One Hundred Poems of Shihab Shahriar

One Hundred Poems

Printer’s line
of Shihab Shahriar
Translated by

Siddique Mahmudur Rahman

Dedication
 Contents Poem – 10 87
Poem – 11 88
Shihab Shahriar: A Distinctive Poet of the Eighties 9 Poem – 15 89
Original: Mamun Rashid Translated by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman Poem – 19 90
Silent Verses 1-24 13-16 Poem – 20 91
The Winter Dew-drops and the River 17 Poem – 21 92
The Buring Pier and the Darkness 18 Poem – 22 93
Fire Bird and the Kisses 19 Poem – 24 94
School of Pains and of No-Returns 20 Poem – 25 95
Half-Aanchal and far-away River 21 Poem – 28 96
The Pole of Mathematics (.) 22 Poem – 29 97
I look for a Cloud-assulted Sky 23 Poem – 33 98
The Evening Towel 24 Poem – 35 99
Episode of the Star-ridden Sky 25 Poem – 39 100
Shower and Anklets of Cloud 26 Poem – 46 101
Entire Dream and Solitary Water 27 Poem – 48 102
Timid Sari and Water of Agony 28 Breath – 30 103
Nonsence Life 29 Voiceless Dialogue 104
Faulty Colour of the Dask 30 Water Colour 105
Sounds of Birds 31 Near Sonapur Bridge 106
The Sound float on the Sun-rays 32 Indoor Rain 107
Secret Communion Rises Up 33 Dateline 108
Missing Door 34 Night oscillates in the Air 109
Eyes of Bruises 35 Core Map 110
Snail Slumber 36 Blue Navigability of the River 111
Frolicking of Sunshine and Bed 37 Drunken Cloud 112
Roof of Pain 38
Mango-blossom and a Nose Ring 39
Episode of moving back 40
Elenjani River 41
I search for a mark 42
Wings of Butterfly burns (1 – 36) 43-78
Twilight Blush Flies Away 79
Asylum 80
Map 81
Book of Accounts 82
Poem – 4 83
Poem – 5 84
Poem – 6 85
Poem – 9 86
 Shihab Shahriar
A Distinctive Poet of the Eighties
Mamun Rashid
Translated by Siddique Mahmudur Rahman
We can treat Shihab Shahriar as a poet of the Eighties, if we look into the
timeline of Bangladesh poetry. When we categorize the poems of the
Eighties of Bangladesh, we can say, it is a time of perception, of srutiny and
of observation. The period looks forward to a new path, leaving aside or
discarding the exhisting theme. At this period, poets leave aside the softness
of the poetry and take up harsh and matter-of-fact terms in the poems.
Shihab Shahriar started to expose himself with his poems at this
atmodsphere. He started to illustrate, to portray himself in the poetic field of
Bangladesh. During the last four decades, Shihab Shahriar has more than
ten publications. He is dexterous both in prose writing and poetry too.
Before we look into the Shihab Shahriar’s poetry, his style and atmosphere,
let us explore through his time. Because we should have to look into the
period, when a poet grown up and flourish. Shihab was born in 1965, in
Sherpur District of Bangladesh. He grew up through the crucial period of
birth and political disturbance of the Seventies. As a boy, Shihab
experienced with great astonishment and shock, the Great Liberation War,
the dedication of thousands of sacrificing hearts ....... its aftemath. He
knows very well all the struggle and strife, intrigue and downfall and all the
crises this newly emergent country had to face. He faced two-sided stories
of the historical changes, the ones he perceived by him inside his ownself
and the one he listened from differenct quarters.
Shihab Shahriiar moved around the country, from one end to other and
became familiar with the people closely. He has seen the land and its people
closely. He became more and more aware about the pains and sufferings,
love and happiness, attainments and deceptions of the people, of nature and
environment. His experience grew as well as his insight grew as well. All
these entered inbto his poems.
In our national life the importance of the Eighth decade was pervade ing.
Politically the role of this Eighth Decade was extremely important. Just
after our Independence, we encountered countless heart-sendering incidents.
There were countless blood-sheds, coups, rebellions, counter-rebellions,
murders and the culture of shameful conspiracy – Shihab Shahriar faced
those all through his boyhood days. During these days all his boyhood
dreams started to shatter down and were confined into a dark endless alley.
As he started to grow up as an youth, he wanted to come out of of this dark
atmosphere of political arena, but in vain. He perceived the importance of
go out into the light, to create an upheaval, a mass-uprising and the need of
national unity.
This unity he observed for the second time during the decade of nineties.
During this decade people started to unite and rise against all conspiracy
and oppressions. They longed for social liberty and democracy. The people
flared up for true emancipation. They started to see the light. They became
hopeful again in the procession of self-esteem. But again they encountered
shattering of their dreams. This stumbling for the second time, made the
poets of the Eighth decade turn their faces towards nature.
Where the poets of Seventies mingled with life and political atmosphere,
some of the poets of the Eighties came out of that state of mind and took
their poetry closer to their self feelings. Though they were not devoid of
sufferings of life— but tghey have not made thiese sufferings the slogan of
their poetry. They wanted to submerge into their own world, into
themselves. They wanted to express their desire for art through social-
awaikening and experience. The crisis that was created from the social
exhistance since the Eighties, some of the poets did not looked for the path
of coming out of it through nurturing this doldrum, but they consciously
came out of it and searched for the seclusion of tradition and of existential
feelings. Shihab Shahriar belonged to this line of poets. There is still so,me
more to speak of Shihab Shariar. Though he looked for seclusion through
the Nature, Tradition and Existential feelings, he could not escape from the
agonizing insatiated middle-class life. So we find time, life and Bangladesh.
Nogorir ei osustho Janala diye
Kromosho hariye jae ekdol Ondhokar
Jeno jae Shiter nishongo holud Batas
Lomhin-bikolango klanto Shiyaler moto.
Kobe kon asonno Sondhaye ekhane nambe
Saontali Chand kumari Pahare brikkher Nitombe
Kobe kon Soilpik joware ekhane bhasbe
Prokritir barir chhad, barnirar nona chokh
Na, ei praner shekor golper jol kobitar
Dolchhut hoye hente . . . . kebol hente jabo Shahriar started his writings in the early 80’s. His first book, a research
work Bangladesher Putul Naach (Puppet Dance in Bangladesh) was
(Swaabdohin Songlap)
published in 1997. His first book of poems Haway Raat Bhashe Bhashe
From the indisposed window Nidra, came out in 2003, book of essays Norom Roder Aloee in 2005,
A cluster of darkness gradually disappears Bangladesher Hajong Jonogosthi (research), in 2008, book of poems
As if an wisp of lonesome yellow wind of winter Foringer Pakha Pore in 2010, book of poems Nodir Tolpet fore urejae Rod
Like a hairless weary disabled fox in 2010, he edited Amar Bangladesh in 2010, book of selected poems Ami
Dekhi Onyo Akash in 2011, book of short stories Ghate Nodi Nei in 2012,
When in one iminent evening, the Santal moon will come down
book of poems Jokhon Bhange Nakkhatra, in 2013, book of poems Matal
From the ridge of sylvan hill to the posterrior of the trees Megher Orauri in 2014, he edited Rupkothar ei Bangladesh in 2014.
When in some artistic deluge shall submerge here Besides Shihab Shahriar edited Boitha – a literary journal. Shihab Shahriar
The roof of the Nature, salty eyes of Barnita is professionally a journalist, and a presenter in radio and TV. He is a
familiar face in both national TV and private TV channels. He produced
No, I shall walk out of this root of life, water of story and of poems two TV plays. Shahriar works in the Shilpakala Department, Bangladesh
Rebellious. . . shall go on and on. (Soundless Dialogue) National Museum. He visited USA, UK, Japan, India, Bahrain, Oman,
Qatar, Hong Kong and Sri Lanka. Shahriar is blessed with two sons—
We find portrayal of human realisation in Shihab Shariar’s poems. He tried Prachurya Shahriar and Samriddhyo Shahriar.
to be self-exposed and spontenity all through his writings. The internal
conflicts of human beings, which influence the social divergance, culture
and political upbringing, at the same time the the progression, becomes the
one of the vital context of his poems. He creates images after images,
scenaries, one after another and we go on bathing through their
mesmarising flows. Sometimes Shihab Shahriar surrenders to the Nature
around him and takes us to this imaginary world which seem to us as real.
‘Some wide back walk pase the whole stage, some silver rings of the navel.
Then our eyes go on floating on brown air. One said, the backs and the
navels are the subarb sunshine. Their bodies are like stems of banana-
leaves, and they are bean-colour. Some aristrocrat He-men pinch on their
brim-full youthfulness. And then they do not walk on the cool alley of the
ants. Then it seem the open back is like open envelope. Open back is but
open window. . . . .’ (Open Back).
Shihab Shahriar’s poems surpasses all the conflicts, crises of life and enters
into the mind-re-creates the diamond-dazzling memories- rekindles it and
bings newer lights. Not to feel the departation only, but he closes to Nature
and enlightens his mind, our minds. And thus we go to Shihab Shahriar’s
poems again and again. We could feel fresh air, enlightenment in his poems.
Shihab Shahriar had his PhD in Bangla literature from Dhaka University.
Name of his paper was Bangladesher Koch Jonogoshthir Somaj O
Songskriti (Koch Population in Bangladeh: Their Society and Culture).
Silent Verses
1.
The colours of straw were chaged by the afternoon
The hands of the humter
Kling to the wings of the Kite.
2.
The nose-ring of the damsel of Carya
Cling on the midnight table
...... And then slumber of Fullara.
3.
When suicidal finger breaks down
The sun-beam, that built up on the river-slope
Are arrested in the hand-set.
4.
As your cunning eyes
Were running before me
I have painted the wooden panel of the Cornice.
5.
White breath of the feathers
Lay on the lonely body of the brook—
You could not play the game of moonbeam.
6.
The infected body wakes up
At ite dailt routine
Why don’t we go, leaving our dejected sigh?
7.
If the women are witches
Why then you engage yourself
In the intoxication of reproduction?
8.
The whiteness of Kash flower mingled with Autumn
If the river do not fly
Nacked bosom lies in conceit.
9.
The whiteness of Kash flower mingled with Autumn
If the river do not fly
Nacked bosom lies in conceit.
10.
The ice melted in the tornado of malediction
You swam in the white darkness
Like the mummy of Egypt.
11.
From the scent of the skirt
You have accepted the Sari
The peeping kisses touched you.
12.
The baloons flew with the wind
Through the window-sky
The stars do not look back.
13.
Being smudged under the Sun-rays
As copper, you also don’t stare
At the scorched planetof heart..
14.
When the Sun shine brightens
The windows turns nacked
From the shades of darkness.
15.
If the deaths descends in cluster
Shall the land-grabbers
Spare the territory of grave.
16.
If the house burns down in the prostitute-fire The pollens of Kodom sprinkle down..
The signs of kisses
Shall touch the lips. 24.
After scaling the waves
17. Shall the tired boatswian
When you hastily leave like the drunken Wake up again from the platform
Mid-day of gypsy— I shall remain standing .
In silence at the evening-stair

