Chowdhury


Hasan Hafizur Rahman in their granary.
All this time, won’t
Like a Denuded Barren Field my dream images take shape
even once?
This world is like a denuded barren field Shall I inextricably merge with the harvests
in some stormy night of yesteryears?
There is not a blade of grass Like a bubble, noiselessly, leaving no trace?
that I can clutch Is this world like a denuded barren field
And if some strange storm comes in some stormy night?
and whirls me away – Kabir Chowdhury
None will be there to know about it.
I long ceaselessly to see my forefathers Look, in the Desolate Garden
in my dreams
Look, in the desolate garden stretch the dead pale grass
I want to see what they looked like,
And dull eyes without lashes. The unceasing breath
What hopes they cherished
Of nature blows all around. Cracks gape
in their breasts
In the bosom of the earth. There is no spring anywhere,
Before they disappeared.
No water far or near, the never-ending source
I long to know all these.
Gushing out from the high hills is empty and lifeless.
I have come floating in the current
Shall we not get a grain of happiness in the final hour,
of progeny,
Water to quench our thirst in some home, meadow or port,
Who knows how far this current will run? To fill our heart with divine bliss?
Ah! if I knew its beginning and its end!
In the tattered days of longing, will there be only
I step on the lovely grass,
Falling leaves fluttering in dust storms, the marble song of death,
I open my eyes in the midst of greenery.
Only the stony vigil of frustration? Shall we only see
Light and darkness count the petals
A rocky wooden face? Would we never know
of my life.
What heavenly taste lay in fruits and grains,
One day, I know, they will have done Or what celestial breeze moved the painted veil of love?
their counting Homeless, ever hoping, wearing youth’s cloak
And then wiping their hands We only look at life’s senility.
they will gather the harvest
– Kabir Chowdhury


Abu Zafar Obaidullah The naked female body is bathed in moonlight,
Darkness is her shelter,
Kamol’s Eye Or a noose around her neck.
Why did they take Kamol’s eye, blood, heart?
Know Kamol? That’s a question I put to you all.
Sturdy handsome physique, shining eyes – Quazi Mostain Billah
Sharp, radiant like the mid day sun.
A bullet Epilogue
Tore away
Kamol’s right eye. Vainly have I roamed all these years
Or my friend by the seashore and the fountain.
Who had a learned conscientious heart Vainly have I looked for a place
That has been devoured by dogs, jackals, now fugitives where I could find a little solace
for my lacerated soul.
And many more friends of yours and mine,
Whose veins were like Krishnachura At last when I begged of the dark night
Are silent now the boon of sleep,
In the fresh thunder of sonorous blood. Icy death sidled up to me
and with his cruel smile said,
Why did they take
I have come, my beloved!
Kamol’s eye, blood, heart,
I haven’t asked that – Kabir Chowdhury
Recently a mother has sold her baby
Because she needs rice.
In Tulshi’s ghat, a mere dot of a village,
The son in low has come for a visit,
So the mother in law has killed herself.
Is it because the Subarna gram has disappeared?
Then go round on a trip
See, on the verandah or the courtyard
Or at the tank ghat


Al Mahmud ameless desire
To read out one of my poems flowed in my veins
Eloi Eloi Lama Sabachtani Like the quick, restless beat of blood.
A Hebrew cry spouted through my
I went out to go somewhere, Crucified heart like a fierce jet of blood,
My clothes washed clean, Eloi Eloi Lama Sabachtani.
At least clean enough for a visit
To a friendly rendezvous; There is a lock everywhere
The punjabi still smacked of the warm sun. On all my destinations.
I had some small coins in my pocket, – M. Harunur Rashid
A new poem written that morning
And a few cheap cigarettes. The Pitcher of Time
‘Where could I go now?’
I wondered. How long shall I reluctantly keep open my scene drinking
‘Shaheed is at the Television, thirsty eyes ?
Shamsur Rahman has turned journalist, Everything grows weary, even nature descends
Elderly Jafar happily bets on sleek horses, in the faraway fathomless darkness.
And I am not good either at Hasan’s art, What is then left, Oh sky, Oh veil?
Drawing floral designs over the blue texture How long shall I flutter wearing my shroud
Of Mother Bengal. like a shawl?
Arati has slunk away and has found her How long, for how many ages
Mission in teaching the Bible at a faraway convent, Shall I watch the night sky bending low
Shebu, too, is in India. with the weight of my sight like the
O God, God, this then is what remains of my shoulder of an ox?
Fraternal bonds. Who makes multitudinous wounds
I am looking for a friend now, in the black body of that ox
Looking for a friend all over the city, with his sharp spear
I need a friend now. In my consciousness there’s this haunting And what drops from those wounds
relentless I do not understand yet.
Desire ıTo knock at a familiar door, Is that blood, fat, fire or white light
o meet a friendly face, ıAnd the keen, almost that drops


Day and night endlessly on the strange world How long shall I lie on my side
and on life in this bush wearing my shroud
drops drops drops And watch the golden pitcher and the bickerings
of the oxen.
And then when that too is over that savage ox
seems to melt into nature’s beauty. – Kabir Chowdhury
Oh sky, Oh veil, do you then push aside
the golden pitcher Fingers of Truth
And hide beyond my sight?
An overturned pitcher of light floats along the sky Nowadays music does not delight me any more,
But none sees it, none realises that the golden So sometimes when on cheerless nights
Pitcher drinks up time’s stomach; the days of my adolescence come to my mind
None pays any attention to it, for every morning I remember the face of the old man in Brahmanbaria,
They see another container gurgling I see his angel face
And floating endlessly by And his vibrant fingers on the enamoured sarod
moving incessantly
How devotedly they concentrate on Like some sorrow melting faster than tears
rth, children, ıand grains.ıMillion in the depth of the unopened eyes.
of frightened young women ıhold on to the waist Once sitting at the feet of some angel
of their men.ıIn the I heard man’s unique music,
r big bellies they only pine for the hurt ıof I heard the sound softer than sorrow, anguish,
aseless births.ıFro love, sin, prayers,
the fleshy nests come out one by one only ıt I saw how easily it rendered insignificant
soul’s sparrowsıA all prayers in human language.
d see how all the world gets filled up with ıe Some hid his face . . . someone wanted to take off
dangered sounds.ıIn this melancho her veil and see more easily God’s throne
y narrative, Oh sky, Oh veil,ıShall I . . . The entranced priest burnt his finger
ot become a stanza even?ıAway with his own cigarette . . .
from human habitation, away fro Some child entreated, mother dear, give me the toy over there
from which the sound of music is coming . . .
smoke, fire, smell of spices, Someone with an invisible stroke on the tabla said,

Modern Poetry from Bangladesh in 40 Characters

Modern Poetry from Bangladesh in 40 Characters

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Modern Poetry from Bangladesh in 40 Characters