18.
I have come out of the door of shorching day
Don’t drown me again
With colourful inebriation..

19.
My existance is not on the periphery of
Your face and your heart
I want to remain present at the whirlwind
Of the beauties of Naaf River or Vancouver.

20.
A flock of swans flew away
Shall they spread the fragrance
In your vacant garret.

21.
O God, I cling with the rope of patience
I’m taking the smell of bottle-gourd plant
Show me the River of Dudhkumari.

22.
Bolt up the lock of love
Let the colours glitter
And leave all your follies.

23.
The fawns dance
Delusion engulfs the heart
The Winter Dew-drops and the River
I have seen your footsteps on the other bank
I do not know how the ducks were flying
Under the treasure of moon-beam. That night
I entered in the wintery dew-drops over the river. Kurigram.
On our footsteps the wings of hyasinths bloom
The white mist covered the sounds too.
And the whites ran to the
doors of Buribari, Shilliguri, Shillong, Darjeeling.
The Buring Pier and the Darkness
The Rivers and tributaries flowed away
Away from your fancy, far away
The ancient Gaab tree moved away
From the memory-stricken quay
The vultures sat on the submerged poles
A few persons saw the scene
The burning pier went down in the dark.
2.
If the smoke does not grow up from the oven
There must be accumulation of poison on bovine body
The vultures left the cow-river-shades of trees.
The waterbody fillec with lotus, small boats
The dreams of cool Sreemangal are all the treasures I have.
Fire Bird and the Kisses
Hey, girl listen- if I were a pillow
I used to stay near your lips
If I were soap, have touches of your soft skin
If a porch, I could grab sunshine for you
If I were eyes, I’d take you to the depth of Nilgiri hills
If I were a saint, I’d adorn you with white or red skirt
If I were anklet, I’d make your body burning with kisses
You are my fire-bird
Let Hasan Aziz flare up with jelousy looking at you.
School of Pains and of No-Returns
Nayabazar is lying like shreded leaves, corner of the courtyard, peeping of
te white-ants, firefly, tiny light in the dark room, Half drenched straw in the
rain of Sraban mid-day and dry-up in Sun, Fried branches of Boroi tree,
Water-filled Brahmaputra river, colourful garland on the neck of dove, first
football made up of hides, the smell of sleep-touched quilt, the cycle-chain
smeared with dust, a heavy glass of brass, wailing of the wretched faces,
idealistic umbrella of the teacher, communication-disrupted Seventy-one,
Flag of Freedom that won the war, skins of happiness from the rifle, some
Shimul days of crimson Fafun, hiding of the faces of black butterflies on the
mustard seeds, some moobbeam and pain of not staring at the sky . . . the
pains are scattared on the veranda of the school . . . Ah . . ,
Can I be able to see again. . I don’t return . . I can’t return . . Never . . Ever.
Half-Aanchal and far-away River
The river will filled up with water to the brim, far away,
Far, and far beyond
As if like an tingling anklets of a beautiful girl
As if its not a river- lathery yellow foam, mighty current
Undervthe quilt of the girl there’s mustard seed, messanger of ogre
Touching the bank the half-aanchal of the damsel fly like clouds
The river banks break apart like the bosom of solitary Radha
No chasing of swimming, churning of waves
I’ve lost the river-sleep-colours-Sunshine—
I’m only devoid of childhood days.
The Pole of Mathematics (.)
In the lane of the childhood days
The Nightly swans cry out
I engage myself with South theory
Some hands go off track from the pole of math,
the moon on the bamboo grove, and then the abyss
From that abyss rises up an alien-individual
The girls are herbivorous
So the eyes of dead bats clang to the pole
We are now (.) busy in preparing dotbit.
We are correcting the (.) proofs (.) eyes.
The windows do not have legs
The youths then look for Nilima (.) blessings
I look for the contents of the poems
I look for the afternoon (.) wind (.) Rain (.) detachted (.)
I Look for a Cloud-assulted Sky
The birds secretly created submerged garden
I shall plant the story of grass in that sunny garden
The women furtively spread colours in the You-tube
I’ll engage myself in medicine-seat-barber and rain-umbrella.
2.
The flight we had through the river wiped out the colour of the dask
Today the rooms of slumber drenched with sorrow in that river moon-beam.
3.
When we look up to the blue sky- was there really the sky?
We get everything searching in the Google-
but fail to find a cloud-assulted sky.
The Evening Towel
One business towel and the udder of a cow
G0 0n gazing at the tower of the cloud
At the end of the day azure blood ooze out of the tongue of the sky
The damsels lost their veils in looking for dust-colour
Under the veil of Kulsum Khatun there are signs of business office
The Ferry pier does not feeel the dry river-wind of substraction
We go out in search of darkness looking at the facebook link.
Episode of the Star-ridden Sky
When the pains inside my wrist cry out in pain
I bow down in desecting the wavy water
When the water emit fragrance in the solitary veranda
Immediately I sprinkle down rain in nasal sound
When the rain shower on the trees its pollen
I start to write the episode of star-riddne sky.
This is my one kind of game, like negative sound
This spreads flames of birth in all my veins.
Shower and Anklets of Cloud
O Rain!
Why do you spread scent of your bosom, in sensitive feelings?
I want to go back from the deep slumber-laden eyes
O Rain!
Somebody’s lips tremble in the sickness of the loose end of the sari
The yoyr drops that drip down ring the anklet-ringers
O Rain!
Let the city is left behind at the ensuing evening
Our township departs with the wings of Shalikh.
O Rain!
Alley drenches from the eye-drops of some unknown person
I wish, you remain happy Asharh, dense shower, ferry-pier.
Entire Dream and Solitary Water Timid Sari and Water of Agony

Everyday I desire a complete rain
When it rains I stare at its misty shower
And fly away like white shroud.
Everyday I need a glass full of sleep
My anguishes can not remain hidden in the glass of slumber
Everyday I love to yawn
My yawns are the predictions of total sleep
It has no similarity with the forecast of the weather bureau
If a Shraban comes down like nupur soundsa
Shall you ccome down to this water-submerged rainy field?
If your timid sari play with rain-drops
Shall you run towards the solitary wall?
Shall you be attacked with the fever of water of agony
Shall you run away from this temperate region?

Everyday forecasted rainand slumber drive me out

Everyday lonely waters of Sitalakkhya remain rainless.
Nonsence Life Faulty Colour of the Dask

Today I want to go away Some twilight do not have any colour

From the crafty clutches of the bureaucrats
Some cunning, sly and crafty mice
Have entered into our life
Somebody, like the wings of hawks,
Scratch at our wide emergent shoulders
Who serarch for flutes of the heart while floating in the air
They do could not meet Krishna in the dask in the river-pier
Looking at the sufferings in their eyes in the night of Dol-Purnima
The drab saris of the aged widows fly in the sightless wind

The discontented faces of the trollops We too will fly to the veils taking a bunch of silent evening with us.
Dreadful mosses gather on the hairs of nose
They engage in making farms
And remain addicted to the solitary start of the bar-b-q evening

I reamin lifelong homeless with a stupid life

The birds lay down withoiut dreams beside the illegal hamlet.
Sounds of Birds
The birds resonance are not on the roof of the house
You too have left colourful coverings of your bosom
The dress of wood-flower is flying in the misty wind of Niagra
These days are like the hide-and-seek of childhood days
Now there’s no one in you open carriage except the wind
Now your sleeps droop down on the quilt-covered bed
As you learnt sums in the school, as you learnt swimming
You have forgot the melodies of multiplication
while walking through the stony path full of snow
If youyr portico is illuminated by the loghts of Venus
Still I’ll not look back
I’ll search for birds’ buzz, veils and damp wind in the river,.
The Sound float on the Sun-rays
This is not the smell of steamy bread of the morning
This is not the flight of water-colouerd butterfly
This is not the lulluby of all the afternoons
This is not the weiried sounds, hum of the window-panes
Then why we scuttle to all quarters, supporting on the wind
Then why our eyes turn into the eyes of the falcon
Then why the sounds of our windows float on the sun-rays
I do know that youyr pains will fly with the horses.
Secret Communion Rises Up
Did the Siberian birds shreded their wintery feathers
And announced call of spring in the unhappy corner?
What Mr. Cox thought after he saw the surfs of the Bay of Bengal?
Shall the lovers engage into the game of water-flirting with the waves?
What Ursula thought while leaving Makondo city
Shall the secret communions of the wotld mount up all at once?
Did the Arabin birds touched the abandonment again and again?
Then why did we called it a meeting place and got tired by the table?
Missing Door
We have counted innumerable waves of Brahmaputra
Many a times in search of the missing door
We rammaged around the Bikrom-dot-com
Abundantly looking for a missing door
Behind this misssing door immense pains of somebody are piled up
Before this misssing door somebody enchanted with his pleasure
Oh, charming pleasure, heaps of pain, southern door, door-frame of youth
We shall touch the peak of cloud drinking the juice of devastation.
Eyes of Bruises Snail Slumber

One day we searched for the sufferings of a grain of sand I shall today let fly
Walked through our life-line for a long period of time The beaks of Shalikh
The followers of Pieces were competing with the striking clouds I will penetrate in my brain
Thorns of cactus
One day while we are looking for the eyes of the bruises The waters of Dhaleswari gurgle up in betwwen the lips and thorn
We saw the colours of blindman’s buff on a window of painted Palki
The Palki-bride buried pain under a dark pot with knee-deep shyness One afternoon means
The episode of decline of life of a river
If such a glum river tells so many of his tales
We had many a promise in our chanting of lovable Punthi One brain means
That you and me threw at the beaks of flying herons of the evening. the slumber of a dead snail on the shore

We the hunter of skins speak os night standing on our legs

And pass out last dusk of Chaitra staring at the burnt hands of the stranger

I loose my childhood days

When I go near of Chikli

O God, prepare the roof of our schools

With the leaves of Gaab tree

We will prepare Bar-b-q with the beaks of Shalikh tomorrow night.

Frolicking of Sunshine and Bed
You are not lying,then, on snow or on sunshine
Dialogues will be piled up and cling to theroll of threads
The body, snow, discourse, tempest, yarn, daylight, warmth, and, etc.
Or I’ll also lie down in pursuit of frolicking
For long seventeen years the river lay in the pitcher
And then the bed, eyes of river, ArhialKhan, and anchoring destination
The ships of the getty, shrubs, pleasaant words condensate in the anchorage
At the end of the day frothing water, muddy water gather aroung the leg.
O our slumber, rise up from the walls of the mosquito-nets.
Roof of Pain
From this roof of Sufferings
I will come down today alone
To the tear-covered eyes
As the tiny leaves of Krishnachura fell down
To the abyss of round navel of Brahmaputra
Then I will become the He-man of this coloured damsels
Of the geography opening the star-navel door
Then like the remaining hillocks of Paharpur
I will place the beauties of their navel and charm serially
Then I will easily forget the dream-desires of the women.
Mango-blossom and a Nose Ring
In this Chaitra the first mango-blossom hang, like your nose-ring
Though you are not beside me
To remain close means my heart go on dancing
To remain close means walking on the wet-sand-dunes of the river
To remain close means to see your pale face on the border of the sun-rays
To remain close means to frolick under heavy jingling rain.
Episode of moving back
The Sun’s rays moved from behind
Also moved with it our nathematical eyes
We play door-grass-river in front of the tailor’s door
If the river covers up with mist
We will suggest allotment in the budget for the birds’ wings
As you are busy in net-sleep the grasses twist their lips in offence
On the third night keeping vermilion in the chest of slumber
Absconding aunt remain busy in rain-pleasure
There’s no sari remained, so the Sun-rays
Mop up dreamy thread, sleep-grass and counting.
Elenjani River I search for a mark

Elenjani River Through this path flew white-sari, black-house moonbeam

You lay here like this on sandy soil
You lie in the cool feeing of Sital-pati
Beside you Hinganagar, Murtabagan remain awake
On the celebration of Shamsul Haque’s Gate.
In the second day the evening approaches
In the early darkness I search like the firefly
Kerocene-light of my childhood days, smoke of incense
Aunt’s smile, corner of the blind courtyard
Through this path flew arm-eyes-hairs-break-away morning of navel
Through this path flew love-bosom heron-mist grass-river-breath
Through this path flew crimson-azure-dull-green, evening swans
Through this path I look for the processions of pains
on the dry bed of Kushirara
Through this path I toss out dust of sufferings
on the bland grass of Dhulijhura

Those who search for the sign of dust

We also look for the waterless sandunes of Dhaleswari,
smell of dask

Kalihati field
If toched by Sun-set imabe
I’ll then kiss Porabari’s Chamcham

If the memorable afternoon is lost in strife of the clans

We will surely go out to river-damel-sleep-in blue sky.

Elenjani River
You lay here like this on sandy soil
You lie in the cool feeing of Sital-pati
Wings of Butterfly burns
Two
One How and why the clouds fly away, I know not. The grey stone of time is
pushing me like the churning of the river- I fell down and looked back, I see
One night I went on walking alone drenching myself in bright moonlight, beside me lies Jibanananda of Kirtinasha hot by not of tram, but by a
leaving behind the memorable railstation of my childhood days and the Gulistan-bound bus. The grasshopper fly up from our bodies. Both of us
loving lean river bed of Brahmaputra – I waljed to my home. I walked alone look in unison , we see not our slumber- but our white scarf are flying
by the dew-soaked mustard field through the moonbeam covered mist- through the t=rain. ome one feel pain for the scarfs, hearts get damp. O
ridden sandy banks of the tributary . . . . I walked thouugh the pure-intense- cloud- ‘when will you touch the hills of Suvolong?’
sharp-transparent-dense moon-beam like the chastity of a virgin . . I forgot
the length of my destination, I forgot about my parents who remain awake
with wery eyes in the dim light of lantern . . . I walk on through the deserted
path alone . . . through the meadow bathed under the distressed dense light
of the moon, sleeping village, and the school house . . . I only am returning
to my home . . . under the exhausted light, I walked on . . .
Three.
Can you feel? the sunlight of Bhadra is touching the Southern window , and
the lips of rain? Can you feel? when on a lazy noon you go on reading
Rabindranath or Dostoivoski, your heart travels long way near that solitary
river. Have you inquired about that river? that have soaked your virgin
frock?. mornings of your childhood days. Have you searched in the
website? Have you looked for the description of your beautiful wanton-
drowsy body? Haven’t you seen that? The illicit plane are flying towards
the stars touv=ching the clouds, like the poems of Joy Goswami. Do you
want to fly now like a coloured baloon or that plane? As the pilot flies his
plane to the far away sky with the airhostess with him, you too come flying
with the wings of Shalikh to this river – Your footsteps will break the
games of the fishes.
Four
Have you heard? Your beloved birds are going away on a fast moving train
piercing the wind od Aswain? Nobody have stopped their departure, neither
the bustle of the rays of the sun, nor did the hum of the rain, nor even the
rippling river. They fly over the shoals, burn with the poetry. The poets
were their associates. They are friends of the rivers. Just imagine, some day
we halted beside that river while moving in a soundless train. You went to
the nests of these birds breaking the silence of the waves. That evening
slumber dropped down from the eyes of the birds. You have srtetched yous
hands towards a poet. Think, what the poet said— all the birds return to
their abodes, the river closes all the accounts of life . . . what are you doing,
closing yourself in your room? Why don’t you turn your poets association
into the affinity of the body? Can anybody see Jibananada from this
window? Crossing the tram-line the poet is now moving through the
Shewra, Cactus and Kirtinasha . . .Do you want to see, the nests of those
flying birds, That fast moving train that goes far-away, that fast-flowing
river, that poet of the missing evening . . .
Five.
The nights of Agrahayan remain standing holding the fence. For how many
days this silent, lonely railings of the staircase is not getting the soft, tender
and delicate touch of your hands. From Kuakata you went to Sundarbans
and saw with amazement, the frolicking fawns play under the moonbeams
that spead over the bodies of water and the forest. You went of looking and
gazing and at times you forgot the you have to return back. The threads of
your follies have broken down. The alphabets A B C D are dropping down
from the rope. Then there is shievering, desire, and the blame of scandal.
Envelope, farm, and sacrifice of frolick, deepness, dense and froms of the
depth. Grass, sweat, sleep in the room, the diary, comb, dead mosquito-net
lie on the sleepless bed. You will not get that bed, railing, the stair-case and
the night. You will also not get grass, stream, envelope, lust. And even shall
not get D C B A – nobody . . .
Six.
Like this, darkness touched the alley of your exit, all round your house,
your body, that is inside your room, all the parts of your body and genital
organ. If you look outside you’ll see the day has already came to an end.
The more you wanted to make the armpit of the wind, the kartik air is
creating ripples on the bosom of the far-away river. Just imagine, Goalando
lies beside the river, then a ring winding road, boundary, trees, train, again
Santiniketan Wxpress starts from Howrah station, wide blue sky is seen
from the window, vast paddy-field of Bardwan, the houses, The Baul sings
in the compartment, ‘Sadher Lau banailo more boiragi. .’ All the memories
have betrayed you. . . You have forgot all the alphabets, A E I of the
childhood nursery. In your eyes, you don’t see ‘Ananta Aakash’ for A and
Aa. ‘I’ is not ‘internet’ now to you How you can see. how can it be done?
Nothing is possible in such a silent, intense, flawless darkness, except
making love, nothing is seen, nothing can be performed . . .
Seven.
Have you seen? The older leaves are dying gradually at the wind of Poush.
Look– dead leaves turn into ashes after rotting, burning, or fly away in the
towns or human habitat. I’ve seen- on moonlit night under severe cold of
Poush your amorous lips cling to like creepers. In the morning of that
ruthless cold you’ve gone out wearing a blood-red coloured sweater. The
violent cold or anybody could not pacify your desire of love-making . . as
the trees devour air everyday, or the river consume rays of the Sun_ Aren’t
you guzzle up thirsts of some people. Why you are refusing thew clouds?
Whereas, the way rain drops down fromthew cloud. You want to inhale
moon-light in the night of Paush. Whereas the way rain drops down the
body of cloud, the dew also drops down from the body of cold, the leaces
that lie on the courtyard are soaked in the dew-drops- you do not see that . .
like older leaves you settle down on the roads. Have your carnal desire has
stopped? Do you remember Ratan of Postmaster? Or of those, whose thirsts
you have devoured?
Eight.
Look the wind of Falgun is howling through the brilliant red flowers of
Palash. The wind creats shiver ing amongh the flowers. Whereas there’s no
trembling in you, naothing is making quiver, you have no palsation.
Because, you do mot love poet. Rather you created storms of kisses on the
lips of the poems, you shared your experience of first intercourse, first
abortion with the river . . . still you do nlot know the flowers possess
sufferings, poets have abguish and the rivers have lamentation . . . which
one do you want to share? Will it be sufferings, or anguish or lamentation?
Wherever do you stay, there’ll be no soft lights of moon. No Chaitra wind
will visit your room. A pack of greying rats, yellow insects will visit your
room. They’ll wake you up in the mornings. You’ll look for someone in
your cell-phone as soos as you are awake— you will hear ‘This number is
vacant now . .’ message Then what’s your life? You can not go out of your
door. There is dust-storm of Chaitra outside . . .
Nine.
Have you ever rode on the back of the Sunlight of Kartik? Did you ever got
the identity of the Sunlight? Have you ever tried to know why the sunlight
goes near a river, a surf again and again? Have you taken uo a wave on your
hand? Even www.dheu.com is also written on the body of the wave. The
wave knows about your first intercourse, the wave also knows about your
first nakedness. So you can not hide secret plunder of your dream and
slumber, even by sending a message to www.dheu.com. Winds of Aswin do
not enter in that room, where you have spend a long long time by sleep and
dream. A blind brown ant is lying on that veranda, where you have seen the
flingt of golden dragon-fly all through the morning . . . one day in that
airless room that blind brown ant stole away your dream and sleep piece by
piece. Now you have nothing left in your life, neither sleep, not even dream.
Ten.
Everyday when you go out of your room an unknown sound makes your
journey stop. You do not know from where it comes and where does to go.
Do you know, some sounds are the eyes of wind? some sound comes from
waves, some sounds mingle, lost in the blue sky of the horizon . . . Now at
this mid-Autumn there’s the sounds of ceaseless rain, does thissound stops
you? Are you scated? Why are you fearful to sounds? Why are you, in great
fear forgetting hundreds of beloved sounds nurtured in the poems of the
poet? You could not find the source of the sound appointing a spy. There
are sounds if bangles break down, there are sound if you fell in sleep
untimely, there are sound if you swim in the river causelessly. . there are
sounds if you go for a walk, you also wake up hearing the sould of the
wings of kites also. On the mid day of Kartik, when in sparkling sun rays a
lonesome hawk fly high in the sky, do you close all thewindows of your
room and go to sleep in that darkness . . .
Eleven.
Eshall you tell me about Toritius? I’m not that future-teller. But I’ve seen in
the dense darkness- you’ve been looking for sun-rays of Agrahayan, looked
for breath from the trees, desired shade. But you didn’t get them . . . Failing,
after drinking coffee, you poured down depression, fatigue, despair,
tiredness, sufferings, lamentation, nightmare, pain, anguish in your slunber,
after not getting that after nine hundred and nine days you termed one
evening as ‘Cofee Evening’. After drinkung tea you have shattered yourself
into thousands of pieces . . . now you have ulcer in the corner of your eyes,
marks of depression, that darkness is playing under the Poush sunlight.
Immense dense darkness. Now you have devastation inside you. Its
breaking down, breaking apart into pieces again and again. You can not get
rid of this imminent destruction.
Twelve.
At last have you able to come out? So many shoutings, land and cell
phones, whispering, drawing map of the destination waking lomng hours.
Whereas nothing materialized. Pora Nodi . . . . Pora Nodi. Grass-colour of
the eyes, sky-colour on the hairs, rainbow on your chinn, sweat all o’er the
body, walking through the dusty roads scorched up under the Sun of Kartik,
when the rippling waves splashed on your bosom— you’ve become the
Pora Nodi . . . Pora Nodi. Do you remember— one mid day when a single
dragon-fly was hovering around, you have come near the city. You’re a
river so you walked meadering, You’re a river so you came near the
locality. The buildings were witnesses, The stars were witnesses. You
wanted to pound or drain up somebody like the savage elephant and go back
to water .... but you can’t, O Pora Nodi . . .
Thirteen.
Have the darkness has gone out of your eyes? Can you see the computer-
screen? Look the breaking of river banks have stopped. But haven’t the fire
inside you stopped yet? Do the bangles breaks down at mid-night or the tea-
cup? Is there any sound? Have you stpooed scaring of sounds? do the mid-
day dreams are looted? Do the insects at the door wake you up? What do
you do after you are awake? Have you ever reconned how many times you
have seen infants of moon-beam, windsof Chaitra. lips of winds, winter
river, sudued waves, nests of the birds, in the darkness that coveredup you
all the times? Haven’t you? Do you ever remember the poet?
Fourteen.
How long you’ll remain closing the door. Is the telephone cornnection
severed? Don’t you have cell-phone card? Don’t you know a person devoid
of any contacts is a dead person? At least open the norther window. You’ll
see your room will be filled with the winds of Paush. You’ll see pollens of
golden mustard flowers are pouring in your room . . . no, better close the
window. Keep your computer open. Search internet. See the cat-walk of the
nudes. And, yes, don’t drop down to sleep. Because somebody might knock
at your door. Never, ever open your door. You might face trouble in that
lifeless room . . . Why make your room filled with more sighs . . .
Fifteen.
You told me ‘love’ is the most beautiful word, ever spoken in this world.
But, this word never ever touched you, never eloped you. Wthe paths you
walked past before, I walked through those paths many a times, every time .
I’ve seen you many a times frolicking like spotted deer. Then the evening of
Paush drew closer. While you wanted to tough the darkness of the evening,
you touched the butterfly of the evening. . . . now you do no have electricity
in your room, only the dark-coloured butterfly is flutterin in the darkness.
Your eyes are drooping down slowly, your hands are going deaden
gradually. You can not light up the candle . . This failure is swallowing you
up.
Sixteen.
You’ve talked to him, not to him? yes, talked to him many a times. Through
telephone, walking on the road, through e-mail. You’ve stopped talking to
him when offended. Again stared talking forgetting everything, Do you
know, the words to not remember those. The dialogues roam around in the
air, words play on the rays of the Sun, they sit on the tea-cups, on the sill of
the windows, on your apathetic lips . . . the words become enemies of
themselves,become friends. For them, the people get hurt. By speaking
irrrsistable, by keeping the request, by avoiding the requests you’ve gone
far . . . not too far . . . remember, life without dialogue is like soundless
flames of gas.
Seventeen.
What wrong the eyes have done? You yourself haven’t looked at another
eyes intensely. You didn’t wanted to look at the white cotton flakes or to a
Santal cottage or Jainul’s painting. You haven’t stared at the roadside dusts
. . . what is the wrong with the eyes? You haven’t stared at another eyes
intently. Didn’t want to feel the pains of the wind or the star-strewn skyor
poems of Hasan? Your eyes were disinterested on his poems . . . what is the
wrong with the eyes? You didn’t even looked at any troubled eyes. You
didn’t wanted to feel before your eyes of another person died up, dried up
gradually like a dead river.
Eighteen.
You wanted to delete the word ‘sufferings’ from the dictionary many a
times. You said, sufferings have no lexiconic base. Your comment has not
been accepted. So you can not erase it. You can’t do it, ever. Sufferings are
like the illumination that emits from the moon. As the moonlight mix with
the soundless sands of winter river, sometimes at the bambee grove, at
times on the window-sills, equally, the pain remain hidden like a lonesome
snail in your sensitive part of your heart. You’ll never knew. You won’t feel
it, never, ever, the more you change the colours of the lipstick, drawing
decorations, bed-sheets, covers of your pillows, change your dining table,
cell-phone sets, or go to Shilliguri, Shillong, Bangkok, Banglaband,
Bandarban— still you can not discard your pains. Never can you. The pangs
that piled up by accumulation of neglect, contempt, insult, guilt and offence,
you could not disregarded those. You can not do it now, never.
Nineteen.
The branches of Mandar tree are scorched down on harshing rays of
Baishakh Sun, the corrogated tin-roof and the lips of the snails. Undre this
blinding Sun you are walking past through the railway line with a pair of
sun-glasses on your eyes – You do not know your destination. The shalikhs
are flying away at the sound of your foot steps. The Inter-City train is
coming towards you like a giant snake with piercing whistle. Atthe sound of
the train you came down from the railway track to the water-drenched
paddy field nearby. Take One . . . Cut it. . . .
Twenty.
He did not give his consent at all. He flew away in the sky taking two drops
of pain with him. Therewas not a single hawk or falcon was with you . . .
pitiful dampen wind blow past through that forlorn portico. Next day the
sunlight give a tap . . O lovable sunlight? The Sun-rays stopped at your
eyes. The sleep did not take your control. Thr night too have not taken you.
Nightmare gave tirednedd on your eyes.. . . . You came with a coffee-cup
on your beautiful hands. .. This statue-like you, again are taking control of
my bosom. Those who take control, touches you again and gain like waves .
. are ocean-damsels. O damsel Ocean. Today is 25 November 2005. Why
after so many years you are throwing waves to me?
Twenty One.
You wanted to hide yourself, presumimng the morror as your enemy— But
you couldn’t. All your dreams have fallen down like dried dead flowers. . .
Now you are looking for a dream-flower beside a broken building alone, in
the pitch-black darkness. But the moon hasset – I remain awake with a lamp
in hand . . after we palyed in phone evening drew near Chashara- the
darkness seeped down in your known alleyway . . we can not go back
rowing through the bed of Sitalakkhya . . one the mook-flower smiled on
the water . . still today in this night leaving deep slunber or making love we
rise up like piano at the unknown voice . . . Let the remaining hours, then
tell— your dream-flower is hinding in the hazy darkness.
Twenty Two.
You haven’t see the belly of the corcodile that is lying all day long or
haven’t seen the dampen-moss underneath the sea. That belly, rain-
drenched yellow moon-light swims inside the bottle-gourd platform, like
water-algae. you have slo not seen that . . whole night dream-fairy look for
the soul of the wind. Hey August heat, hey moon-lingt of Jaystha – you
stroll causelessly all through the depressed courtyard, why fruitfully desire
unwanted touch . . . it is no more, at least not here.
Tweny Three. Twenty Four.

The affectionate waves were floated aways in the waters of Matamuhuri. The dreams lie beside you as snakes. The pains makes your eyes and
Now it is ebb-tide. It is not the time of emotion. The river also wants to chimnies of eyes fly as the wind. Now the call of the morning cock can be
bathe in white moon-beam. The river too have the feelinga of sex. Only heard. But you can never hear it. Your heart is like hull of the moving
you do not feel the philosophy of the body. Now you are walikg alone, launch or churning waves, The gasping waves will be wiped out of your
through the Shewra path, piercing a knife upto the hilt in the body of mind. You body became numbed while collectimng the seeds of sex which
possibility. I failed many a times in building an avenue on the moonlit were accumulated at your navel. You forgot that the forest-dwelling of Sita
night. It might be an immense failure on my part. Once, while going to is really a tough job. As if a destitude devastated pole of a earthen house.
Lalon’s bgrave, you wanted to walk under the mystic moonlight of doctrine
of body, but couldn’t do it. You have to return at the attraction of the
doctrine of affection. Again you became nude under the tubelight, ceilling
fan, bed and before the dressing table. But you can not feel the theory of
body. You only see before you the waves of affection under the deluge of
moonlight.
Tweny Five.
What’s the advantage of creating conflict with the moon? Isn’t it adverse,
disputing- haven’t you became diverged? But look, the clouds left moon
after traversing yearlong- look, colours are oozing from the chin of the
moon, under whose droplets of light the drought-devastated locality,
destitute alley, beds of slumber and navel of solitary night peep out. Now
your fasting thigh tremble at the sounds of river erosion. Then you forget
your counting- you go on telling 99,98, 97. You face the microphone and
say, “Dear audiance, accept my love.” In your background there is vast
green kitchen-garden. You every often forget that your corridor is strewn
with dazzling diamond. Forgetting everything around you, you have
reached to the wavy ocean on a boat. Now you can not neet and you’ll
pass your days devoid of sex in lonely abode.
Twenty Six.
Have the moon has given out its ashen light? I wanted to go to you with the
moonbeam-flower, but couldn’t. The path is strewn with petals of Babla, I
remained in the dark-night. I haven’t no moon in my eyes, the river rises up
. . tell me, how can I go to you? You are dying wheezing in the dark,
waning in black cancer of curse— your grief-drenched breaths are
spreading rapidly and affecting us, our desired township . . . I shall not go to
you again. I’d rather return to the tree of my childhood days, where whole
day the lean and emaciated river – I’ll listen to the bawlig of the gypsy ,
‘Extraction of teeth’, ‘Remady of back-pains’.
Twenty Seven.
Tell me, how amny kilometers I have to go to see the hillock? The breast-
like hummocks soak in the waters of sun-rays and moon-beam. Agrahayan
do not cone on the mustard fields. In severe cold the bluish clouds move
around as mists. White birds know that the seeds deceive me. The time of
intercourse has come, the kisses cross the rivers. The fly licks the cow’s
udder- the house-owner couldn’t see that. Brinjals are cooked on the oven.
Morning dozing dries up in the courtyard— the childhood days walked out.
Like the grey beards of Rabindranath the hard jute-sticks are scorched under
the sun-rays. Alas! Bunches of sun-light of Aswain. When the songs of the
lunatic turns true, the night-bridge breaks down.
Twenty Eight.
The sky is hanging in the room. The room is flying in the sky. The other
day I looked at the sky from my room, and then on another day I looked at
the room from the sky. The period of looking has ended at last. The clouds
mingled with the dusts of the evening. Wings of the fire-fly walked past
through the darkness. You are but a lonely butterfly lying in the darkness.
Alas, the heart of the butterfly dies . . ..
Twenty Nine.
Those who stole our sleep, thosewho robbed of of loves, they are now
stralling in the morning wind. They are playing under the Poush Sunshine.
How far they’ll go walking? Shall those rivers dry up again? Shall the crops
drop down once more? How far are our houses? How far are our dreams?
Thirty.
I’ma living in this city for about twenty years. Twenty years ago I boarded
the city-bound train from a suburban town. The train ran, piercing the green
crop-lands, sometimes crossing the river, sometimes touching the horizon.
After lomng twenty years today I’m walking fir the first time beside the
Central Ekhush Minar. Standing till eternity, the crimson Sun burns up like
Krishnachura on the centre of the Minar. If I was born in a time before Fifty
two. Should I be with the procession, protest, revolting, on the avenues,
with the flows of blood. Should my name too be added with the memorable
names of Rafique, Zabbar, Barkat or like Ali, Gazi or Matin in my
language, in the alphabets? Twenty years after Jibanananda, in this
Ekhushe’s Minar, on the Krishnachura I see Rabindranath of 1913, 1952.
Thirty One.
At the onset of evening I walk in the streets— every evening. Though I
walk, the night path do not get tired like daytime. Then the dense moonlight
lie stretched to the end of the alley. At this intense moonlight the sea does
not flow, nor even the voive of Kanika. The bed of the trubutary of
Brahmaputra is filled up with soil, sand, ants, shells of dead snails, grass
and seeds of crops. No footprints can be seen there. The othewr day in that
river bank, the hawks used to adorn with white mark of Autumn, O river,
O water, O moonlight, O leaves, O abode, O dream— why
everybody is so voiceless, today! Why there is no tremblings, o rise
and fall of rhythm of tabla? Let not be there anything— I’ll go on
walking. Still I walk. Still every evening sweat drops down to the
path. . . .
Thirty Two.
All day lomg that tree gazes at the body of that slender river. At times the
river regains its youthfulness. The river looks at thecrop-land. In the
Sunlight the crops stare at the eyes of heron. A single gull, one window
walk side by side through that meandering road. From the senile eyes of the
stair-case white droplets of rain drips down. Whiite colour mingle with blue
of the Autumn. The midnight moves on like the ants under the azure light.
At night virgin bodies get shocked. The widow composes her childs eyes in
the computer. Then eveything wakes up. The plantain leaves dry up under
scorching Sun. The tamarisk tree burns, the roof breaks down, glasses of
specs, spoons, Running water, electric wire, scanning mashine, table of the
poet, the threads of the quilts. The the kerocene loght blew out. At this
dense darkness some people returns back to their home.
Thirty Three
This house now lacks its beauty. No wind blow of quiet sunlight do not
visir=t through the plantain grove. There’s no sand-storm from the Northers
river. It is now covered with listless jungle. A few male members resides in
some of the rooms. . . The house was resonant resonant, lively. Flavour of
lemon can be felt always. Aman paddy used to dry up undre the Asharh
sunlight. In the out-house there were milching cows and bullocks. Powerful
man used to wark in the crop-land, damsels used to prepare puli, pitha, and
khir. In the mid-day paat, boal fish and daal were cooked. The childrens
used to come back from school, the men used to return from the cropland,
they would have their bath from the makeshift bathroom, They would have
their food sitting on the floor. Then the day turned into evening and then
night, at night the women would put out the light. The whole house would
soak into rain. Only a boy should open a window and would recite
Rabindranath— Nil noboghone Asharh gogone (The deep blue accumulates
in the Asharh sky)
Thirty Four
From a long way, whiting saline water moves on, bluish giant waves, rising
as huge sanke the waves chrushed on the bosom of sands. One do not have
any restriction in touching this sand and this froth and these waves.
There’sa no one to hinder your desire. Even the moonlit waves have roars.
In the dark water far away the lights are seen on the fishing boats. Teknaaf,
Inany, Cox’s Bazar, kolatoli, enlighten the interewst anong the hearts of the
tourists. At last you came in this wild hope-inspiring, heart-rendering
locality on fathomless waters. In your thirsty eyes, there are limitless
dancing of the waves and sands – tamarisk-grove. Will it be wise to go back
leaving behind this new games of tides. Can you go back?
Thirty Five.
Devoid of electricity, sleepless, sexless, dreamless night— Then the fuul
moon lay on the yellow bed. Look at the poet Kahnpa. He is staring at the
needy eyes of Fullora of Middle Age. He also sees femine-struck North,
artificial colour on the fruits and vegitable. Falgun. There is exortion of
addiction, lifeless river, there’s no happy river, this river is insane now.
They wash their faces on river water. Somebody became aware, somebody
goes away, who are they? There’s no moonlight, no cropland, only the
residue of the roots of the paddy plant.
Thirty Six.
At time its of Koroi, sometimes of Kodom, leaves fall down on the yello
ground. The green grass cover up the entire ground. the youths and damsels
cluster around in the courtyard, hearts fly. have Flies hover all around the
tea-cups. demads of tea from all around. Youths talk all around over sipping
the tea. Then the night befall at the Hall-gate. On the hoods of the rickshaws
resting beside the footpath. Some go away on the rickshaw Nobody comes
here like before. Here, there are hub bub during the festivals. Exquisite
aanchals of the damsels fly. The young dragon-flies hang around the
aanchals. Fields full of mustards also burns. The wings of the dragon-flies
burn. The childhood rivers, dead gulls, The fields have no borders, no dense
firest is there, no silvery nights too. The clouds remain awake and the
sleepless nights. Does anybody rerurns in the darkness? Shall ever return
again?
Twilight Blush Flies Away The Damsel: How many of your books have been published?
The Youth: I don’t write.
The train rushes on with echoing sound, sometimes it moves through the
The Damsel: Aren’t you lying?
city, sometimes through deep Sal jungle and at times it runs through vast
meadow. The flowing of the river and running of the train is not alike. A The Youth: I don’t live in the world of truth.
youth’s mind has the speed of a train, and that of a damsel is like a river.
The Damsel: haven’t you seen the lights of the stars?
Later they sit face to face beside a window of a fast mooving train.
The Youth: Lights of twilight fly away spreading their wings to anonymity.
The Youth: What’s your station?
The Damsel: Haven’t you encountered the kingfisher sunlight?
The Damsel: The station is not my address.
The Youth: Have seen manya times. In the creepin bush of Sim there bloom
The Youth: Where shall you go?
moonbeams of Bhadra
The Damsel: My destination . . . .
The Damsel: Whitsh rain-droplets deip down on the feathers of Shalik
Thew Youth: Well, I am going . . . .
The Youth: Look, there, The Aswin stream has dried up.
The Damsel: It’s really comfortable to dash through this soft sunlight of
The Damsel: Can you tell me, why there is such an unexpentaed dialogue?
Poush. Isn’t it?
The Youth: Haven’t the yellow-coloured mustrard flowers been touched
The Youth: I too love damp morning as spoken by Jibonananda.
ever?
The Damsel: Have you then read, ‘Bela Obela Kalbela’?
The Damsel: Why did Rabindranath wrote, ‘Hothat Dekha’?
The Youth: And also ‘Sat-ti Tarar Timor’.
The Youth: Are you going to leave the train so early?
The Damsel: Can you tell, where Rabindranath wrote ‘Bondhu Michhe
The Damsel: My University is close now— so I’m returning to my house.
Raag Koro na, koro na’?
The Youth: Me too.
The Youth: At Kaligram Pargana.
The Damsel: I don’t have e-mail i.d.
The Damsel: Brilliant.
The Youth: Me, too.
The Youth: Can you tell me, if Rabindranath’s river was Padma, Nazrul’s
river was Jamuna, Jibanananda’s was Dhaleswari, then what was for The Damsel: Uinhappiness floats everywhere.
Shamsur Rahman?
The Youth: will there be another day?
The Damsel: Meghna.
The Damsel: Love dies in the hoard of ants.
The Youth: Excellent.
The Youth: Last dialogue is better than parting scene,
The Damsel: have you read something relating to eye?
The Damsel: Don’t speak like that.
The outh: I remember her tired eyes, like Bet fruit.
The Youth: Thew kites are flying in the sky . . . in the void, into the vacant,
The Damsel, do you like “Hae Chil”? empty space.
The Youth: A sparkling Poem indeed. The Damsel: I too have lost my dreans, reverie, my trance
The Youth: I desire another sky , , , , something . . . Asylum
The Damsel: We shall meet again in the estuary, in the vast ocean.
That was not all the changes
The train stops. the Damsel slowly leaves the train. The train again moves
You go on walking
on. The Youth forgets his destination. His eyes fill with Brahmaputra.
From one room to another
From the Sunshine to the window.

Your long hair

In my existance
Release fragrance of Basak leaves

My dream stretches its hands

To your existance.
Your dreams
Plays in my death

Your hands come down

In my dreams
Youyr hands are my windows.
Map
Under the geometric rainfall
The forest, courtyard, the veranda,
Allyway, roof are drenched
body of the snail, grey night
Unnatiral sick fingers
In the yellow darkness
In the furtive sky green blood ozzes
This city is like father’s broken unbrella
Mother’s sufferings, yellow gag
Enters from the abyss
Attic of expectation burns
In the sweaty night
Geometric rainfall is needed urgently.
Book of Accounts
After crossing the kingfisher-afternoon
There’s eyes of the river
Emaciating river goes on gazing
The blue sighs of the ocean.
Darkness is on this side; on that side
Resides Chakma damsel, vulture wind.
There are winds and melodies of wind
The five tunes of the winds marks
On the moonlit night, in the hands of fate.
Poem – 4 Poem – 5

The other day I ran after the wind The rural trees are more untidy
Still blue sari, the intoxication of azure star did not wake up Than the city trees.
Let it be,
Still I hang around for pears We’ve grown up playng hide-n-seek.
In the afternoon, the platform of Melandah station look for you
The birds looks at the procedures of
My heart bears the pangs of first love. The plunderers far below.
Why do you cross the train-line like an idol? Live like the gypsy boats that go wayward
Like the vagrant water hyacinth,
After the train departs Wqe go to the river banks
WE look for red sindur smearing crimson colour of the evening. If you don not go near the river
How could you get the fragrance of the water
When you visit the dried swamp
The peaceful air purifies your nostrils.

addiction of ocean does not finishes in you

Turn your eyes from the vast waves.

I can give you my birth-place

If you tell me— ‘I love you.’
Poem – 6
How you came to know
We greatly desired to visit this river
While tramping through the river
I shall go to Abanti Nagar with you
I’ll sit as frost-bitten behind the Sun
Beside the Himalaya.
Let the cloud expose itself or not
We shall fly to any other river touching the water
If I could take the smell of water
Then kingfisher shall fly on the afternoon light, he had to fly
The eyes of the night bear the sufferings of the rivers
Were our eyes turned blind during Kanamachi game?
To feel the minds of the rivers
Our desire of travelling shall remain for long
Let the eye reside inside the river and the river in the eyes too.
Poem – 9
Behind the clouds the wings of the birds remained
You were playing with your sleep at dead of night
T=You ,lost your bangles in the water of Paira river
Fair complexion departed from your hands, dreams from your eyes
Windows from your heart, rain-drops from your body,
bits of sweat from your lips
Though you knew Verginia is far away,
still you peepeed through the window.
Behibd lay vast water bidy, lively green grass and tin-roof of your aunt.
Everyday tender layer of sand of the road squashed under the cycle wheels.
Poem – 10
Whereas you remain suspended as a sigh in the darkness of the stairs
You do not understand rains and pains, the rain went on lamenting
The crows collect rains in the monsoons of Asharh,Shraban and Bhadra
Like lined up ants the vehicles covers up all the drenched faces
The lights of Sun burns by the house of broken heart, whats wrong in it?
If the rivers turned tired by counting waves, whats harm in it?
The scars are of pox, so the lips of Baishakh are cracked
The lights of eyes never increase without blue and green.
Poem – 11
Trhen I’ll not walk towards the star alone
The flute of sufferings you played in your sleep
I feel there are hundreds of insects in that slunber
Whole night I trade poems through my laptop
I do not know who licks up your navel
Only the remaining clouds come and rest here.
Poem – 15 Poem - 19

I want to come to an agreement with the last torn isle I’ll lie down whole night under the black moon
‘Cause I’ve seen countless blue stars on shade of its blue water And then we promised to go there

The more you surrender your body to the body of the sailor There the lod men sat there busking under the sun
The birds will fly from one horizon to another spreading their wings And the women traveled with bruises on their bodies

The ages of the earth will not be older unless the hairs are not grey A solitary star lay in your half-opend eyes
Whereas you remain suspended in the glass kile bats And a rain-drop gazed at you lor long time
Your voice sings songs of destruction because the clouds turn darker
They sat beside a lonesome window of the evening. Once when a river looses its liberal love
Will you tell that the navel of trhe river had error?
I lost my path to find difference between the sunflowere and pigeon
And you’ve sprayed age-old scent of the scripts on your bosom
Poem – 20 Poem – 21

Love dances on her face The crows will strall o’er the green grass like Khashia damsel
The Rarhi rivulet blow on her eyes We’ll call out the hilly cataract timidly

The birds get barren No, let the musicall notations remain near our ears
The banks submerges in the evening And let Rabindranath move around the forlorn room of Kumu

On the Rangamati Lake It is not the time to float the Pansi, now the day has declines
The red and blue dot will fly like the ants The cock fight will go on before us

Many unspoken wonds are not uttered The day expanded with the bangle-sellers
Only your lonelyness will walk alone You go on searching him frantically

We gaze at the river walking on the sand=banks under the dense mist
In that night at Aricha, at jamuna, under the bough of Teota
Poem – 22
The stars walk on the floating waves of that river
I only keep those waved tightly embraced
The rivers will dry up, and the stars also die
The sleepless night laments under the howling winds
The Chilmari port walks behind you
You only go closer to the border
And leave me where you wanted to make me stay
Don’t get annoyed if the girl get undressed.
Poem – 24
Did I wanted to touch and feel
All the bruises of your body?
Your pride lead you to another destination
Nobody painted the rpad in a crooked way
Does the cow dreams of milk in its sleep
The search for the bird goes on in the dark
These paths, dreams and exploration
Destroys all your days and nights
The body, the touches, bruises and pride will make you troubled.
Poem – 25
Their white dresses, like white feathers
Walk through the grass lawn of the park
They are of eleven and twelve years old
You, too, in immense desire of white dress, killed
A midday, afternoon and an evening, the other day
When you crossed Atrai, the under the heavy rain
Shievered Shilaidaha. I didn’t wait for the bank, the Kaash flower and white
feathers swing before my eyes under the moonlight,
Remember, Lalan’s township have not forgave you.
Poem – 28
Before my eyes moves the dying Brahmaputra
The bunches of midday are fading before my eyes
The muffler and stars of winter mist
Came down here in a dead of night
After crossig the river in a boat, I feel that,
This is not my path, my forefathers left me here.
I’ll walk past the Brahmaputra alone
After the storm and warmth of your heart subsides
Let somebody may drag the rope of envy
Let anybody look at me with red eye, like Falgun.
Poem – 29 Poem - 33

Still I’m captivated in you like a bound file Your painted handkerchief flies over the slum
A greyish red tape clutches to my neck The Kaash flowers fly suspending on the wings of the hanky

Everyday dark dust falls on my eyes All the rivers severed relation with the fishes
Gradually I’m going to beecome bling— just think! ‘Cause little by little they are staying at the city acquiriums

Before my blindness I want to see for the last time We tried to pass some of our barren times
Your farewell arms, embroidered navel . . underneath We have cried out uselessly saying ‘water’ fruitlessly

Where in unison bloom the blue thirsts of monsoon wind, The slum rats went on hating your life-style
Like hundreds of white and yellow Kodom flower If you ever come back, I’ll burn down the city.

I know, behind the beauties of the stars lounge

Lies the brown pride
And your eyes never fell on the dark steps
Poem - 35
When the fishes fly in the sky
The stars come down to earthg in groups
Then we play with waters
Under the fading Sunlight.
I’ll strall in the field of the stars
Alone under the moonlight of Magh
You’ll burn in the fire of imprecation
You will not see me again.
Poem – 39
My own world was very big and wide
The vultures flew, shadows spread, the sunlight used to sleep
The straw dries up, and the trees used to love
Mothers used to hug all their dear-ones
I know not when the twilights looses in the bamboo grove
I know not when in the morning a child slept on the quilt
If the door of tightly shut, the birds do not rest there
I’ve hugged the shadows sitting under a Gaab tree
The long embroidered table-cloth is woven with needle and threads
And we ate our lunch on the deck of the boat during river cruise
Poem – 41
I can leave at any time
So do not blame the broken pitcher
Why the clouds fear the dew-drops of winter is immaterial
You’ll only run with two of your legs like the fire of Falfun morning
At the envious beacon of the wind I passes many a sleepless nights
There’s no credit in it, but to sit at pond-steps or count waves
The cat hiding behind the straw- still the moonlit night doesn’t come
Who remained awake, how they behaved I couldn’t recollect
Brass bown didn’t have cream in the afternoon, when stars drowed
We left behind the stage of School in thr Falgun evening and melody.
Poem – 44
You’re burned down in the diverse flicker of pangs, let it be.
We’ll promptly go down to the hole to see the fire of the bords
The eyes of small hillock will lie behind the larger hillocks
I still couldn’t differentiat between your veil and long end of sari
Did the tributaries had mixed in heavy rain or in the dew-drops ofwinter
Floating fishes and sea-bound birds didn’t wated to feel that
The damsels agreed to remain standing under the blue stars
We shall go to the Eastern hills to learn the dances of Murong girls
The waters of the spring turn muddy at times, as the jungle dips into water
Poem – 46
Everybody forgets the blind lane
As you’ve forgotten the froth of the river currents
Again somebody forgets the the river course
’Caause their river course mixed with the alleys of the township
There is some demand in blending the paths
We have forgotten our follies and walk towards the northen road
At the eand of the lane we weave your dreams
We memorise the sums seven twentynine rivers and seas
Children could memorise these calculations easily
’Cause they have not enflicked into sufferings like you and me.
Poem – 48
Wind and candles
Always play enmity
The river-banks do not get dry
If, rainy season have relationship with Autumn
We go to the source very dawdling
’Cause, we are aware about the mistakes of grammer
Those who eavesdrop from far
All of them, except yow became soaked in rain
Those who feel the speed of rain and air
Those who left before us counting the reeds in geometric field.
For them the sources of conflicts wait patinently allover the stage
If you look for the window inside it, you have go to the source.
Breath - 30
The night devoid of any aroma. The wind in wild. The sounds are broken
He will be coming. The waterbody in emply. The stage is blank.
Damaged loveliness. Hairs, sari. Decoration. Parlour
The mosquito-net dries on the roof; everything is useless.
It seems topsy-turvy. ‘words makes quilt’
An old proverb. The fawn of Charya dances on the hillock
The fishes are but comsumed predominantly on land
The hazy days. The garden of the birds ends up, The djins flaps their wings.
Voiceless Dialogue
Through this sick window of this city
A bunch of darkness will be lost bit by bit
As if forlorn yellow wind of the winter go away
Like a bald-disabled weary jackel.
Here in an iminent evening, we do not know, when
A Santal moon shall fall on a virgin hill at the knee of a tree
When with some artistic deluge, drift
The roof of the nature, salty eyes of Barnita.
No, I’ll walke on, breakaway continuously,
From this life, stories and poems.
Water Colour Near Sonapur Bridge

1. Presently and graually our eyes opened up in full gaze

There was a chance to meet with her in the poetry-recitation function
In this expectation, I bought a piece of sigh from a nearby shop. We came near the Sonapur bridge very fast
2. The soft sunlight depated from the water bed
Everyday I cross the river from the other side to this and back
Desiring cheap water, woman, moolbeam, stars— I go back empty-handed O’er the bridge soft colour of the moonlight float like mist
Dead at night as I return, I stared at my mother’s eyes and she looks at me. As is a firefly is stralling on the belly of the paddy field.
3.
Then we couldn’t feel what a wild wind passes within us Shall we stare backward with our eyes wide open
When I saw her in water colour and she saw me-
4. A few moments ago, the room that was dense dark, likew bufallow
So many times I tie a hard knot on my ribs, on my thighs Under the pale light of lamp, there goes on decoration of a pregnant woman
Under the trembling stair-case
Or from nowhere the fragrance of pears sweep away butterfy-time Shall we get the stairs of consciousness if we cross the Sonapur bridge?
The water of the reservoir glow on the weary sunlight of the mid day Shall we get an incomplete paintimng exquisite beautiful damsel?
Does she decorate her show-case for long twenty four years?
5.
In this winter really I’ll go awary ti a girl with Pisces
I beg you, please do not come to the poetry party in the Autumn
Indoor Rain Dateline

I keep my southern window open
And remain awake expectantly
like the lean figure of Sitalakkhya
The eagerness of the star have no light
The Buriganga river oscilate in the dark
On the painful wind.
Shall the heart bleed then?
The result will be zero, and turns naught at mudnight
In the sleep I turn out as a swan and grass and ruminate
You nevder saw how the silvery air of your beauty
How the frolicky nature of your heart crashes down
Where did you found this brown fire of haughty neglect
You do not get burnt, but only burns the destitute mid-day.

\I spread my hands to the light of the heart I feel, I go on digging, a piece of remains of me of me heart
My fingers do not touch the light I restrained you in sound, in melody, O golden eagle.
Towards the indoor
The abode leaves
University area in the twilight
The start to derench in aching rain
As the three figures of Aparajeyo Bangla
Went on soaking like a living idol.

Does he ever look back?

Night oscillates in the Air Core Map

The night floats in the air, sleep also hang s with a group of room-frame The way fishes or the snails
Hangs old documents, floats the taste of intercourse Live in the water
In the house there’s a room
The fishes turns out to be dream-person inthe hazy-aftenoon A secret room is there
The rivers walk, strall in the olive green emptiness.
The house is not at all aware about this room
The town-ships are like white sari of widow or empty patio of the house That furtive room looks at the bosom of the sky undisclosed

The youths look for blue suicide in yellow pain

Rest of foresty sunlight play in her eyes and chin

I don’t have any money, n0 love nor any deposits
Blue Navigability of the River
1.
I buried the blue candelier of nackedness
And see the yellow blazing of soul on the white side of the coin.
2.
This jump, it is like a black preying cat
This performer is the beak of king-fisher
3.
There’s nobody who doesn’t have faltering of nerves
I’ve pursuit in me, have response and I remain awake all the times
4.
I call her bashful woman, she sleeps in peace
Iswar awaits in the jungle and the river flows on.
Drunken Cloud
Drunken Cloud, why do you go on flying, flying, flying
Why do you go away far away?
Drunken Cloud, why doyou go on flying to the river banks
And why doyou bring down ashen evening?
Drunken Cloud, have you lost in your maiden days
Your brass girlhood pitcher?
Drunken Cloud, are you that final forehead vermillion
Of the family tradition
Drunken Cloud, have you made the perfect figure of the sunlight
In the obscure light of the night
Drunken Cloud, did you pass the abode of cloud
Riding on that light?
Drunken Cloud, have you ever attacked alone
By some pains of eye-related matters?
Drunken Cloud, have by yourself ever attacked with the sufferings
That are related with eyes?
Drunken Cloud, have you ever brought tears in the eyes of that boy
Keepng you steps on the crunchy dried leaves of Shewra.
Drunken Cloud, have you ever played games with grasses
For a long, long, long, long, long, long, long time?
Drunken Cloud, today play with her transformed body
And suck up all the sundued water out of her body.
Alphabetical List of Poems Poem – 46 101
Poem – 48 102
Asylum 80 Roof of Pain 38
Blue Navigability of the River 111 School of Pains and of No-Returns 20
Book of Accounts 82 Secret Communion Rises Up 33
Breath – 30 103 Shower and Anklets of Cloud 26
Core Map 110 Silent Verses 1-24 13-16
Dateline 108 Snail Slumber 36
Drunken Cloud 112 Sounds of Birds 31
Elenjani River 41 The Buring Pier and the Darkness 18
Entire Dream and Solitary Water 27 The Evening Towel 24
Episode of moving back 40 The Pole of Mathematics (.) 22
Episode of the Star-ridden Sky 25 The Sound float on the Sun-rays 32
Eyes of Bruises 35 The Winter Dew-drops and the River 17
Faulty Colour of the Dask 30 Timid Sari and Water of Agony 28
Fire Bird and the Kisses 19 Twilight Blush Flies Away 79
Frolicking of Sunshine and Bed 37 Voiceless Dialogue 104
Half-Aanchal and far-away River 21 Water Colour 105
I look for a Cloud-assulted Sky 23 Wings of Butterfly burns (1 – 36) 43-78
I search for a mark 42
Indoor Rain 107
Mango-blossom and a Nose Ring 39
Map 81
Missing Door 34
Near Sonapur Bridge 106
Night oscillates in the Air 109
Nonsence Life 29
Poem – 4 83
Poem – 5 84
Poem – 6 85
Poem – 9 86
Poem – 10 87
Poem – 11 88
Poem – 15 89
Poem – 19 90
Poem – 20 91
Poem – 21 92
Poem – 22 93
Poem – 24 94
Poem – 25 95
Poem – 28 96
Poem – 29 97
Poem – 33 98
Poem – 35 99
Poem – 39 100
The Poet
SHIHAB SHAHRIAR’s poems surpasses all the
conflicts, crises of life and enters into the mind,-re-
creates the diamond-dazzling memories- rekindles it and
bings newer lights. Not to feel the departation only, but
he closes to Nature and enlightens his mind, our minds.
And thus we go to Shihab Shahriar’s poems again and
again. We could feel fresh air, enlightenment in his
poems.
Shihab Shahriar had his PhD in Bangla literature from Dhaka University.
Name of his paper was Bangladesher Koch Jonogoshthir Somaj O
Songskriti (Koch Population in Bangladeh: Their Society and Culture).
Shahriar started his writings in the early 80’s. His first book, a research
work Bangladesher Putul Naach (Puppet Dance in Bangladesh) was
published in 1997. His first book of poems Haway Raat Bhashe Bhashe
Nidra, came out in 2003, book of essays Norom Roder Aloee in 2005,
Bangladesher Hajong Jonogosthi (research), in 2008, book of poems
Foringer Pakha Pore in 2010, book of poems Nodir Tolpet fore urejae Rod
in 2010, he edited Amar Bangladesh in 2010, book of selected poems Ami
Dekhi Onyo Akash in 2011, book of short stories Ghate Nodi Nei in 2012,
book of poems Jokhon Bhange Nakkhatra, in 2013, book of poems Matal
Megher Orauri in 2014, he edited Rupkothar ei Bangladesh in 2014.
Besides Shihab Shahriar edited Boitha – a literary journal.
Shihab Shahriar is professionally a journalist, and a presenter in radio and
TV. He is a familiar face in both national TV and private TV channels. He
produced two TV plays.
Shahriar works in the Shilpakala Department, Bangladesh National
Museum. He visited USA, UK, Japan, India, Bahrain, Oman, Qatar, Hong
Kong and Sri Lanka. Shahriar is blessed with two sons— Prachurya
Shahriar and Samriddhyo Shahriar.
The Translator
SIDDIQUE MAHMUDUR RAHMAN is a freelance
researcher, a prolific translator, efficient editor an
emotional letterateur and an publication specialist.
Siddique is pioneer in research on postal history,
postage stamps, coins and paper currency of
Bangladesh, Siddique has 12 research publications. He
has published 5 study papers in leading journals of the
country. He presented 4 study papers in different conferences and seminars.
Siddique organized a stamp exhibition in Jessore in 1974. He was
associated with all the philatelic exhibitions of Bangladesh, specially in the
First Bangladesh National Philatelic Exhibition - Banglapex 1984, stamp
exhibition arranged during the First SARC Summit, in 1985, and
Bangladesh National Philatelic Exhibition -Banglapex 1992. He edited
Banglapex Exhibition Souvenir, 1992.
Since boyhood Siddique is a successful translator. He has 16 translated
publications. He has so far translated more than 1200 poems. Siddique
has 6 creative writings, such as novels, essays, short stories and poems..
Siddique Mahmudur Rahman was awarded nine times from International
Stamp Exhibitions from Jakarta, Indonesia, Milwaukee, USA,
Singapore, Australia and South Korea for his research works on postal
history and postage stamps.
Siddique is the Chairman of Bangladesh Institute of Philatelic Studies.
He is the Life Member of Asiatic Society of Bangladesh, Bangla
Academy, Bangladesh Itihash Samity, Editing and Publishing
Association of Bangladesh and Bangladesh National Philatelic
Association, Honorary Advisor of Philatelists Association of
Bangladesh, Corporate Member of Bangladesh Philatelic Federation,
Contributor, Scott Stamp Catalogue, USA.